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Anais Vionet May 28
I believe most Americans are appalled at the wanton gun violence in America today.

Surely the ****** of young children is revolting to almost everyone and begs for some action.

But what can we DO about it? I mean REALLY.. really.

Republicans want to arm themselves more, while democrats use these events to ******* to gun control fantasies that either cannot pass as law or will be struck down by the courts.

I’d like to propose a real, actionable solution.

We would announce this plan in every high school in America, propagate the offer in every morning announcement until further notice:

Any young man (or woman, let's not be sexist here) who, in their heart of hearts feels sufficiently motivated (****-crazed) would immediately be sent to Ukraine where they could **** real Russians to their heart’s content.

They would only be trained if they wanted it, only be part of an organized unit if they desired it, they would be armed on arrival or they could bring their own initial arsenal if they had it at hand.

Once they achieved 200 certified Russian kills (this number is negotiable) they would be declared heroes and could either continue their good work or receive some sort of scholarship or cash.

This is just one, practical idea - you, my reader, are free to propose others.

This is not a joke, not sarcasm, irony or parody - let’s actually DO something, shall we?
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Propagate: "to make an idea known to many people”
I S A A C May 15
all the wells are empty
the wars are lost
all the children cry
but we focus on our capital instead
homeless crowd the streets but we blissfully sleep
in our egyptian cotton sheets, in our bed of lies counting sheep
praying away all the evil eyes
welcome to the end times
You always have my heart in your heart
Don’t be scared if we sometimes have to be apart
I’m always with you in your eyes and your smile
In your feet and your toes
In your ears
In your soul
I’ve loved you even before I knew you
When you were just forming inside
I’ll love you forever ‘til I’m no longer
I’ll love you beyond space and time
You have my heart with you always
You are never alone
Smile when you think of me, my love
I will always be your home
Leah Carr Apr 20
You're being watched.
3 sets of eyes bearing down on you
causing you to buckle under their pressure
They tell you to stop scratching yourself
to calm down
And don't you dare tell them to shut up
You can't be abusive
Because these people are only here to help you
It doesn't matter that they're rude
and ignore you
and don't listen
because they're supporting you
it's in your best interests

You're being watched.
Eyes like lasers
staring at your private parts
as you try to get changed
surely this is a violation of my rights
but of course
your rights are gone
along with your dignity
and your will to live

You're being watched.
As you're trying to sleep
By the very people who shouted at you
and pinned you down
less than 24 hours before
over a little hair around your finger
You shouldn't have brought that up
Now yet another flashback is crashing over you

You're being watched.
But it's only because you can't keep yourself safe
We're just here to keep you safe
What do you mean we're not good at it?
Well I know you've self-harmed without us noticing
But that wasn't me on shift that day
It's not my fault

You're in Care.
Not that you're being cared for.

You have to fend for yourself.
A Beautiful and A Bitter Shroud

When I was little, I found a magic box,
tucked under the eaves where
we were told not to go.
Something compelling about the
forbidden, triangular space,
sealed off by lath and plaster,
made me resolved, beyond curious.
I kicked and pulled until plaster shattered
and wood cracked, delightfully.
The large box was filled
with silk, organza and tulle,
the proud-worn gowns
of my mother's college days.
At those ***** she danced
in them, hair coiled up
and earrings sparkling.
It was not about the men, I knew,
but her need to be admired.
I don't recall a punishment
for opening the box
but she relented and allowed
my sister and I to put on
her finery and pretend.
We wrapped them round us
and twirled to imaginary waltzes,
stepping on long hems so many times
that  the gowns all came undone.
The rags were put away
and the room sealed up.
In my youth I recall but a few
times Mother gave in
and let us be children
or fairy princesses for a while.
Now she is old and finally
trying to wrap me in her shroud,
to make resentment drag me down
and envy of me, crippled with self-hate.
But that no longer works
and I tell her, finally grown
that this is not allowed.
I summon up pity and vague sympathy,
even if love left long ago.
I tell myself that
everyone dies alone.
I want to hug
my son's son
60 years from now.

With beauty,
and pain,
and wonder,
and heartbreak
written into the lines
across my face.

Telling him
he is enough.
He'll always be enough.
Find more @damonrobpoetry
Weddings and honeycombs.
Why do they give us the hives?
The keeper knows.

There's a buzz in the air.
It belongs to
the rudimentary happinesses:
The minor miracle of father's smile,
a morning breath of honey,
painting toy lips with
blood from mother's finger.

Deathless protagonists,
Mom and Dad,
our propolis.
They love us from afar.
They love us with what they are.

There's a buzz in the air.
There must bee!
They can't help loving
us little monsters,
who sting
and then say goodbye,
sting and say goodbye.

A linn begins to form
in the corner of their eye,
as wheat fields sway in the wind.

The innocent
and the beautiful
have no enemy, but time.

Carlo C Gomez Feb 25
In the days of seafaring yore, in a candied littoral time, my parents shared a love for wingsails; propelling their craft on the surface of gentle waters.

It was here my father navigated me into existence, by taking my mother for a long enchanted boat ride.

And like a hook and eye, they so clasped and rowed into the boundless deep. The tender rhythm of their waves stirring a rivulet that would come to be called me.

Floating in this colostrum bed underneath the heart's thicket, I settled to sleep; dreaming of cradle song and breastmilk.

My unborn hands and feet routinely practiced swimming toward the open shore; until that day when a familial voice called.

And there in the dilation of a growing current, I sprang forth; thirsting for their love from my very first cry.
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