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I called the lone parrot passing over my head

from the blue
i won't fly to you

it said

forgot the love i gave?

but you made me your slave
to repeat your chosen line
to voice your chosen tune
my life was not mine

so from the blue
i won't ever fly to you


she affirms the parrot escaped

but i know one dull afternoon in March
she let the bird fly away
being too weary of the chosen line.
Each of us is a character
the quality of which
is a measure of how genuine One is
to One's own character
and how recpectful One is to that of others.

Another major factor
is whether or not One's character grows and develops
and if so, how quickly in what direction(s)
and in what relation to One's environment.

The same seems true on
individual, group, cultural or global scales
and probably well beyond.
One is
the protagonist
as well as
the antagonist
in One's own Life story.

To deny this is cowardly
and narcissistic
at best
Every day
may not be good,
but there is always
some good to be found
in every day.

The same can be said
of practically anything.

If you can't find it,
make it.
Once it's there:
nurture it.
Anything less,
one may suggest,
could be aptly called
cowardice.
At least
eighty-five percent *(≥85%)

of what One wishes to think
is but an echo in One's own head.
In jest,
but seriously.
 Nov 2015
Bill murray
Don't judge me by my farmer's beard
Don't judge me by my farming hand's
Don't judge me when your getting that judgement back
Don't judge me when your you I'm me, that's a gramps fact.
Don't judge me if youve never worked a day in your life
Don't judge me because I'm a little younger than my wife
Don't judge me if you have never met me
Don't judge me if you wanna play poker and bet me.
Don't judge me.
I'm a farmer.
The one who grows your food.
The one who made your land.
 Oct 2015
SøułSurvivør
teenage angst
marriage strife
nasty childhood
change of life
stress at work
financial woes
mental illness
on it goes

pour the bottle
pop the pill
find the vein
"cure" your ill
light the pipe
tip the glass
it don't matter
race or class

it may appear
to help you some
but in the end
the devil's won
it don't matter
your job or skills
the smoke's a prison

the bottle KILLS**



soulsurvivor
(C) 10/4/2015
if you have a problem
with drugs or alcohol
or both
the first thing you MUST do
is admit it to yourself

I beat the odds
i'm clean and sober
and while i had
a temporary lapse
a few months ago
i bounced back and
i don't even have cravings

HOW???
see my write
Salvation Story
by soulsurvivor
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/863650/salvation-story/

THANKS!
Was he afraid to acknowledge end?
Or did he greet Death as a friend?

Did he accept?
Or refuse protest?
Did he step softly in silent submission?
And slip slowly away by own decision?
Or perhaps he struggled and fought his fate?
In disbelief? But all too late.
Did terminal claws ***** his skin?
Hold firm and drag him kicking in?

Was his killer known?
Did he die alone?
Were his last words self-pitiful lies?
Or pleading for mercy in desperate cries?

And was it wrong for him to die?
Then, still with youthful eyes?
Or did his cruel mistress Destiny decide,
That old age would not worry his mind?
That all he'd need were brief, fleeting glances,
To longingly watch Eternity's dances?

Did God decree?
That all he'd see,
Would be untouchable by his hand?
Was every drop of fresh pain planned?

When his body froze with sharpened chill,
Did corrupted shouts of anger still,
Provide his soul with empty reason,
To rebel against is heart with treason?

And was that why?
At his last sigh,
He finally lost his mind?
Or made himself blind,
To his past?
At last.

Yet despite it all,
He still recalls,
Himself in vain memorial.
Written for a competition (that I didn't win)
 Oct 2015
Rj
Never thought the flood would come
Even though I felt the rain
Lonely and Gone//Montgomery
 Sep 2015
Sjr1000
smoking his "peace pipe",
Pontificating about
this and that,
he doesn't know a *******
thing,
but he has an opinion about
everything,
always certain
seldom right,
you'd be glad
you're not
his kid or his wife.

The old guy with the peace
pipe,
don't ask him anything,
he'll tell you about
everything.

You're ****** if you do,
you're ****** if you don't,
better go elsewhere
while the getting is good.

There are details you
don't want to even know,
you don't gotta love 'em,
they don't love you.

But when you're looking
in his eyes while he's
smoking his pipe,
you just know
in your heart
it's going to
be alright.
The shaman on his way revisited, he was in a mood today.
 Aug 2015
Ignatius Hosiana
I didn't tell you about the life I led
The number of times I bled
I didn't show you the chapters I read
I wanted not pity to be the reason you stayed
I didn't show you the towns I've been through
I didn't want you to partake of the melancholy they brew
Didn't speak about how I fed on tough times till I grew
I regret never letting you in, you don't have to believe it's true
I didn't want to tell a single lie or see you cry
I didn't want to fail that's why I didn't try
All moments I was close enough to feel your sigh
When you helped me with my collar and tie
I didn't speak about how much I wanted your lips
Wish I had trusted my pips with their cunning tips
I didn't let the skeletons out of the closet for fears
They would hurt you and flood your eyes and heart in tears
 Aug 2015
SE Reimer
~

pre-script

it struck me recently,
our news is built on
heart break, loss, and mayhem.
some call it breaking news,
it may more aptly be called,
snap shot of a breaking point.

a news media article
though not always, often indicates...
no predicates,a breaking point,
the arrival at a tipping point,
an intersection where
we see one at their ungodly worst,
at their lowest ever, and it is here
that the world at large
BEGINS to read their story...



breaking news

the whole world gathers round
to dine on breaking news,
a feast of gluttonous portions
in shades of black and white;
each and every day, someone new,
the stories tell their dark of night;
the racing forward,
wheels spinning,
furious peddling of
a news cycle voracious,
greets the culmination of
someone’s breaking point;
a wildfire burning ferocious
in someone else's yard.

Jack has lost the family’s home,
Jill’s dreams have been downsized,
dear John’s letter says she’s gone,
Jane’s nerves broke down... again;
grief-stricken mum just lost her son,
a father broken, though once strong...

this breaking-point, colored-news
shades a darkened point of view,
reveals the end of brighter days;
a tipping point that shows the way
to hungry vulturous birds of prey.

i know mine... I think,
but what’s your breaking point?
if i reach mine afore you yours,
as you read the headline story,
have a little sympathy;
trace the path that led me here,
wear my shoes to feel the cost,
read between the lines they write
and don’t check me off as lost
but a few changes
of the script,
consider please,
just as easily,
“this could be me.”

~

*what is your breaking point?
 Jul 2015
poetessa diabolica
The most meaningful flower
      I ever received was from
   a blind homeless fella who said
             it matched my essence
true story, he was a Vietnam vet down on his luck but his spirit never wavered,  i used to bring him coffee-and whenever i could - he disappeared one day, i never did find out what happened to him. this one's for you JC.
 Jun 2015
Nicole Dawn
Dear Layla,

Thanks so much
You ruined my life
Congratulations
I know you tried

All those mean words
They hurt
I pretended they didn't
But they did
And still do

"You're fat"
"You're lazy"
"You're stupid"
"You're slow"
"No one likes you"

It's fine though
You can say those things
It's a free country
Just know:

If I **** myself,
It's on you
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