Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Sustenance for friends and clients;
state your case – come one, come all.
The matron arms of Social Service
will not let you fall.

Food stamps make our nation stronger,
licked, then stuck on the public roll.
Social programs last much longer
adding recipients on the dole…

Like the Ephesian Diana
many are my benefits!
Mine the matriarchal manna;
latch and suckle at my teats.

Yours the client’s right to nurture.
Mother will supply your need;
Child, you must not fear the future –
feed, my baby, feed.

Call me nanny, call me Lord
just make sure you’re calling on me.
Mine are the gifts you can afford
they’re taxpayer-funded, worry-free!

Once you are latched I’ll keep it flowing
like an intravenous habit.
Keep that ****** situated
where your will can never grab it

Let it never cross your mind
that there’s an end to all lactation.
Cloward-Piven have refined
this titillation.

Love me.  Need me.  I’m the State.
Your well-being is my affair.
With your consent I’ll dominate,
because I care.
Check da grafix:  http://tinyurl.com/pxafq9s
Little Azaleah Oct 2015
Those undelivered  messages are
the most true feelings of someone.
However, they are too afraid to say it in fear of what others think.

- { E.I }
berry  Dec 2013
on distance -
berry Dec 2013
this is a poem dedicated to distance.
to every time i have wanted to kiss you, but couldn't.
to every time i looked at my empty hands and thought of yours.
to every time i was in a crowded room and secretly hoped that i'd find your face.
to every happy couple we see that inadvertently mocks our inability to be near each other.
to every time i've played your laughter over and over in my head to drown out the silence.
to every time you just wanted to hear my voice, but i was busy.
to every missed call and every undelivered text and every time your internet was down.
to every miscommunicated statement and every typo.
to every time that one of us was asleep when the other needed them.
to every time you wept and i wasn't there to hold you.
to every self-destructive tendency we share.
to every pill your mother has hidden and every razor blade i have flushed.
to every worry that plagues my consciousness whenever you take long to reply.
to every night we have been together through a screen, but alone in our beds.
to every, "i miss you" and "i wish you were here".
to every broken-record apology that never makes it better.
to every makeup stain that mars the sweater you sent me so that i could
feel like i was sleeping with you (and to the fact that it doesn't smell like you anymore).
to every hour, every minute, every second of difference in the time between us.
to every dollar i don't have, and every time i wished for your chest against my back.
to every, "why are you even with me?" and "you could do better".
to every spectator and cynic that has told us we'd fail.
to every doubt of mine and to all your jealousy.
to every ounce of water in the pacific ocean.
to every ******* mile between my head and your chest (i checked, and there are 9,752).

you will not win.

- m.f.
Emma Dec 2011
*******, you *******
******* for being ****** up and not being able to be fixed
and not being able to fix yourself
******* for representing all the unhealthy relationships in my life
(read: ALL the relationships in my life)
******* for your two-facedness, for the things that were ****** up then,
for the things that are ****** up now and for
you pretending that it isn’t this way
pretending to be holding the truth
be speaking the truth
be slurring the truth
you are unknowing of the truth
I am not knowing of what’s true
and good,
but you are not it.

So leave, leave, leave, and take her with you,
and pretend as if you have me in your heart
but forget me. Please don’t speak to me.
And don’t cry to me.

And at some point, eat. And at some point, sleep.
Between the meaningless bouts of *******, *******, *******,
and pretending to be finding the things
you find meaningful
You haven’t thought about them in a while, have you

I’m angry at you and I’m angrier at myself
But at least I’m proud of myself
Because whatever hurts me now makes me grow
I can handle being alone and learn independence, and it will
be my weapon against you and everyone like you.

I don’t love you. I don’t know what that kind of love is and I hope to not find it for a while.
Emily Archer  Jul 2014
Sea Glass
Emily Archer Jul 2014
There is sea glass in my lungs. Bottles of undelivered messages smashed and worn down from the unforgiving waters in my chest.
Orion Schwalm Oct 2014
The first time in my life, I start turning the lens back into the dreams. Point the telescope a full 180 away from the moon, so the moon can see a **** good closeup of the craters on my face.
I go to sleep
                                         asking for it.

