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S/he who is coerced
To move with
A straitjacket
Above the dead
And below the living
Is whose fate.

A horse dragging
A cart
Unable
A genuine message
To impart
In fact
No better than
A doormat
Unloading words
With a servile pen
On a bread-winner journalist
Inflicts a harrowing pain.
Covert and over censorship.The fate of journalists in the government run  media.
Madison Feb 2019
Ban me!

Burn me!

I, literature, can speak to you.


Love me!

Hate me!

I, art, can scream it, too.


Buy me!

Don't play me!

I, music, hide my meaning in shadows.


I'm not a martyr!

Don't hurt me!


...He, the artist, is sent to the gallows.
Francie Lynch Feb 2019
There, I wrote it. Above.
I simply believe it needs to be in print... out there, so to speak,
And perhaps a few hundred may read, *******,
And, hysterically, or in solace,
Make use of it;
Openly, lingusly or fingeratively,
As we do *****, ******, and ******* (tsk-tsk).
Whether you agree or not, please yourself.
Inspired by a 3-D model being used to teach French children *** ed., and the horrors of FGM.
Clay Face Feb 2019
They profit on your silence, and foster insanity
To reef your identity, and fade you to normality

Control is an abortion of instinctual fundamentality
They blind us with a bleach of hypocrisy to fade us to their normality

Gather once in number, to support the dismantling
Fate of compassionate and empathetic rationality, is threatened by a lie of social justice in pronouns and prejudice

This is an infection of our political mentality,
to allow other views to be heard only if they align within sheepish bounds of radicality

Neo-**** Ideology. What insanity
Can’t let it fester, or our dignity will be the fatality

Disgusting to muzzle those who believe differently
As long as it’s not hate, preach what you practice
Rowan Dec 2018
Breakneck words, racing around,
trouncing across the wooded tops
of long dead, roughened boughs.
Tongue deadened, heavyweight champion
without leagues to move around: breath famine;
the time of a hare loping down the barren barrow.
Sought out lungs, captivating oxygen in a symphony of
sanctioned Guantanamo iron poles.
Tense, rippling knuckles, wound round,
round the starlight of Betelgeuse
six hundred and forty two point  five light years
away.
“Away with you” patches the scabs and root bitten nails
of some lost keratin; peace—nought found.
Await the rush of overbearing insinuations
claiming now a dead solicitation.
Learning hath been done
and redone, a series of embittered eyes
collecting up images that retain singularity status.
One talk, one Breath,
It’s all bout
to change to—
something better than
the jacked up prices on petrol station boards and the lips will
no longer book it past the mind’s inconsistency, bereft of known speak.
A challenge for not the sake of self: saké drank: but for the
peace under the left breast.
Tryst Nov 2018
A *** of earl grey             -- Clay container (3)
Is the *****, they say,       -- Inclined lea (5)
From unrighteous ***     -- Turf retainer (3)
To the hand of ***.          -- Deity (3)
Ollie Nov 2018
Picture a screen
All black
All dark
All something
But not nothing.

Life and creativity is what you are
But we hide that.
You hide that.
Who are we truly if nothing is so binding to see.

The black screen.
The darkness.
The evil.

We censor our true being.
Controlled by a society where happiness is the only persuit.

Look,
Look closer at the spark in the Forest
It's you.
As we get closer, the light begins to fade.
As people watch the light turns to nothing and blackness begins to crusade.

Embarrassed by what others might think,
We close our mouths and say -nothing-
Judged is ours to believe.

What do we do?
How do we stop the pain of others?
The perception of being nothing Isn't as bad as you thought.

But listen to me,
You are you,
And I am I,
We are us and
Everything is nothing

As cracks of light appear
-We should no longer see,
eyes opened to darkness fading into light.

Believing in -
darkness and nothing

  No faith.
  No life.
  No being.
  Eyes open.

I looked up,
I saw the meaning,
The meaning of me
The truth,
The inspiration,
The creativity,

I looked down
and back up
To see the darkness.
The black screen.
It was you!
Trying to acknowledge the pressure people feel when trying to express their creativity; realizing that the things stopping us isn't from the societal pressures but from one self.
I don't want power in a poem
Just some rhyming light and whipped
With enough empty space and air
To take the place of subscript

I don't want to hear you sing of pain
I'd rather you stick to scheme
Keep rhymes in time and don't ask why
You’ve all lost the will to dream

I'd break every pen that's mightier
And fight freedom of the verse
Censor you to cold and heartless
Ensure passion’s home in hearse

I'll bleed your words dry of their wisdom
Make them all just ink on page
Dilute the work back into form
Homogenize center stage
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