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Tony Tweedy Sep 2019
I write not for my arts sake...
I write for my hearts ache...

I write not to remind myself...
I write to re-mind myself...
I perform my own exorcisms through my keyboard
Claire E  Jul 2013
Gone too soon
Claire E Jul 2013
I remember that spring morning all too well
As much as I wish I could forget
It was the Monday after prom
I came into math class, the teacher was eyeing me sympathetically
Then the principle came in with tears in her eyes
What was going on?

She started balling, I could barely make out her words
Then I heard her loud and clear
You were dead
No. No. No.
Surely I misheard
Surely this was all a big misunderstanding and the boy in that car wasn't you
Surely you'd stroll into class 10 minutes late as usual
But it was you in that car
And you never strolled into class again

I remember when I told my best friend, the girl you loved and who loved you
As I told her you were dead I watched the life drain from her face quicker than an avalanche falling,  and it has yet to return

And now her face is a reminder
And now your empty desk is a reminder
And now that bench where you used to sit all the time is a reminder
And that one less chair at our graduation is a reminder
And that picture of you in the hallway is a reminder
Everything is a reminder

No one really knows what happened to you that night
Do people really crash into brick buildings on accident?
Maybe you lost control of the car
Maybe you lost control of your life

All I know is seventeen is way too young to die
All I know is we should've been talking about prom that morning  
Who kissed who, who wore what, who's after party was the best
But instead we were mourning the death of a classmate
That morning we lost you, and along with you, we lost our innocence too
Smiles  May 2014
Sloth
Smiles May 2014
I wake up every morning with this feeling of dread
Can't escape this groggy feeling left in my head
So I continue to just lay here in my bed
I don't even get up to eat I just sleep here instead
I lay and decompose as my skin starts to shed
Wasting away all the blood that I have bled
My arms dangling off the side drenched in red
My existence is pointless I might as well be dead
I don't care about anything I'm unmotivated this feeling embed
Sew my eyes and my mouth shut with needle and thread
Tie me down and pump my stomach with meds
Take a gun to my skull and fill me with lead
My sin is sloth you haven't misheard and you havent misread
I'm not okay don't believe those lies you've been fed
My deadly sin.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2017
gambling, and to think that money has become rampant, pointless, towering over man, where once money was deemed an effective medium of passing labour, now, gambling has proved the complete defunct nature of the construct... when once a respectable way of rewarding shared labours, now, a means to bloat it, inflate it, give it extra cotton candy... i'd like to see times when money had some value, but since there is none to it in an applicable sense, no wonder its flushed down the toilet at the gambling table... for a "species" that wonders at making things refined and more efficient, to see the unrefined end product of the ultimate inefficiency; it's almost sad to watch.

