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Sacrelicious Mar 2012
I'd rather drink the punch and die
poor
than bite the apple and die
rich.
I'm just trying to find
a way
to get by
and meet people
with out having to take my clothes off.
or write **** me in sharpie all over my forehead.
No matter how it happens,
there needs to be a redistribution of wealth
in a way that isn't stealing, like taxes do to us.
If the people got together and built
an empire,
then together they would rule
it and take care of
all that needs to be done.
Like business
that actually works,
like a friendship,
not a one night stand.

Y'all know what I mean?
I just turned 20.
43 minutes ago, I'm excited.
Some budding minds of larvae
become slaves to indoctrination
holding ransom to their morals
with mundane anticipation.
Ants and Bees take to the streets
dragging dignity through the trip
while sharks above hound them
discipline at the crack of a whip.
The struggle of paying to work
catches the children by surprise
though the nature of nepotism
gives others meteoric rise.
Ragged, they stay warm
through the fires of finance killing
so that the glutenous worms
can feed off the standard of living.
And those who live in glass mansions
have their view clouded by rain
as they look down at the masses
with contempt and disdain.
The Jolteon Jul 2015
A nation that bleeds
Unwilling to confront the past
The last thing we need
Is celebration and blasts
The unequal treatment
Race gender and class
Shines so clearly
With Donald Trump laughs
In this time reflection
Will shine a better path
Reconstruction Redistribution
Instead of indifference and death
L A Lamb  Jun 2015
Untitled
L A Lamb Jun 2015
I don’t mind being criticized
If I’m wrong, tell me so
Let me know, so
I can go about doing right
And I just might find the solution
The retribution
The redistribution of answers
Being held from us
Preventing us from knowing
What knowledge is growing somewhere else in life

That’s what they say
But that’s what they all say
Convey threats to war
Scare us because they know we’re not sure
Send warnings then bombings exploding
everything, incessant destruction
so maybe it doesn't matter
if I'm right or wrong, I'm being criticized
as long as I can adapt to thinking
and can think about adapting
I just want to do what's right
so I write to figure it out
But I doubt what I see,
do my hand deceive me when
my words show that everything is wrong?
SassyJ Mar 2016
Inception Transcribed  (Spoken Word- Freestyle-Dramatics)**
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
==Inception Transcribed ==
by
SassyJ
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

(Copy the link below to your browser)

Inception and intersection of human life are diverse. We are ushered as a blank canvas to the shores of life. Socialised with values, beliefs and cultures. Our acclimatised acculturation. Submerged in the swampy lowlands each sunk and wandering through and through.

This morning I woke and left my house...... looked up to the horizons of nature. And there it was.... a revolving camera smiling at each stride I take... following me and taunting me. Unreserved in institutions, submerged in the ever decaying social structures.
Why do we do what we do everyday?
Is it part of the human processes and functions?

To exist and be absolutely absent but present. I fret, then I smile. Trying to join the puzzles in the mazes. Ever questioning if I am here to learn or to be polluted by bureaucracy.

Lets call for an assembly, announce that the town is dead. Yet, its people are gasping, breathing to fill their lives with a new paradigm. Look at me all cyanosed , the blueness of the dying veins... sunk in the redistribution and social panic. Re-engaged in the demoralised democracy. Look at me asking....
What is the meaning of life?
https://soundcloud.com/user-367453778/inception-transcribed
Poemasabi Feb 2013
The wind is cold this morning
and howls.
Frustrated perhaps that there is so much to do.
To move powder
from roofs,
decks
and lawns.
Heaping it in great dunes
against my windows,
on my porch
and at my door.
I really wanna write pretty ****
Like about birds singing at night
or the tired steps of the one Mexican maid
as she passes by my house before and after work

I want to write pretty ****
About my mother’s resilience
Her words of encouragement
And the sound of defeat in her “mijo no tengo ni pa’ la leche”

I want to write pretty ****, academic ****, deep ****,
About beautiful man of color
Trying to be anything but black or brown
Girlfriends claiming their white side
The silencing of accented voices
I am dying to write pretty ****

I want to write about her big *** eyelashes
And her fierce makeup
And how her face was flawless when they found her laying there
In a poodle of blood
Why would anyone **** someone so pretty?
It’s as if they hated pretty ****
Like the color of brown and black skin
And green trees and ****
Why do they like to **** pretty ****?
Like spirituality and native languages?
And they give nobel peace prizes to ****** up institutions with ****** up policies that push people to desperation, bomb them, starve them, and at the end blame them,
They like to blame pretty **** too

I want to write pretty ****
Like waking up to the bright sun
And driving by the day laborers at home depot
Some of them look so hopeful, and some of them so defeated
Some of them sleep beneath the little tree on the parking lot
Why do you illegalize pretty people?

Ain’t freedom pretty and injustice ugly?
Then why don’t we write about justice and ****
About the caribou not having to be fenced
And native land returned to indigenous peoples

Why don’t we claim our inner beauty
And recycle all them ****** up magazines filled with cropped bodies treated as money, souless bodies,
The fashion industry is ugly

And why don’t obama talk about pretty ****
Like reparations and wealth redistribution
And getting rid of Deportations, Deportations that’s some ugly ****
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
Below is the first of two poems inspired by this piece of music, this one from a few years ago, in the midst of my divorce. The second, the better of the two,  is:

