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Bardo May 25
Well I guess at this stage of my life
It's unlikely Fame will ever find me
Guess I must have missed my Boat,
    sailed off without me
Must have missed my Train too, left
    me standing in the station
(Did I ever really want to go anyway ?)
Probably missed the Bus as well, by
    the look it.

I guess you might say things are
    looking kinda bleak
But y'know, I've been thinking...
    maybe...what if...I wonder ?
Supposing I was to spice things up a
    bit
Add a little controversy to the mix
Like a mischievous Madonna or a
    Prince (R.I.P).

I read somewhere once that some
    artists before they can create
They gotta set a scene first, gotta
    create an atmosphere, a certain
         ambience
So they do weird things, they light
    candles, burn incense
Put on strange music, wear strange
    outfits of clothes.... a favorite hat
         whatever !
Helps put them in an altered state of
    mind.

But y'know Me! No! I don't need to do
    any of that
Me! I just like to keep things simple
    yeah
Me! I just like to, well, I just like to do
    it in the ****
No!!! Not when I'm in the mood
In the ****!! IN THE ****!!!

Yea, I like to get it out when there's no
    one about
There's nothing I like more when I get
    through my front door
Than flinging my clothes off
    everywhere
My knickers they land on a picture,
    my pants their down the hall
My shirt's up on a lampshade, my
    vest's up on the wall
Gotta bare my body before I can bare
    my soul
I like the freedom it affords;
And like a Scotsman and his kilt
I like to wave it around a bit
Till I'm ready to take my seat, my
    Muse for to meet

Descending like some beautiful
    winged Pegasus from the sky
I wait till she alights, then I surprise
    her
I jump on board and ride her
Rising way above the Earth, the two of
    us
Wild and free, with nothing at all
    restraining me
Together we traverse, yea! together we roam, the wondrous skies of the
         Imagination
Like some incredible!...amazing!...
    Lady Godiva!!!

Wait a minute! what's that I hear
    outside my door
A Big Ship's ****** a hollering, a
    Train's whistle a wailing
A Bus's horn too, beep beeping... all
    furiously sounding
And jostling with one another to get to
    my door
Man! Their coming so fast I think their
    gonna crash into one another
All wanting to take me away with
    them, take me away from here
And promising me all kinds of crazy
   wonderful things....

Just goes to show.... But remember
It ain't lewd and it ain't rude
To be a Dude who likes to write in the
    ****
In fact... in fact, it's quite cool
(actually it's very cool Brrrrrrr....hey!
    someone shut that door!).
A bit of fun. Would do anything these days for Fame or Infamy, anything to get me off the old 9 to 5 treadmill. A poem about, well, freedom. Next time a politician speaks of freedom, you can smile knowingly.

Lady Godiva, legend has it rode naked thru town as penance for her husband's harsh taxing of its inhabitants. No one was supposed to look at her, but one brave soul named Tom did, hence the term "peeping tom". And not many people know that. (read this somewhere on the web whether true or not).
Madison Feb 28
Every day

Is Judgement Day

Here in Purgatory

Where we weave

The End Times

Into our bedtime stories.


We stake claim

On what is ours

Sign our name

Cross our T's.


We seek approval

From higher-ups

Yet care not

About earthly kids

Or the lives of trees.


You see, though we're large

We care about the little things.

That's what makes us pure.


Should you tell us otherwise

We'll let you burn below

For sure.
Matthew Feb 21
d
o
w
n

she goes
falling
and
stabbed
   b    y   her
jagged mistakes
cutting open the skin
and watching the blood
drip
down her
blue skirt
the ground is getting
closer.
She looking toward her painful
future
with
wide open eyes
hands together
nodding
praying for the water to run gold
someone else to grab her away
miracles
are gone
or
never existed

ground
Grace under pressure
Jordan LC Murphy Sep 2018
Let's be positive and not talk about death.
.....
abby Jul 2018
when I was a young girl I was raised to believe that a man in the clouds always watched over me
watched over me with all knowing sight as long as I prayed to him every night
as long as I blindly worshiped this being I would be happy and healthy and free
but what is freedom when you are alone in a faith that prohibits the dark unknown?