i understand islam in only one way,
if i heard correctly islam
dictates a rigour in appreciating
money,
           in that, if i (once again) heard
correctly, islam doesn't
appreciate interest...
    i.e. if you borrow £100,
          you give £100 back...
    not £100 + 20%...
                  and i really do appreciate
the sanity of using money,
an abstract (compared to the value
of gold or timber, or a painting)
form of a thing...
   but the problem is, money has become
less and less reasonable,
in that it has become less tool-like
and more: parasitic-like.
              i do appreciate the fact
that money creates an exponential growth
of possible jobs,
  that it allows people to do nothing
more than a *Pilate gesture
-
i.e. washing their hands clean...
    but we live in times of hidden slavery,
i have a friend who's in his 50s...
he's not paying off his house,
       he doesn't own it,
        he's paying off the interest rates!
so basically he's renting rather than working
toward a capital...
          i have no idea how the original
idea of money has become infested by
a %... it should really be written
     %10 rather than any elevation to
a currency...
                  £10 is actually £23.50 when
monday it is spent, and by friday when it's
asked to be repaid...
  it's an implosive multiplication,
covert...
       you ask for a potato,
you're asked for four potatoes back!
          i can't believe that people are still
so sane if at least playing the role of sensible
with a thing, that's clearly inorganic,
and can't self-replicate without a cheat
mechanism being in place...
             like i said, if i heard correctly,
islam abhors usury -
                lending on an interest...
     but i might have misheard this,
even though i might not have, misheard it...
i understand money in that
i understand someone willing to do
   a ****** job to get his UNIVERSAL UNIT
of interaction,
i get that, i'd do a ****** job if i had to
in order to watch the Pilates of this world
play the Gatsby...
(book? not so great)....
                    the philosopher's stone
the trans-valuation of values is but a copper
coin away from any reason to
fathom a sensibility in such affairs...
      but imagine merely paying off
the interests rates, and never the product
you supposedly bought...
            **** me that's a tearjerker -
all the communists in hell are either laughing
or immune in a pensive pose of:
the **** is that?
           - and if this is true about islam,
i.e. you take one, you give one back...
and not,
you take one, you give two back...
money unlike any other thing in this world
is sick... it's infected with
a propagation virus...
         a mad self-multiplier...
the same self-multiplier which is the reason
why we produce more than we need,
in that we produce both product,
         and waste.
                    even if you applied the keenest
of minds in the field of mathematics to
the concept of money,
   you'd create a half-breed of
both genius and ******...
         since economics is the antithesis of
mathematics, as is the mathematicians'
abandonment of the calculator,
   the only worthwhile arithmetic these days
is imbued by the spelling of a word
correctly...
                 you don't write it: you snap into it!
- and i must admit, a strange way
of "counting" - rearranging the set pieces -
which explains why there's a blind-spot
in the japanese puzzle: súdokū -
again: diacritical marks are punctuation
marks from above, intra-verbum not
inter-verbum...
         once again, why is money so supposedly
complex? it's not,
   i can understand that some people
would prefer someone else to do something
unpleasant, like, slaughter a cow
and never make it to guest list of a baron's
banquet...
  i understand the Pilate gesture -
i wouldn't even appreciate the baron's
company to say the least,
         but money, as it was originally intended
is sick...
     it can't be anything more than
a sickness that has infected it...
mind you, my father is self-employed,
you know how they actually treat contractors?
like ****...
   he asked for travel expenses
  for his sub-contractors...
                he wasn't paid the travel expenses...
say what you will, but at least communism
had some principles,
this degenerate disintegration,
decomposition of capitalism due to the lack
of external competition on
ideological grounds is festering into
     what one might only see as:
cannibalism...
                when companies shed
their respect for the workers,
  whether independent of aligned to a company
ethos, something will finally give way...
i understand money,
but money has a virus in it,
  it's become a false multiplier of itself...
sure, that might have added to the success
of the multiplication of mankind
but as people have noted:
a universal wage...
since how much work is there to be done
these days, when all this demand for
work inevitably produces a waste product
from over-production?
          money was never supposed
to covertly self-multiply exponentially -
which means why money no longer has
the same value as it once did,
ascribed to something valuable -
paper money is toilet paper -
            as already suggested by
those bankers burning it to light a cigar...
a perpetual hellhole where even
         a DaVinci canvas is paper and is worth
such as much...
             idealistic? tosh...
                no wonder people have started
to look for value in the crevices of ownership...
but i don't understand the smart-phone
clinging... i said crevices i didn't imply
a ******* ball & chain...
                            a crease in a shirt,
the fact that -1 feels a lot warmer on a dry night
than +5 on a wet night...
                 i'll still fall asleep today
thinking that money has is infected with
a parasitic entity,
after all... not even money, is beyond
illness...
                 if money corrupts,
it would seem only sensible that
the first thing to be corrupted, would be the thing
that corrupts...
    money made sense, once upon a time...
   it truly did...
           now all it resembles is spare change,
or the fact that, once upon a time,
you would be deemed mad when
finding a £20 banknote on the street,
as i have done.
Grace Richardson Apr 2013
When I was young
I spoke in a broken tongue
In a weak tune,
I pleaded,
I needed,
To be understood.
No one
took time
or patience,
to understand
No one!
Besides her
We are best friends
We were raised in a broken home
For she sacrificed and stood alone
not completely alone
but with me.
She sacrificed her own life for mine
I will never meet a woman who will ever be as kind
My sister is my guardian angel, in this broken home.
This is about my mother and her brother not mine. John had a stutter with M.R. and life threatening diseases. My mother was the only one who took care of him.
Winter Frost Dec 2014
On a rainy day, in the road we use to walk, there we head
A perfect day, it was suppose to be
But with a worn out voice, you said
“Goodbye” to me

Raindrops started to pour in my eyes
“That’s strange, did I misheard you?”
Please tell me this is a lie
I don’t want to hear it from you!

The world I shared with you was meant to be kinder
It was meant to be warmer
I don’t want to accept this where you,
A world, a reality where I’ve been abandoned by you.

Sinking deep in the sea of falling drops
The rain pouring down, never clearing up
Unable to do anything, unable move forward
Why is it so hard?