My dearest demons, tear me apart. I am ready to die. I have done everything I could...

And here you come:
                                   traipsing down the stairway to heaven, stepping extra hard
on the creaky ones.

I think it reminds you of the way I used to whine for you.

To you. My dear. MY dear.
                                              Help me God, I whisper into your ear as you     sleep,
                                              Hoping you would wake up in my dreams and save me,
                                              How the hell could a person ever feel so ******* weak.

A bitter branch, that wanted to be a tree trunk. That tried to become enormous.
That only got cut down in the end.

That's how I feel. Not what I am.
Part of the poem, not of the slam.
Separate worlds inside one room.
Wanting to capture the flower in bloom.

Enormous tree, watered regularly by the gardening company hired by the     CEO
of the real-estate company.

The only company I really have in this lonely lake of scheduled sprinklers
are gardeners giving me much more than thanks.

They cut my branches. My unsightly twigs are mulched. I share my tears with them. They take a lunch break. We're going pretty steady.
Day in. Day out. Day in. Day out. Tick tock. Lub Lub. Goodnight. Help-
One:  Bridge

Is it the bridge
Between, Now and forever?

The bridge of fear
When will you be crossing over?

Is it the bridge between
Possibility and doubt

And will we stay strong
Or are we willing to drown?

Is it the bridge between
Who we are and
Where we lust and love?

Would the distance, Abide
Or will it be us merged, eventually?

Are we ready
To venture, to cross this bridge
To our destiny but no future?

Freeze your breath
and listen to the breeze

A bridge, the transparent gap
We are inclined
If you are, to cross the bridge
That leads to one. Love.

Two: Reunion

When seagull whistles
we all came together at this reunion day
World has changed since we've seen each other
Although remained love never goes away

Where covered faces shades blessing
Without understanding of their souls
We think we know a lot about each other
But some things we will never know

Disgust in uncertain eyes and exhausted looks
A lady in red walks off into silver lake
As a space shuttle pulls away
they will never know her hidden pain
At least not on this reunion day.
The Qixi Festival is celebrated on every 7th day of the 7th month according to Chinese lunar calendar. The festival is known as the Chinese Valentine's Day. In the past days, girls are the major part of participants of this festival and the main activity during the festival is asking for light hand
Hannah Payne Dec 2016
Echo, cricket,
Thump, stump.
The very loud things
Galloping through the silence.
The creaking of stairs like the breaking of bones
That snapped tin cap,
Clinging onto the prophesied labor of your last breath,
Oscillating through your liquefied ontology.
Ethanol overflown and embodied.

Cricket cricket,
The underlying intrinsic.
The empty tone of a distant voice.
The spaces of letters and words so magnified
So wide,
Expanding like an unstoppable void.
Oh my,
Here it comes,
Shadowed by your hissing tongue.
You are glittered,
Pinnacle bitter.
Cloaked in pure white.
Not a thread of disguise.
Twinkle, twinkle,
Buggy, rugged eye.
Those razor touched lines,
Translucent and caressed,
Reminiscent and enmeshed,
Like faded pale stripes,
Hugging the armor of canvas flesh.
Walking among these thin lines,
Head down, musky powdered stench,
Awaiting the inevitable rise and fall.
Of the intangible crux of a hollow memory,
Woven inside the synthetic fabric of the undelivered.
Oceanic cold shiver,
Piercing through our empty, untethered souls.
Kara Rose Trojan May 2012
Crowded by the ceiling’s emptiness (the room sticky with whispers)
names carved into grimy tiles, final shadows
            of the footsteps now hugged in dust,
                        and the ashes dulled the slapping of
                        feet on the ladder’s last rung.