"I am a jealous God," he said, for I was taught to be meek
having faith in what I see is blasphemy
for a fruitful life on earth, my soul I would sell, if that did not sentence me to eternity in hell
spitting, burning demons aflame
forever tortured in this everlasting game
beaten and bruised and ****** below to a place that no one would choose to go
but He loves me

"you must look well, clean up, wear your dress!"
in order to avoid loneliness
you must follow these ten rules
he ignores the world's strife despite his tools
but He loves me

why do we not thank our doctors and mothers?
we thank God instead of the works of others
what has he done? he sits there and stares
he sits and laughs at what is not fair
but He loves me

he needs time
he needs money
he needs blind faith
he needs me to sacrifice my soul
he needs me to sacrifice who I am

...but He loves me
if this poem is offensive to you, don't worry, it offends me, too.
Eve Estelle Mar 2018
Seventeen,
Seventeen,
Glean the knowledge from the scene;
A tale written, read before,
Something's wrong, but something more --
Fear the nightmare, fear the dream,
Nothing stops at this machine;

Grasping rule yet leading blind,
Law will bind no bleeding mind
Intent on death, and peddled lines
Stray from course to fell the fruits,
As Red *** seeps through poisoned roots.

Mockingbird, mockingbird,
Tell me all the things you've heard...
They don't like it, so I like it,
I am like the mockingbird.
*Last stanza is meant to be italicized

This is sort of one of those feels-like-a-first-draft pieces, but I'm going to leave it alone for a while. If there are any parts that stand out to you as needing improvement, please don't hesitate to mention them!! Thank you!

[This poem covers some controversial aspects of the recent gun debates in the US, and expresses my personal views. You might not agree with me here, and that's perfectly fine. In fact, I encourage you to voice your own thoughts and opinions below, assuming we can all remain civil.

All sides have valid points to make on this issue. That's why it's such a difficult problem to solve. But discussion is good... Discussion is necessary. Constructive debate is the fuel for forward progress.]
jdotingham Sep 2017
I saw sentiments destroyed by coffee cups /....& cigarettes buds, smoking and drinking humans with homosexual dollars /........& politically correct (preaching "we hate haters") glugs.
/....The irony of a peaceful aggressive takeover, indulging in anonymous opinions, within the settlements of cloudlike-toilet-cubicles - in a vandal's wet!dream.
/.^Crouching in the corner shining red-pill-truth in a blaze of pop- cultured filth. /.....The one way to **** a hipster is to drown it in the mainstream... unless they retaliate with positivi-tea (I mean cynical- coff/ee). **** me, taken literally, this is the Saint Vulture! of **** Culture
of a feed,
scroll till you bleed,
cry till you plead,
cut till you flee,
dopamine doses are what you need,
documenting minuche weight loss on your placebo screen,
pananza you fiend.
<3
jdotingham Aug 2017
I once heard the term tower block: described as great blundering gateways to the skys. People crammed in rooms filled with smoke from dope and great drama from these square living quarters. Each the same as the last, numbers and letters ascending upwards like the building itself. Living, breathing concrete. A murmur of excitement from its occupants, groaning about their rat race over a beer. Or two. Or three. The numbers don't matter. The letters of their names don't. To everyone else, they are this homonymous crowd of no-be-s. A reality show no one watches. Gaunt faces. Shaved heads. ****. Ripped and muddy trackies. Stunted heights. Loud voices. Everything to say, yet nothing at all. Nowhere to fall except when they implode and throw themselves off the tower block. The tags of colour at the tattoos found on the people themselves. Tagged with names. A source of identity in these rooms of complex similarities. Right now the streets are empty. I look up and imagine the stories of their lives. The ones never told. The ones ignored by the higher class, the sophisticated writers, the people who'd look the other way. They exist. In numbers and letters. Ages and names and places. This defines them. I should maybe write this down. Maybe not. Maybe I should set the bottom on fire like a *** and watch it become a towering inferno, maybe then people would take notice of these stories. As the fire climbs and traps people who have nowhere to fall apart from by jumping off the side. Then again, identification would be a mess. Everyone is the same in this building. With different stories, so they tell me. Tower block, just a concrete furnace of numbers and letters and numbers and letters and stories told before and that will come2b. It's not the only one, but only when we burn do |people take notice|
note: character perspective of Lucien Abbot.
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