Every moment with you that are not meant
Everything that you said, I want to hate it
I want to really, madly, completely hate it
But I can’t

Even if the whole world turned against you
I will always protect you
Even if every wish is left unheard
Even if every comforting words feel absurd

I don’t want to see, I don’t want to hear
I don’t want to know the world without you
Those things that I fear,
But even if that happens, I’ll still wait for you

We were in the wrong timing
Where everything is wrong
Where being with you is wrong
But I’ll wait until everything will be right

When the right time comes, let’s meet again at the same place
Where no one is against us being together,
Where we could live through time and space,
Until then, I’ll be waiting for you ‘til the end of forever
Yeah.. I can't stop posting poems :D...
Lyra Brown Mar 2013
Being an artist is hard. Especially when you write songs about love and love unrequited and addiction and death and wanting to die and wishing you were loved by the people who put their addictions before you and pain and self harm and hope and disappointment and everything that has made me insane.

The only thing I can do to make myself feel less insane is to write about it.

But as soon as you create something, it’s like “Well what the **** do I do now?”

Normal people would get a grant, make a record, go on tour.

Well guess what? I’m not a ******* normal person.

I have to deal with voices in my head 24/7 telling me I’m a failure, I’m a waste of space, that nobody cares about what I sing or do or make, that I would be doing myself a favour if I just ******* died already.

I have to deal with memories from my ****** up childhood that haunt me every day because my parents were too busy being addicted to alcohol and drugs to actually parent me.

Well guess what? I know that was unfair and sad etc, etc. I don’t want your pity. I know what my mind tells me are straight up lies. Depression is a mental illness and it doesn’t just go away because you’re intelligent enough to know that what your mind is telling you is not true.

But it’s the hardest thing anyone will ever have to live with and it makes it ten times more difficult to muster up enough confidence & self esteem to pursue being a musician, or writer or artist of any kind. Because being alone can be dangerous. I often feel so misunderstood and misheard by other people that I choose to be alone to do both them and myself a favour.

But that’s also *******. Because when you create something, no matter if it’s good or bad, you are giving something to the world that has never existed before.

Do you know how ******* beautiful that is?

What people don’t realize about artists is that the majority of them already are extremely  insecure and feel like failures and ****-ups.

The last thing I need from someone is for them to say:

“Oh, you have over 100 songs, how come you haven’t put out a record yet?”

“Here comes the girl who’s been saying the same thing for the past two years - that she’s ‘working on it.’”

Well you know what? I AM working on it. I don’t have to ******* defend myself to other people when they criticize me by saying things like this. You don’t have to sit hear and listen to me sing. No one is making you stay. They have no idea what I’ve been through, how I’ve changed, how I’m trying to heal, how healing does not come naturally to me. I was never taught how to heal. I was never taught how to live. And what I’m learning is that it is never too late to start trying.

I realize I’m getting older and time is passing but for someone to make some snide remark by commenting on how I seem like a failure is unacceptable, especially when I feel like one already.

My songs are a gift. I know that. I have given them away for free, to many people who, now that I think back on it, never even deserved to have them. Whether they’re jealous or mad or sad or whatever themselves, they don’t ******* need to put their insecurities on me when I clearly have enough of my own to begin with. We’re all human, how about we have some ******* compassion for each other?

There are a lot of things I’m not proud of. I have made many mistakes. I have wanted to die many times, and struggle with finding a reason to keep living daily. But music has always been the thing that has kept me alive. Music is what flows through my veins, and whether or not I “make a record” in the timeframe that people expect me to has nothing to do with what really matters.

Music has no timeframe.

Music has no jealousy or anger or resentment or insecurities.

Music is what saves lives, and I’ve been lucky enough to have the gift of making it and giving it to people in hopes that I can help them in some way. That’s what artists are made to do, help, make life more bearable, to transcend the pain of a ****** up life into a song that you can listen to and say: “****, this song sums it up, man!”

It’s a gift.

It doesn’t belong to you. It doesn’t even belong to me.

So just eat some humble pie and get over yourself for one ******* minute because your criticism doesn’t change the ******* facts and I will be going at my own pace whether you like it or not, thank you very much.
Brie  Dec 2014
2014
Brie Dec 2014
I'm a big girl with a big name
I love whole-heartedly
I think with my brain
And when people ask
Am I'm suppose to feel shame?
When they don't ask the background
when they over hear my name
Misspelled or misheard
To them it all sounds the same
there's no history
Just black culture, no change

I don't roll my eyes just for attitude
I do so because your opinion is annoying and possibly insane
Not to mention rude

I don't roll my neck to be ghetto
It is an expression of my frustration at the ignorance that you are demonstrating.


