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Ahmad Attr Apr 25
I’m travelling back
Back to where it all began
From one home to another
Back on the train
a domestic bird like me isn’t ready yet
I am too tamed
But deep within me lies a secret part of me
That awakens once I’m sent to the wild
Like a phoenix or an exotic bird,
Rising from my ashes
My ruffled, dusty feathers shed
And the clean, pristine ones arises
I wonder how he does it
Conquering, thriving
Living life as though it is actually exciting
My heart is racing faster than the train I’m riding
I pass through towns and mounts
Rivers brown and blue
What am I going to do when I reach my other home?
O! other me you know better than I do
How long are you going to sleep?
I need you now more than ever before
I can’t wait to be you
At the church of all saints
Singing glorious tunes
Hymns and harmonious voices
The father, an altar he stood in front
His passing
Life if an exited fellow
Can we say something?
Say to the saints
The tears of many
Words much but little
An ovation so small
Ashes to ashes
Keeping nothing in your remembrance
He once stood here
A man like God
He jouryned with the saints
Wait a minute
His family speaks
Tell them
He once stood here
Only to stand no more
Did he perish?
Wait a minute
Did he perish?
I said speak
He had no vision
The mantle perished long ago
Did he wait for the saints?
No, the morning after
I see a congregation
Mourning a death of old
Clap for her speech
He perished like a sunken treasure
Was he not a king?
Did he perish?
A glorious exit
He perished like a sunken treasure

Written by Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson
This peom tell the story of a man who died and a lot of him at his funeral didn't have a good thing to say about him. They didn't have any memorable thing to say about his existence on planet Earth.
Kenneth Gray Oct 2020
As I ponder upon my life
I feel as though I'm trapped inside a book of science fiction
Deep down in my bleeding heart I hope its about a
fantasical expidition
But in reality,
all the pages therein
Are screaming of my affliction
I pray with all my soul and might that there will be a
miraculous transition

I know I am the author
and that I hold
the key to victory
But what becomes of the ending
We'll just have to see
I need to pen in an
overcoming battle
And set my future free
I need to set up the ending
And decide just who I am to be

With all these things in mind,
I still frantically flip
through all the pages
Knowing all the pain I've caused
And seeing my past rages
Seeing all the failures pass
As it comes and goes in stages
How can I conquer all of this
When Ive been a total waste of space for ages?

I cannot help but gaze upon the blank sheets that follow after
After all, this book is not sci fi and I wont let it become
a great disaster
I do however, have a hero
and that hero is my sister
Ill be a mighty warrior just like her and I'll become the victor

I look towards the ending with my inspiration right in tow
Knowing that ill overcome and that my strength will grow.
I see my hero overcome on a daily basis and this
hard fact I know.
So just like her, I'll fight this battle everyday even if the goings slow
Ill do my best and fight the fight
Take up my mighty pen of life and deal the final blow!
This one hits hard. Its one of my more self inspiring pieces. Its weird how I can write something that actually inspires myself. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did! It actually really was inspired by my sister. We were talking earlier and she mentioned something about her life being like she was in a book. She knows I write alot and do poetry. So I said that that line could make a good poem. I told her to give me 30 minutes to write something using that line amd this is the result.
I am 23 years old, and I can still feel it.
My past lingers over me, and hangs in the room like a thick cloud.
It engulfs me, and holds me tighter than I would like.
I am 23 years old, and I can still feel it.
Feel what you ask.
I can feel the room.
The four blank walls with a thick coat of dark paint.
Sadness and fear are the only things that hang on these walls.
I feel the coldness and the emptiness that contains the room.
They join me as I sit on the single object in the room.
I am 23 years old, and I can hear it.
Hear what you ask.
I can hear the foot prints of the individual household members.
I can tell you the exact point that they are located in the room.
I can tell you what mood they are in.
I can hear their voices, and their whispers about me.
I can hear how close they are.
Sometimes, I can hear the crisp sound of the lock being moved.
My shuffles into the darkness echo in the room.
My silent pleads of escaping can be heard running around the room.
I am 23 years old, and I can still smell it.
I can still smell the sour stench of the room.
The smell coats the room.
It drapes itself on every crevice.
I can smell myself, after being trapped here for days.
I can smell the sickness from my stomach, because I haven't ate for days.
I can smell the individual tears that have kissed the floor.
I can smell the blood from one too many beatings.
I am 23 years old, and it will forever haunt me.
The memories of being in this room are old, but they will stick with me forever.
They never hesitate to welcome me with open arms.
They taunt me whenever they please.  
I am 23 years old, and I cannot escape it.
Laura May 2020
I was a promising child
home as a war zone
I reconciled
grown men around
unknown or known
I remained
as their playground
my soul begrimed
Ellis Reyes Mar 2020
I'm from hate and discontent,
from words so caustic that they burn after 35, 40, 45, 50 years.
I'm from nowhere and everywhere,
I'm from nine schools and fourteen houses.

I'm from "You'll make new friends,"
and "Quit crying, we didn't live there that long."
To the KFC Christmas and "They're too old for a tree anyway."

I'm from slammed doors, and curse words and silent treatments.
I'm from high expectations, icy glares, straight A's, and disappointment.
I'm from 800 miles of claustrophobic silence in the family car and 18 years with no vacations.


I'm from lazy days at the family farm
and hard-*** work a few years later.
I'm from rides on the tractor with Grandpa,
and watching the illegal sabong... with the sheriff.

I'm from Uncle Martin and Mary Lou,
and the tiny apartment with the swimming pool.
I'm from the mean man in number 9 screaming at us to be quiet
and Uncle Martin telling him to, "Shut the Hell Up!"

