It was a cold August morning
       and the wind, it sighed.
The mist wrestled the light;
       valiantly, but in vain it tried.
The smartest man of the world
       took one look at it and cried,

How?
       The fiends looked so innocent when they lied.
What?
       The ambitious, so callous when they stride.
When?
       The pious, so righteous when they deride.
Why?
       The pure, so broken, they complied.

He hatched his  plot
       threw trivialities aside.
He dared with a vengeance,
       his actions belied.

How he healed the hurt!
      And he'd hardly even tried.
What a way he sated the rapacious!
     Into harmony they had vied.
When he showed honor to the honorable,
     he was wary not to toe their pride.
And the pure,
     they died.

'Why, then do I now not wonder why?'
     unto the light and mist he cried.
It was a cold August morning
     and the wind, it sighed.

searching for
a world beyond
the glass where
ceilings melt
into blue sky.

refusing to
surrender on
the outside
looking in.

shadows speak
of sacrifice like
work has never
failed and

dreams are not
an endless staircase
into hell.

© Ben Ditmars 2014

As I stared at the *****
stainless steel toilet
shining under neon light
from a concrete slab
in my small enclosure
I thought to myself. .

There is a poem in there somewhere.

I’m riding waves of unhappiness
With peaks of glimmering hope
And troughs of utter disappointment--
I think I’m in love.

The poetic heart got broken.
A million shards of glass were ground.
Words of all profound.
Written with an ink pen,
of purely mice and men.
Her pen once was a feather,
stolen from a mother swan,
Tip honed to an arrow head,
Thrown from a bow,

The writers notes are passing by.
With courtesy and a bow.
They're showering ink in passing,
as the clouds are painted black,
rimmed with fading memories.
Can be no turning back.
Clouds are burst by writer's pen,
Thunderous hail of broken glass,
of fierce wind and rain.
Writing tales of past loves,
On pavements once again.
(C) Livvi

I want to be a hippie but my
mum says no, she says i smell to clean  
an short hair as a hippie just doesnt go.
  
I want to be a hippie but my dad
says no as the only drug i take is
asprin and son asprin is a drug a
hippie just cant smoke.
  
A hippie loves peace and the thought
of love, you build war machines so death
isnt for hippies and you think
love is a joke.
  
So my son you dont drink you
dont smoke or do any kind of drug, you
have short hair so a hippie you'll
never be so no means no.