Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
kiran goswami Jan 29
I cook my food on the flames of broken hearts and hatred
Boil my water on the heat of agony
They ask " why does it taste so well? "
Once again the bullets fly
Once again the chldren die
Once again the parents cry
Once again we wonder why

When will we all stand and say
The problem is the NRA
And all the congressmen they pay
To turn their heads the other way.

We need to all stand up and shout
All together we’ll have clout
We need to organize a rout
And vote the slimy ******* out
I was too angry to post this earlier, and the format didn't seem solomn enough.
Savannah S Mar 2016
a soft glitter, stream
out like a

I felt it! I
felt the ailment.
And all I could
see was red.

suppurate, seethe,
writhe and let me
see your teeth

I take it in
moderation like
waves in the current

news on the
block, guillotine ---
shock me, put the stickers

And all I could
see was red.
Liam C Calhoun Aug 2015
The wind cried jasmine and “east,”
Past the muddied waters
And mass graves tortured
Past the rasps, taunts, tortures,
And gasps bereaved,
So much so and so could I.

Set and to sail,
I could feel the tumbleweed
Sting my toes, with each and every
Bitter step; One more sojourn
And seeking the earliest unknown,
A celestial sort of gallant,
Faceless and opposed,
The awkward, “welcome home.”

Come earlier, come Mexico,
She’d scarred my stomach
With love, a newer sort of sear,
Notarized the scar I still carry
When I drown at five past four
With the deafening scent of
Mescal and torpor
Atop my tongue.

It’s upon hot nights,
Like this very one, that
I imagine the Melons of Reynosa,
Succulent, a summer night, with
Stars stained sorrow, strayed me,
Stayed you, and fled I did,
Taken to bamboo, and forever’d,
The newest resident, “away.”
The first love's hot; but then again, "hot," always burns.
M Eastman Mar 2015
It's soft white alabaster but
a little dingy from overuse
hinting it's age with a bit of staining
around its curved spout
condensation dribbles from the lid down its azure twisting floral patterns
hissing it's boil with a pitched
My thoughts made abstract

— The End —