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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.
jdotingham Feb 2017
anarchy is not simply an allergy to society
neither is it simply a broken glass menagerie dedicated to insanity.
it is not a surge of a purge or a poker for the joker
by rejecting the authority of power, and violence being a impurity* of that power it can be argued:
anarchy is pacifistic
at
its
core.
d.d. #39 pt 2
this is not my personal opinion, just a little creative outburst on the subject whilst researching it for religious studies.
Breanna Stockham Nov 2016
Police killings,
Guns in classrooms,
Black lives matter,
Gendered bathrooms.
Terrorism, marriage law,
Protests, riots,
Presidential election,
American crisis.

Red, white and blue
We’re kneeling, burning.
Children watching,
Hearing, learning.

Moving backward
But seeking change,
Demanding love
But spreading hate.
Tearing down,
Demanding growth,
Impossible
To have both.

We scream so we’re heard
But do we seek change,
Or do we seek volume?
Is it passion or rage?

There's quite a difference
Between taking a stand
And demanding peace
With knives in our hands.

We are the power,
And we are the knowledge.

But we are the battle,
And we are the challenge.
Kaya Dec 2015
Is this real life? or is this just a dream?
should i pinch myself really hard so that i can wake myself up?
If this isn't real life, then man, this must be a very long and sad dream. I can't help but convince myself that this is just a dream, because this life.. or dream, is just too strange to experience, i don't know if i want to get out of it or stay in it, what if the "real life" is worse than the "dream" i'm in right now? what if life is just a dream? what if there's a whole new world of happiness that i'm missing out on?

-Kaya
Abigail Stone Nov 2015
"Pray to God. Everything will be all right."
"He'll heal you. I promise."
"Believe in Him and everything will be all right."

I gave up on my belief in God when I was in eighth grade.
I was diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety.
My family abandoned me.
My grandmother hated me.
My friends thought I was crazy.
And my arms just kept bleeding.

"Pray."
"Believe."
"God is merciful."
"Ask and you shall receive."

And I did.
I did ask.
I asked,
And asked,
And asked.
But nothing ever happened.

I have horrified my grandparents,
My aunts,
My uncles,
My cousins.
I don't believe.
And they think I'm going to go to **** for that.

Too late, I think.
I am in ****.

The depression tears away at my insides,
Leaving me a lifeless,
Empty
Husk.
It scars my arms with its sharp fingernails,
And drives my friends and family away from me.

"Oh, just pray to God;
He'll heal you."

I don't believe in God.
There is no God.
There is only a fanciful imagination.
Humans are so desperate to have something to believe in,
Something that is bigger than themselves.
So they created "God",
An all-mighty being
Who punishes the Wicked
And rewards the Good.
And so they have something.
And they create rules to live by,
So they become the Good
When in reality
They are the Wicked.

There is no God.

They say He is merciful.
They say He is kind.
They say He loves all humans equally.

That's a lie.

If there is such a thing as "God",
He sure doesn't like me.

He has given me a life
That is pure torture.
He has punished me for something I never did.
He has created the ultimate prison
For someone who used to follow him so devoutly.

And what about the others?

They say God gives no trial
That His followers can't handle.
So what about those that commit suicide,
Because they couldn't handle it.
Because they couldn't take it anymore.
Because it was too much?


But God is good to the rich.
He showers them with more riches
And more happiness
And more joy.
He gives them everything they could ever want.

Only the happy
And well-off
And rich
Believe in God.

If there is such a thing as God,
He is the God of the Rich.
He is the God of the Fortunate.

He is not the God of the Unhappy.
He is not the God of the Poor.
He isn't my God.
Victoria Jul 2015
Speak up, they say.
Even if you're against everyone.
Voice out, they say.
It's your opinion.
Don't be shy, they say.
Nobody will judge you.

I spoke up.
Menacing looks were shot.
I voiced out.
They did not listen.
I wasn't shy.
They judged me.

Controversy, be your loyalty.
Vivian Jun 2015
They will not take my gun.
Get me their guns.

I have a right to my property.
They have a duty to obey us.

It is my responsibility to stand for what I believe in.
It is our responsibility to make them submit.

I hate them.
They will love us.

I say, break the law!
Do they dare go against us?

I petition; I riot; I will not go down without a fight!
We beat; We arrest; We will not lose this fight!

Alas, I am the only one left.
One insubordinate citizen remains.

I fire my gun for my freedom.
I fire my gun for our respect.

My only defense clatters to the ground.
I knock the gun out of his traitorous grip.

I fear what they will do to my family and me.
It is much safer to be feared than loved.

I take one last act to retrieve what is rightfully mine.
I take one last act to retrieve what is lawfully ours.

Then we both reach for the gun.**
Then we both reach for the gun.
In no way taking a side; simply expressing different views in the best way I know how. Through the art of poetry.
Religion is a tool of man
But this i think you understand
God may be a memory
If mankind would only flee
And then his wrath would not exist
Religion is but a closed fist
Its been useful to us thus far
But now Allah wants us to spar
If we quit while we’re ahead
Maybe we won't all end up dead
But for those with faith stronger than an ox
To you, i salute thee, but also throw rocks
For now you have a choice to make
Do to this, mankind could break
You can worship your gods and cows
Or join me, and in human kind,
Be proud
this poem combats Christianity, Islam, and Hinduism, so if you are any of those religions please don't read, or don't get offended when you do read, the intent of the poem is to restore faith in humanity more then anything
A mass pushing into me like a great lorry
The leather jacket, the smell of the dead
The skin so shiny like a glass filled with milk,
White and whole and fattening, filling you up

But not full yet, one final blow to come
And the covering of the legs like netting,
Rips apart, an opening to another world,
Begging me, asking for it, shaking with knowing

Had you not picked the fruit from that tree,
Tasting its seeking, desperate sweetness
Perhaps i would not feel your weight as I did
And you would fall down like an infantile bundle of feathers

The epidermis, the subcutaneous layer, the blood
Moving quickly then slowly then quickly
Are you still there? I shouldn’t care
A button falls from your breast, a trickle down your cheek

The eyes, the eyes! They follow me, the train,
Moves slower as it pulls into the station
And makes one final sound, a signal,
I’d rip their eyes out and let them bounce onto the tracks like marbles

So many stains of blood and war and toil
Lie across the carriages and out onto the moors,
I wouldn’t worry,
I’ll make it clean with disinfectant and run smooth again with oil
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