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Yenson May 19
Some have amazing qualities, inherent
that they stand out a mile, so envy not
for no matter how you try
you can only look and
can you catch up with the rock of ages
or have the wisdom of sages renowned
know the patience of saints
possess the courage of a lion
or the bravery of the spartan
do you have the gentility of a feather
yet know the fierceness of a tornado
do you have the softness of the dream lover
or own the sacred sword of the Mighty Thor
yet have hands that nourishes a baby tenderly
or a smile that even disarms dogs.
Can you catch up with the clouds
do you have a voice that can sing with Celestial choir...
Do you see why such as this makes the whole town sing
Michael  Mar 3
Michael Mar 3
Ode to The Politically Correct
(the language of modern reality)

I have no name, I have no rank,
I've fought in every war there's been,
At sea, the air, and on the land
With sword, with gun, and hand-to-hand.
I've spilt the blood and I've spilt blood;
Been drunk on lust and tasted fears.
I've roared with laughter and cried tears;
I worship War: Odin, Thor and Tyre,
Ares; Vulcan, God of fire;
Yet I spit on all belief.
And if you've lost then I'm the thief
Who takes, then kills that which you love
To leave you helpless, wretched, keening with despair,
The noise that sounds so sweetly to my ear.

And every time you drape my naked, brutal form
to make your flowery, artful mesh with peaceful words deceiving;
When you try to camouflage my stench with clever, innocently sounding prose;
Why, then my friend, all of violent death because of you
Will writhe, will shriek, will feel its awful pain afresh.
And the brutal torments of our life will never, ever close.
Dan Jul 29
The violent end of worlds you’re pagan ancestors feared
Watch as the strikes from Thor steal your comrades from you
No Valkyries to guide you
No Valhalla to welcome you
Ankle deep in mud and rats and **** you load your rifle begging the God you believe in that you won’t have to **** another man

How did you find yourself here?
An Englishman fighting Germans in France
Because a Serbian killed an Austrian in Bosnia
Or an Italian, 43 years after your country was unified
Or a Serbian, longing to free your countrymen from Austro-Hungarian oppression
Or maybe your a Russian, a Frenchman, a Turk

Hear the whistle blow
Now is your time to storm from the trenches into razor wire and the the hail of bullets
You will likely be slaughtered
Like the 40,000 French soldier during one week of the war
This is a tragedy
But this is also a holy experience
Like for T E Lawrence
Fighting for a cause he never thought he would believe in
Or Ernst Jünger
Surviving bullet after bullet
Endless bombardments
This is the heroes journey
Do not let your children’s children take away from your sacrifice
When they say you died for nothing
You believed in your nation and you believed in yourself

Do not let them take that away from you
You who returned home and were ignored if not simply forgotten
Who returned home missing limbs, missing homes, missing loved ones
You who were traumatized shell shocked
Who could not return home
Who returned to what was supposed to be home
But life went on without you
So you found those who fought with you
From your bonds you formed brotherhoods
Formed paramilitaries

But that all comes later
Right now you look death in the eyes and can’t help but laugh
Laugh to keep yourself from crying
Laugh because you have never felt more alive than in this moment and never will again
And in this moment you can’t help but cry out
Briscoe Oct 22
"I'm not sorry I ate your heart for my own.
I left, carelessly fed the Earth your bones.
To make friends I would cut Medusa's hair.
Speaking as Thor thundered in my chest,
His Cerberus kiss, on cheeks and lips bare,
As Zeus breathed life onto my neck with zest.
From the ribs he pulled my dust weak body.
He the better man who left me lonely.
To you I've arrived empty, to fill night.
I've brought my casual poetry to you,
I need to tire ears to make this heart light.
Heavy is he and I know you'll sit through
Me. I need a voice he's not choked to glee.
I need a line to write, before I fall asleep."
"Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.  
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,  
And they stuck me together with glue.  
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the *****.  
And I said I do, I do."
-Daddy, by Sylvia Plath

— The End —