            Huddled in the sour dimness of his shadow
                        is where our parents hid the prayers
                        that went undelivered –
[cloistered, naïve faith off Jacob’s Ladder]

He asked me questions that pricked too deeply –
            that fingernail clipped too short --
            as the invading hand of ******* parted words and stammers
            to play shadow puppets with, what Plato called,
            “three times removed” from the Truth.
And when leaving the choir’s balcony,
one can find the thumbtack of feeling in which
the glass-saints sweat all the industrialized emotions onto one’s brow.
            Does it seem like suffering? Catholic’s suffering.
Giving room for error in your lapse in charity.

In elementary school, we left our classrooms --
            two-by-two like businessmen arguing on the sidewalk --
Every Tuesday at 2:10pm to the hidden alcove that the administration
            gave
            to us.
Mrs. Condon, a strictly fat woman, strictly speaking,
dressed in red vests
and constricting black slacks, with a white binder,
salted as the laughter left in her footprints, reproving us that
as the Gifted and Talented, we must exercise
those gifts and talents.

I wrote a 256-paged novel that bought me one year
of slacking off behind a wooden desk because I was
11 years old
and that fact bought a bulbous beet of conditioning into the
curriculum. Ms. Condon made me edit my peers’ essays, give them grades
when all I wanted to do was play four square.

As I perched on my stool in class, properly equipped with unforgiving,
admonishing, Catholic red pens to point out other
11 year old’s punctuation and proper word usage. Like a tie to a neck, I
fiddled in vernacular, phrases, and semantics
as I unconsciously stacked layers of social prejudice, thicker
than the walls between silent parents, between some students
and I.
Stacked as quaintly as words upon words – hand over hand.

Mrs. Condon, Mrs. CEO, Ms. Too-Good-For-This, Bourgeois vs. Proletariats, I am the Marquis.

Like hounds held by leashes, the others locked to rebel, then whimpered to trail back, tails in hand.

Gifted and groomed to stack one spurned cinder block on social mobility.

In a whirr of dandelions, dice, and tax breaks, I knew how it felt to remain aloft, aloof --
            Mrs. Condon rewarded me with the cherry Twizzler of my spine
            and patted my head like the lapdog that I had been.
I'm tired of missed calls
Undelivered texts,
Removing digital evidence
Of an ex.

Typing '****' when
longing to howl
Pressing like, acting,
you're on the prowl.

Weary of condensing my
message
To just on small
passage.

Tap it all out,
Just to backspace,
like what you need to express,
Is a plain old waste.

Look up from your paper thin,
Retina display,
Don't let technology
Get in the way.

Take chances, soar
ignore the device
that makes your life
so impure.

Throw away the shackles,
Reconcile,
Cry on shoulders,
Whisper, wander for hours,
Whatever you do,
Ignore the iPhone's powers.

Love love love,
And don't feel bad,
For not getting a text back,
Is not the worst pain you've had.

Be truly elated, this time
don't pretend
put down your mobile,
As for now, in this moment.
Technology needs to end.
Harmony Sapphire Jan 2015
I bring thee angel a silver chain.
I tell thee also an unbelievable truth.
I shall never have fortune or fame.
I never get what I want only what I need.
My own child minimum wage can't feed.
Poverty, stench, & hatred i breathe.
Tell me what is the solution?
To control & diminish this pollution.
A sacred heart belonging to me.
An unshattered love binds us to be.
Just because I never married someone strong.
To take away my daughter is still wrong.
A sacred kiss of eternal bliss.
A glowing soul that grows.
Holiness bestows ungranted hopes.
Stealing my parental rights.
Lonely abandonment.
Evil feeds & Bites.
Unregretful resentment. Unsettling contentment.
Pages turn words burn.
© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved,
"Ha, I thought you might"

You think about me.
You remember things about me.

Acknowledgement by someone
who's godly.

My heart playing some sick trick on my brain,
("Ha, I thought you might")

April Fools.
soul in torment Nov 2013
Mysterious packages...

discarded

in litter bins

unsigned for

and

undelivered
I was there for the Warrington bombings in England when the IRA planted bombs in street litter bins the police evacuated the shops and had us standing in the street luckily for me I thought stick it I'm going home I was a street away when they went off Google ithttp://m.youtube.com/watch?v=vML8VELLU-w

— The End —