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/pachelbels-canon/

The music:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kllZlF6mB2s&feature;=youtubegdataplayer
~~~~

Bereft of words,
one more time,
concussed by the hammering of
cacophonous silences
disabling my thought processes

In vanity,  
for when denied,
Le Poet-Poseur angrily asks:

Did not Mary  
have her cherries  
by command?^

But when the trees bow to me,
the collective of leaves mockingly
whisper sweet nadas, baby.
each leaf wraps my tongue,
in a sushi compote of sand,  
"hush-a-bye, baby boy poet"

June chilled.
But not chilling

Today, on a  overcast Saturday,
forces have mogged^^ me on,
transmogrified into a
Seventh Day Non-Inventist,
the creativity disrupters

Sadly,
Amazon doesn't sell,
original poems for redistribution

Pilings of papers,
variant demanders re my  
labors past and future,  
**** work-product of
teams of lawyers & harlots

Four years on, demanding now,
300 files subpoenaed,
need I say, they want me to re-tour my life my cuntry,
once more

Dummies!
these esquires ****** for hire,
my greatest invention,
my poetry,
they'll n'ere posses
cause I give it away,
domain denied

In need of a ****** shot,
drink repeatedly from the
Kanon by Pachelbel,
cannons of human-law
surmounted by the one divine

This note,  
the work product of
Pachelbel & Lipstadt,
harmony restoration,
a shared refuge,
a shared refute

Welcome friend to
a place that cannot be
bought, seized, sold

Pleasure thyself with each
note, scale repeated

Though the reign of the heavens  
doth suffer violence, and  
violent men do take it by force,^^^
peace and pardon,
earnest reward of  
poets who lived gently,
giving gentle, freely away
__________________________________________
(1)  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pachelbel's_Canon

^ Then bowed down the tallest tree, it bent to Mary's hand;
Then she cried: 'See, Joseph, I have cherries at command.'
Then she cried: 'See, Joseph, I have cherries at command.'

^^  Mogged means to have trudged along or moved away. (verb)

^^^ paraphrase of Matthew 10:7

My ex-**** wife lawyers got ever personal thing in my personal life, court ordered,  handed over to them looking for hidden treasure. I warned these *****, that they would find nothing except when I split an uneven amount, I rounded up the penny in her favor...which is precisely true of all the things they spot checked...what amazed me was that I had to go thru years of papers,  thus recalling our lives together, from the chaff came the wheat of poetry bread rising.
I awoke to a blood red dawn
was greeted as the unfortunate spawn
of a dead man gone
and turned my face to a world so wrong
devoid of beauty, hope and song

Knew I was mans last hope as I looked around
found holy ground
started a beat and broke out a brand new sound
music sprang from the earth and the water flowed
and the trees grew leaves with my melodies

"A new age has come!" I screamed out loud
and groups of the hungry formed a crowd
and filled their stomachs with my word
and music on earth again was Heard!

The rich came, then and I told them to wait
told them to seek reprieve for their hate
I'm a branding of time, can't speak without rhyme
Blinding with holy shine, drinkin' Jesus's wine.
It's time for a redistribution to come
So pass your Bentley down to a ***
This ***** burstin' out, you cant stop it son
The dates pushed back to the start, year one.

Now the music is back as I sweep the earth
I put down a note for every child at birth
They realize how much the sense of hearing is worth
I'm proud to be the one that could show em around
Music comes from all these vibrations
Another one of gods beautiful creations
I ripped the dirt away from their eyes
And showed everyone a new truth without lies
I'm here to give you an hand, an ear, and an eye or two
In hope you learn something from these words I throw at you
And with the swing of this pick
I pull out a monstrous riff
The world gazes at me in awe
The hairs on the back of their neck stand stiff
No one realized what they were hearing
Still, they kept on cheering

But some don't believe it
They think I'm here to ruin the world and deceive it
I'm only doing what I must
I've cleaned the earth of it's dust
And still some look at me in disgust
I can't let this place go to waste
It's to beautiful.. No
I won't let this be done
What the **** would I do without my cinnabuns?!
I looked up above the sky
Peeked my head into the clouds
Then he said "what the ****?"
Gave me some weapon
Then I went back to earth
Said "look here, it's the big G that I'm reppin"
Opened up my mouth and spit out my microphone covered in flames
I burned all the haters that were cursing my name
And by then I knew my job was finally over and done
This is the fight that the underground won
One more thing that I yelled out loud
We're re-writing the books
Now that we're unlatched from our hooks
Put this down in history
And don't let this be a mystery
It's time for us to rise to the top
And throw away that ***** *** pop
Let this be known to you all
We're taking over the mainstream!
all rights reserved
brian mclaughlin Feb 2015
enslaved by the dollar
that's what we are
and the pittance received
it don't go very far

folks keep working harder
and production goes up
while their wages stay flat
the profits go up

often forced to apply
for help from the state
workers become labeled takers
was this stigma their fate

then complaints are put forth
about the redistribution of wealth
but that's how capitalism is supposed to work
thanks trickle down stealth

today's dollar trickles up
to the pockets of the rich
as daily more do without
ain't redistribution a *****!
Ben Holders Apr 2013
Sing out for the repulsed.
The putrid. The obscene.
For all the children just find their way on and in the music scene.  
Sing out for every grandma that shutters as we walk by.
Sing out for every giggle let out at a government lie.
Sing in the artificial moonlight on streets that never see darkness or silence.

Sing in the drunk revelry of youth
and hormones and whispered sweet nothings
nether will remember.
And of looks deep into her. . .
eyes because they are truly the most beautiful thing you have seen this night.

Sing in voices too loud for the hour.  
Listen to the sound of youth plotting revolution and redistribution of power.
But are derailed when they learn the milk has gone sour
and someone must walk to buy more at two thirty on a Tuesday morning.

Sing of the truly mundane immortalized
in novels and short stories and twitter accounts weekly
as the clock switches from Friday to Saturday largely unnoticed.

Sing of me brothers and sisters.
Sing of me as I walk to my future
tired, weary, and feet covered in blisters.
For the walk is long, and time waits for no one.

— The End —