And I don't speak slang because it's the only words I know
But it's a reminder of how my ancestors were forced to live with as little education as that yet still have so much more to show


And when I dance it's not to show off my body nor break my back
But to tell a story with my hips so that you'll never forget that
I AM DIFFERENT AND  I AM PROUD  
And my skin color shouldn't  have anything to do with that now
It's 2014
Not the 1800s anymore
Never again your down low *****


But people keep assuming before I even open my mouth
That i have no future
No good upbringing
Since when were "ghetto" names defining
Well, since when were they not
But I will walk with pride across that stage
Only time you'll see my face on the news is for something great
Because
I'm a big girl with a big name
I love whole-heartedly
I think with my big brain
I feel no shame
I just smile because I know one day
People will know my name
It's not the 1800s anymore
It's the year 2014
A poem for the girls with names that are "ghetto/or different"
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
The Blue Men of the Minch



It is told that In poor weather or big seas, the Blue Men would come for you.  They would haul themselves—embodiments of storm and high water, malicious mermen—onto the deck, ready to pull you down. But then, they would  give you a single chance. The leader will throw you a line of verse and, one by one, everyone on board, from the skipper down, needs to offer a reply in like rhythm and meter. If by some chance all can answer poetically, the ship is freed and the Blue Men, those slimy *******, slide away to find another victim.

http://celticqueens.blogspot.com/2011/02/blue-men-of-minch.html

----------------------------------------­----------------------------------------------------------

Sept.­ 25th, 2012
2:51 AM

Thus it is in the real world.
Cancer, death, betrayal, disillusionment,
("Whatever," he snickers)
Rises up quick, bitterly blatant and obvious,
Pulls you down slow, enhanced by a phony lover/friends in disguise,
Eager, learned, in the ways of drowning you,
Testing you all, all of us poets,
Under fire, under siege, facing inevitable defeat.

Yes, you too, a poet.

You misheard.
It's not the poetry in motion,
But in emotion, where you too can win
A noble peace prize.

On certain days,
In uncertain times,
We are all Olympic athletes, poet laureates.
Some train all their lives for the seminal,
Most of us, wholly unprepared for the eventful,
Or worse, the tempered draining of the uneventful.

In the place where anger and fear commingle,
When the battery is dead, the only pole negative,
When sounds of life energy discharging skin-tingle,
In the hour, when the unemployed wake and walk,
Their past and future human debts crowding all other thoughts,
When the parent-less child cries out to the sound of no answer,
When we ask, why is my bed empty of love,
The Blue Merman are visiting and vesting,
Recruiting on your campus for new graduates.

Small, half consolations is all that's left on the table,
Single words, trite phrases of repetition,
why me,
Yield no comfort,
sate not, deafen and infect ache.

So commandeer the words hidden within,
Sort them by rhyme and meter,
Answer the critics, bend them over to your way,
Write your own poetry, fearing no ones judgement,
Put your self out there,
I have so many times.
Death, betrayal, disillusionment,
Regular visitors in the upstate prison cell of my head,
Are all greeted with new poems of old words,
Sent packing, but confident in their inevitable return,
I write defensively between their visits,
Best prepared, a good offense is eloquent literacy.

You offer me Xanax,
I offer you this.

Your endless supplies of potent, bitter pills,
No match for recombinations of Webster's diction,
All of us lesser poets of a higher degree.
Fresh out of inspiration so I dug this one out of the sewing box. Understanding takes work, time, reflection, most I suspect will read and discard....not bother to chew on it....I write defensively between their visits. Best prepared, a good offense is eloquent literacy.
JK Cabresos Sep 2013
I would love to feel love,
but rejection is a grim reminder
that I should not let myself
to be fallen deeply in love.
That I should never
misheard those sweet words
and to never assume
that you feel the same way.

Every little thing
that don’t make sense about me
make sense only when I’m with you.
And I’m ecstatic, for I hope
to hold your hands forever
into that whimsical place,
but I should not fall into love,
I might fall into pieces.

You made me confused and static,
and I need you to know
how my heart trembles
whenever I see you, but I couldn’t.
I’m just afraid I might loss you
in the end of this battle,
and what I’m feeling right now,
at this moment that I think of you
is indescribable.
All Rights Reserved © 2013

— The End —