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 Dec 2014 Kate Irons
Heliza Rose
To blow out the candle burning in the spiteful darkness
Is to wait until the feverish snake devours my toes and kisses my bones

I cannot allow my only light to be snatched
Leaving me to hug a shroud and to wait for the faint sound that will signal my end

I instead shall burn a hundred candles,a thousand if my hands are not tired and burnt.
Coaxing the darkness out to die by the hand of light
 Dec 2014 Kate Irons
Lonely soul
The woman was crying with fear
He has come her time is near
Feeling the warmth of her salty tear
Shouting you shall die here

His trembling voice, became louder and deeper
For he is the one and only grim reaper
Her time is short his presence awaits
They say that life depends on ones fates

But this woman is apparently to late
She has waited till the age of 88
To be saved from the evil hell gates
She has not yet been saved from birth date

He laughs in her face
Swallows her up in place
But who could say that was cruel and mean
Hey, it's Friday the 13th.
 Dec 2014 Kate Irons
Anson Thomas
I followed the lead,
Of my sinister caretaker
I was taught to serve my greed.
And we lived with men of no stature!

That was when my people, brown
Just free from the clutches of blond folk
We spoiled many men, who wore an unseen crown!
For our avarice grew of their prosperity’s scent.

We hooligans ruled the fear,
Of the humble and the righteous
They knew they lived in no ****** shire.
Our bare sight, rouse them nervous!

We revered no civil code
Vices and hatred our nub,
We belonged to no family, no abode.
No handcuffs strong enough to help curb!

Such was our thing, our cupidity,
To which none dare rise against!
Our victims seldom showed their agility,
For grief we inflict is a poor choice to endure.

The honest fell on my grime feet,
But how long will justice fail to prevail?
My hired judges failed to sow my ‘righteous’ seed,
And I was pushed into the chasm of evil to wail!

My life until death now lay waste,
These insidious walls seldom let me rest!
My wretched soul yearns to run away in haste
The very thought of freedom, a precious zest.

The days at first I numbered for a lost cause.
They made me hope, the very part I often stole,
From the just by virtue of my flaws!
At night I sit waiting for the sun to rise.

Those rays of light seem now as precious gold.
No prison mate was a heart of resort.
As a shoulder to cry upon and hold!
I yearn for a wise consort.

A woman like a mother, I wish.
Though a dream, I least have this liberty,
I feel blessed to have it to relish.
But I remind myself to repent for eternity.

I am reduced to a number,
I dread to now count!
Seldom have I got to be in a deep slumber,
My nightmares bark like a hound.

I stare out of the window,
As repentance flows out of my eyes
A woman came searching for me that fine day
The woman of a just man I once slay!

She didn’t have revenge in her mind
But pity and mercy like the viscous honey!
She bought sweets, I met someone kind!
I felt mortified of having robbed her man.

She claimed to instill goodness in me,
That there would be no disparity amongst us
If she choose to be passive and loathe!
That day after years I felt a bird sang to me of joy.

She preached to me of gods,
Of the same virtue but different form!
I prayed to them, one day a lord,
And soon watching her made my heart race!

For she was the only woman I knew
The only one I fell for,
A forbidden love, I fancy!
Soon she departed to her pristine abode
And with her left an eternal grace!

To this widow I owe my soul,
Her goodness makes me hope.
That I can be righteous and commit no foul
And this was a dream I sowed passion for.

I would stare out of the window
To see the birds soar high.
No mountain stopped their flight,
Nor a tree tempted them to rest.

Then when I heard of death’s call
And that my endowments lay unperformed
Her words proved to be true,
Hope surpasses the depth of every woe.

There lay a little of life to live,
A respite offered for a promise.
And they let me see the world,
All its grandeur, all its bounty!

It seemed nothing like yesterday
For they had taken from me
The chunk I should’ve valued most!
The world had risen in time,
And I was left with none.

But it felt akin to waking up
Like from a deep slumber,
In a place not known to me!
And every priceless breath I now took,
Like the first breath after coma,
The courtesy of the widow!
An ode to all the prisoners around the world who repent.
 Dec 2014 Kate Irons
Nash Wolfe
"Take a look in the mirror, what do you see? All that is staring back is your reflection. A reflection of what, of who you are, or whom you use to be? Only one person can change your life and only one person can make you who you are. That person is yourself."



"Every mistake, every lie will catch up to you. So be prepared to face it at the end. Don't try to run away from your past because it will follow you. You can't cover up the trail of your mistakes and expect all of your problems to go away. It only takes one time for the wind to blow on it and reveal it once more."




Every breath of air we take in,  is another secret we hold deep within

Every sacrifice that we make, is just another chance to see the change

Fewer days that are left, which leaves us with nothing but more of our regrets

Face to face with our lies, still trying to deny

Starting to believe what was created in our minds, now we desire to know the truth

Setting off on a journey to our past, hoping to find something new

All of our lives we decided to hide underneath these lies

Then one day a past event reminded us what we use to be like

Finding hope and strength, trying to reveal what we had erase

Now we spend everyday, rectifying our mistakes

How far does one go? Just to figure out what they didn't know

Was it worth the change? Was it worth the lies?

That I guess, I'll let you decide
 Dec 2014 Kate Irons
Shruti Atri
The beauty of chaos is that,
It doesn't always stand for destruction;
Sometimes it's merely a lack of structure.
It's Fate, undergone a twisted lobotomy...

--

You're caught in a whirlwind, with no sense of direction;
Once the storm has passed
And the feeling of sanity is restored,
You get up and walk on,
On whatever path you've been dropped on;
And after a few miles you'll ask yourself:
*Was it all meant to be?
No matter the chaos, no matter the destruction, the confusion, it will always subside. There will always be a path to walk on after you've been thrown amock, remember to gather your courage and march on...
For, what else is better than to be alive?
 Dec 2014 Kate Irons
Joe Wilson
She sits alone with her ancient thoughts
she's sat till she's covered in grime
she never moves from her rocking chair
she just wiles away the time.

What does go on inside her head?
what does she really think?
the pain has made her look so sad
with eyes that rarely blink.

Her hands are hard and calloused
the cracks are etched so deep
you sense she feels some fearful hurt
but never does she weep.

Some say she's sat for thirty years
They say she loved a sailor
It's also said all hands were lost
The prey to a ghostly whaler.

That ship set sail from Mulgrave Port
With fifteen men on board
The seas were rough and wind was hard
but fin whales beckoned Nor'ard.

A listing ship in thick fog banks
the crew fell to watery graves
they now haunt the eastern seaboard
or rest beneath those stormy waves.

So the old crone will sit there forever
she knows that her man won't return
she'll sit there and rock while she's waiting
to join him when Death calls her turn.

©Joe Wilson - Lost ships...2014 (originally 1992)
Nothing I make of words can ever be confused with beautiful because I don't see beautiful things, only things in tandem, stuck between, feverish and naked as my burning brain substitutes ******* for dead protesters. This is a sickness I will not grow out of; I cannot say I want to grow because I do not want, I am a mind in a hollow shell which I keep beating with toxins that will **** me sooner than most. I do not care if you read this. This is not for you. This is not about you. It is always, will always, be about me. That is as close to happy as I will be. When did my poetry become so self-serving: I have turned art into work, art for the sake of speaking literally about my conscience and how are you still reading? I am not talking to you. This is not poetry but narcissistic whining and who doesn't love wallowing in the endless sea of their own *******. One thing: When I am dead, do not say I am gone. I have gone nowhere. I have been the only place I will ever be; a brain in a skull in a body, every second I know trapped in crawling skin. Do not say I am gone. I was never really here to begin with.
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