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Francie Lynch Jul 2018
Classical Trumpism: Judas makes a strong and powerful betrayal.

Neo-Classical-Trumpism: Adolph is a good friend of mine. He makes a strong
                           and powerful argument regarding purity.


Contemporary Trumpism: I love and trust my little buddy, Kim.

Modern Trumpism: Vlad, whom I trust with my marriage, makes a
                                   reel strong and powerful argument.


Trumpism:  Sad, Sad, Sad. Witch hunt. There was no collusion.

Neo-Trumpism: Crooked Malia and Sasha are to blame for the
                            collusion with Canada, Mexico and South America
.
If there are neo-nazis, there will be neo-trumps.
And the spelling of reel is what I intended.
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2017
by Augustus M. Toplady
(1740-1778)

Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee;
Let the water and the blood,
From Thy wounded side which flowed,
Be of sin the double cure,
Save from wrath and make me pure.

Not the labor of my hands
Can fulfill Thy law’s demands;
Could my zeal no respite know,
Could my tears forever flow,
All for sin could not atone;
Thou must save, and Thou alone.

Nothing in my hand I bring,
Simply to Thy cross I cling;
Naked, come to Thee for dress;
Helpless, look to Thee for grace;
Foul, I to the fountain fly;
Wash me, Savior, or I die.

While I draw this fleeting breath,
When my eyes shall close in death,
When I rise to worlds unknown,
And behold Thee on Thy throne,
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.

~ Augustus M. Toplady
~~~

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qqDJVGPRdg
Nylee  Nov 2018
Seasonal Life
Nylee Nov 2018
It is seasonal
limited time period
Your smile, his frown
My car, her scar
A small episode by far.


Tiny twinkles
Cloudy atmosphere
Pull push
Open and close the door
Then sit on the floor.


Tired
And rest
Blooming rose
And the bleeding thorns
Leaving the pieces torn.


All it begins
And ends
We live and die
Nothing remains
No entertainment.


Replaced fractions
Divided notions
Agreed and discarded
Lies filled in truth
Because life gives no proof.


Ten steps, eleven jumps
Crawling there
After a huge fall
In between few moments
A sad sentiment.


A vacant headspace
It came and went away
Nothing stays
Good bad ugly
All too early
A thought left
Distant.


Rough days
Cold nights
replaces warmth
tight shoulders
Stiff movements
Aching muscles.


The bitter taste
Sweetened in spring
And the autumn leaves
Winter is coming
The ages pass
Just like that
.
Piyush Gahlot Mar 12
My phone rang,
Saw her name flashing after eternity,
but, WHY ?
Why would you call now?

Ain't we done yet.
last time I checked,
you were long gone,
gone too far to be back.
You hustled into another relationship,
couldn't wait to give me another chance,
wasn't I worthy ?

I have tried enough,
I have cried enough,
Can't bear this no more.
Just come back,
Or leave me alone, forever, please!
No calls !
No texts!
My Ex called up after a long time.
Candy Flip Mar 2016
When I was a child, there was something mildly special about standing in the garden, late into the minutes leading up to my bed time. It was something about the thrill of disobedience, as if I were already an adult, making my own decisions.

This poem is about my testicles.

A thousand twinkling freckles gazed down at me. Joining the dots with a finger extended high as if gripping an imaginary pen, lines would appear. The celestial wrinkles of an old woman who wears these wrinkles with pride – the imprint left by a lifetime of smiles like how an old arm chair wears the imprint left by a lifetime of back-sides.

A singular eye governs the sky, and through what I interpret as a flirty act of desire, winks at me, through a thirty day cycle. I let out a giggle, and wink back.

On the horizon, trees sway in a purposeful and rhythmic way, as if conducting a symphony meant just for me; the delicate harmony of distant car horn beeps, the melody of crickets and bird tweets, and the gentle percussion of snapped twigs and crushed leaves.

Blades of wet grass become fingers seductively passing between my toes. A gust of wind blows and like a comb, massages out the knots in my hair, whispering through a foreign tongue pros into my ear.

And I can feel it inside, a connection with the night. As passion builds, a bird takes flight, and I let out a confident breath: I am in love with life! I’m in love with the Earth, warm days and clear skies. I’m in love with nature: the birds and mammals, snails, slugs, spiders and flies.

I await a reply.

Which doesn’t come.

Years go by.

And then, half way through my puberty, when the world was not so alien and new to me, I had the sad epiphany that maybe this symphony of car horns and bird tweets was not meant for me.

That, if I were not standing precisely here, or had tragically lost both my ears, the trees would continue to conduct their tune, unstirred by the news that their audience had disappeared.

And with this realisation, came an audible, synchronised plop, as – like a penny – my two ***** simultaneously dropped as if recoiling, paralysed in shock.

Then in the following silence, a tumbleweed drifted by as if to imply some kind of mockery to the thoughts going through my mind.

But of course, it was just a coincidence. The tumbleweed, in its oblivious innocence has no knowledge of the context of my thoughts, like a bolt of lightning can’t appreciate its momentary grasp of dominance over an angry sky. Like an atom doesn’t appreciate the burden of the service it provides, like a poem doesn’t appreciate the metaphors woven purposefully between every line.

And how could I sleep at night knowing that a hurricane could slip into existence, tear its way through a village of innocents then ******* in an instant leaving no form of apology or reason?

This is the dilemma of owning a conscious mind in a world of impartiality.

And if you don’t mind, I’m going to divide this audience into two sides: those who are matured and wise, and when they look at the night sky, see those wrinkles reflected in their own eyes – and those who are young and naïve, to whom this insight may come as a surprise.

To the wise and mature, I assure you that we are all in fact slowly dying. The only reason you’re alive is through generations of successful breeding and surviving. God is dead, and love is a chemical compound produced in your head.

And to the young and naïve, I’ll leave you with this line: despite the pessimistic undertones this poem implies, if you just don’t worry, you’ll turn out just fine.
I will now write all my poetry in pros as I feel like it leaves more freedom for my presentation.
Shofi Ahmed  Jul 2018
Taj Mahal
Shofi Ahmed Jul 2018
The epitome on the show
is more than a dream turned true.
A timeless beauty stitched on the stone.
The first sight hooks the eyeballs
No star is a far cry from here
it looks so close.
A narrative feels so familiar is never old
seen tons of times yet is a new Taj Mahal.

Since the medieval eyes were dazzled
by this monument of love
the crave to eye on it once in a lifetime
is in every lover’s heart!
People of new ages flock here
with the admiring birds
on this air of everlasting romance never
gone with the wind are mesmerised with love!
Childhood is the sweet air of spring,
To laugh, dance and sing,
To give roots to be strong and happy,
And wings to fly.
Youth is the beautiful smile of summer,
A kiss and memories that last forever,
Enjoy the greenery of life of the season,
And sway with the leaves and flowers in the Sun,
Wooing,
Seducing.
Middle age is the crisp Autumn,
A mellower season,
When leaves are falling,
A change is happening,
Sweaters, scarves,feeling nostalgic,
Trying to bring back the magic,
Of health and well being,
A second spring.
Old age is life's winter,
Bare trees with icy splinter,
A need for comfort,good food and a caring hand,
A verdict of life,where we stand,
A reward of childhood and youth,
Middle age and its truth,
The last act,
Life's fact.
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