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Mark Parker May 2
A tree falls in the forest,
and it doesn't make a sound.

A man yells in the forest,
and local wild life forms a mob.

A man falls in the forest,
and he doesn't make a sound.

A tree yells in the forest,
and we all run like hell.
Because I feel like the tree that falls in the forest.
Mark Parker Apr 30
Sewn together to be torn apart,
bitten, beaten, ripped to pieces.
Put back together with used parts,
over time her quality decreases.
Drifting like petals in the gentle breeze,
the Doll goes where the wind blows.
She knows hell would have to freeze
in order to get a brand new set of clothes.
A ribbon wrapped to cover a tortured head,
wooden buttons and her bow colored red.
Notes of a blonde dolls life.
Mark Parker Apr 29
You can tell me I'm wrong,
but I feel like your words are fallacies.
Everything is wrong, I have a headache,
a stomach ache, I feel tense enough to do harm.
I refuse to be part of the world, this is all
bull...a bull with horns, running at a red flag.
When it's all or nothing, isolating from everything.
Frantic hands, passive glares, and silent stances.
Bizarre and unbounded, my feelings lay unspoken.
Written while thinking about one of my students today. He refused to do a thing or say a word, but he is usually one of the brightest kids in the school. Literally a basketball starter, honors student, and decent child. I have him work with other kids that have issues doing their work. It's sad to see him this way.
Mark Parker Apr 26
Poet’s pens write to take flight
Like paintings of the open blue sky
And the moon lightly lit at midnight
Growing as trees from Japanese Bonsai

Visions of green briery vines,
Red roses and blue violets,
Written in measured and timed lines
that glide by, like descending pilots

Readers see the shadow on the wall
Writers see the vision from down the hall
Middle of the night. Woke up, can’t sleep. Nonsense.
Mark Parker Apr 2018
I shout inside my skin,
broken outside and in.

I sounded strange to men,
deranged to the women.

I shutter to my pen,
I live in the lion’s den.
Mark Parker Jan 2018
Words spoken are breathed to life,
but then burnt up in a fiery blaze,
instead I carve it with a putty knife,
but still it never catches a single gaze.

I write it on the walls and bright screens,
hoping it will gain an audience's favor,
without a care they drop what it means,
each one imagining a different flavor.

Aggressively I pushed to bring change,
without a cause behind each sound,
while shoving myself through each exchange,
I found myself circularly round.
Mark Parker Nov 2017
Sulfuric acid burned my paper towel,
and I threw pure potassium into H2O. BOOM!
There goes another beaker...
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