I'm from David and Richard, my cousins, my brothers
I'm from poison oak adventures at the creek
and countless days at the beach


I'm from Gentile and Jew,
From Asian and White,
From Catholic and ****.

I'm from St. Patrick's, the old church.
I'm from stained glass and wooden kneelers,
incense, and Latin Mass.
I'm from Ego te absolvo and Dominus Vobiscum

I'm from tradition and sanctity,
dignity and peace.

I'm from Hellfire and Brimstone
Screaming, Bible pounding preachermen who are slain in the Spirit,
babble in tongues, and exhort the congregation to be "Washed in the Blood of the Lamb".


I'm from love and loss,
and love again

I'm from Lisa, and Donna, and Carole,
the girls who were far too pretty to have been my friends (but were)
I'm from Jaki who wrote me letters letters every two days
and sometimes more,
and Laurie
and Kelly.

I'm from Cardinal and Gold
from Conquest and Traveler,
from the dorm and the Row.

I'm from 90,000 screaming idiots,
I'm from Greek Week and road trips,
and long nights in the reference section.
I'm from typewriters, card catalogs, and white out.


I'm from gritty men and terrible places.
I'm from peace, and war, and peace, and war again.
And peace - with war thundering in the distance.

I'm from the cold wet ground on cold wet nights,
and I'm from blisters upon blisters; blood and water.

I'm from the Blacksheep, the Alphabots, and the Ranger Creed.
I'm from the M-249, the 203, and the A-2.
I'm from Colt, not Beretta; that's the M-1911,
and I'm proudly from jungle fatigues and black berets.


I'm from a fateful encounter on a random night
an order of pizza and beer that would change our lives
Days together and weeks apart
Time didn't matter
She'd captured my heart.

I'm from loyalty and faith,
Trust and honor.
I'm from a small ceremony,
nothing to big or too fancy,
and groomsmen carrying guns, pagers, and foreign passports.

I'm from odd jobs and uncertainty and graduate school
I'm from UPS and PKP, and Summa *** Laude,
MISD, WM, and the birth of Anthony.

I'm from safety patrol and tug-of-war,
Accelerated math, now Maria's born.

I'm from the Blonde Mafia, the Bumblebees,
the Shopping Girls, and the Ubermensch.
From 14, and F, and back to 14, and 15.
Principals Emerson, Anthony, Blix, and Mellish.


I'm from the Middle School
and teaching only math until
I'm teaching math and tech until
I'm teaching math and tech and study skills until
I'm teaching tech and study skills and more tech until
I'm teaching tech and study skills and media and Spanish until
I'm teaching tech, tech, tech, media, and Spanish with
Principals Miller and Budzius and Lucas and Stone

I'm from the animé girls and the theater crew
From the gamers and poets and dreamers
From the introverts and hackers, autistic kids and slackers
I'm from the kids who don't fit anywhere....

(To be continued)
Slices of my life
Tommy Randell Jan 2020
There was a hand in the darkness once
That reached out and held my hand -
That was a hand of caring.

There was a hand at the playground gates
Took me by the hand the first day -
That was a hand of sharing.

      A Father's hand I never knew
      A Mother's hand I lost too soon
      Of Lovers' hands there have been many
      My Brother's? Everytime & always ready.

There was a hand pushed my hand away
Then pushed again and kept on pushing -
That was a hand of warring.

A time of loneliness when no hand came
When my hands held themselves and
When my hands learned about mourning.

      My Children's hands reassuring me
      My close Friends' hands knowing All this
      More tenuous Friends not getting me yet
      Colleague's hands getting the fist bump flip.

A lifetime of hands coming and going
A poetry of hands speaking more than words
That death and all of life is but a hand away.

Giving hands, hands taking, years of hands
Speaking incessantly good and bad
And I have listened to all they had to say.

      When I give my word I offer my hands
      When I greet a friend, when I take my leave
      Equally I see myriad hands upon the page
      Time flowing from this Poet's hand displayed.
There was a child holding a pen once
That needed a family to write about -
That was a hand  of shaking.

There were two fists raised to the world
That was a young man out of control -
That was the poetry of me in the making.
Some people are Face & Eye watchers, some are hand watchers - For me, the hands never lie. Watch any person's hands... it's all there. When I was a Customs Officer it was one of the secret tools of my craft of a quick assessment of a stranger. From their grooming to how their hands move can be seen so many things.
Mystic Ink Plus Jan 2020
Has written
Your biography

And It's always
Who have to

Even as
The third person
Genre: Inspirational
Theme:  "I wonder, if I write behind the 'he', and behind the 'she' , to hide the 'me'.-Atticus
Tommy Randell Nov 2019
I'm not the only Poet
Who prefers a heavier pen
I don't have the elegance
Or the truths of lighter men

I'm not the only Painter
Who looks away to see
What hides out at the edges
Not where beauty lives and breathes

It might take a while
It might take 10
I may have to make excuses
Perhaps certainly start again

But, for sure it will get done
And you will hold it in your hands
The Me, the Who I Am
The Ordinary Man

Clumsy often with my words
No moth flirting with the flame
But yes, recording lazy circles
And despite being lame

Travelling with deceptive purpose
A Life's Walk and a good one
Plenty to want to talk about
And more than some of it fun
annh Sep 2019
Lend me your biography; your innermost-ness,
Your secret shame; your hidden struggles,
And I shall gift you words.

A language woven with silk,
Borrowed from my own unravellings,
Frayed edges, now mended.

Let me help you thread the needle,
So that you may quilt your scattered pieces together,
And, in time, find yourself whole again.

‘Words are singularly the most powerful force available to humanity. We can choose to use this force constructively with words of encouragement, or destructively using words of despair. Words have energy and power with the ability to help, to heal, to hinder, to hurt, to harm, to humiliate and to humble.’
- Yehuda Berg
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