Buy a gun, Sell a gun,
Increase numbers in army,
Spread the message of war,
War is devastating métier,
Rebel groups in a society,
Nor’ my fault,
Buy a gun, Sell a gun,
It’s a métier!

By; Nida Mahmoed.

There are thousands of us here
In this small part of the internet.
We are thousands,
Voices of all natures.
I wonder how many in all
The corners of the world?
Here alone are thousands
Which plant seeds of philisophical change
And the evolution of our society.

How many words will it take
To declare the state of humanity
As the world goes deaf and blind?

Every once in a while I see a poem
With a national headline,
Some black kid shot by a white cop.
Then the poem disappears,
The poet and his or her fellow
Writers retreat inward
Jumping into nothingness
Of feelings and self loathe.
We carry a banner with a million
Words and nothing to say in unision.
Oh God, is this the path of the poets?

But suddenly I realise
And I see I am just as shallow
As the next,
The pulse of the world will not
Beat with poets,
Though poets can be the racing pulse
Of change.

Let the poets unite on common ground!
Cry out against something in unision.
We are thousands of voices
That cannot yell.
How many of us here on the internet?

How hard is it to rise against
The machine and bring
About change truly to the soul,
To see ourselves rise up
With our words?
What we speak we will write,
What change we write
Will give birth to humanity.

Sometimes
my heart
feels the kiss
of ecstasy.

Sometimes
my toes
brush the abyss
of madness.

Sometimes
I can't tell
the difference.

Mostly, I don't
think
there is one.
  - mce

Annual months cry by, alas, in these
familiar, yester-years. In a flash of
a wipe, a sweep, a brush and a
weep, every monotonous November.


Here, I remember, the last closely
past and present in timely rafts of tears
and laughter. Though I know, I beseech,
the next will be here if I wish it hard enough.


Al’ never, only render, the unfathomable
words that stand by it. And hug it. And
kiss it. And give it a tinge of worth under
the watchful eye of the wintry night.


Aid me, please, in a boundless voyage
of wonder through winding trips of ache.
In four walls of acid, sour senses of taste
soothed by toxic smoke of illogical fate.


Don’t seek me too hard or fast in
a look. That will tear me in two. That
will crucify you too. During life and death,
as I and my thoughts
are detestable.

Last night I had a
dream, so definitely
indifferent from clouds
of thought which drift
over my sober-wreaked
mind.


I squint and shake
and shiver with
movements, so
statically paralysed.
Bathed in my pit
of sweat and insanity.


To fathom these
patterns of hidden
truth, libido,
won't do one bit.
It can't cease to
become.


If I'm not careful
enough or tentatively
scarce in a midnight
screech I'll be sure to
tell the world my fears.