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Americana is a saggy *** ***** that leaves pockmarks in the sheets and sludge underneath the handles in the bathroom. 


The staff either don't or can't clean it. 


Lazy or honest. 

What a legacy. 


Her steel sheds and high hanging water towers peppered with rust stains, harken to the diseases that claimed this body long ago. 


Waylaid by a bygone era of chauvinism and supremacy.

***** by billionaire promises and suffocated
by his Bible's belt. 
 


Autoeroticism is a blood red state gasping for hot wet air in its own existential twilight.

Never to rise again. 


Your labyrinthine streets shaded by overgrowth and cracked freeways. 
 


Your dirtbrown waters and fenced in dogs.

They bark at the sky, screaming of the same stir crazy psychosis that's infected everything else within your borders. 


Beneath your clothes. 


I can see your long drooping *******, caked with the inky milk from long gone reserves. 


Black gold drained. 
 

Powdered milk of a different sort. 
 

Victim to the greed you've coveted and ****** on. 


Hard. 
 


*****. 
 


Fast. 
 


Loud. 
 


Your tragedy is vaguely romantic, 

in its slumped and defeated stature. 


Vericosed stilts stuck in the sewage and mud of your ideologies. 


No, we cannot go to bed together. 


I'm afraid of what the blood test would come back with in the dull diesel smoked grey morning. 


Something I've come to know you for. 


The sun sets red as the corners of your eyes. 


Who ever said an apocalypse had to happen suddenly? 


Your broken bones and hip strapped cattle calls. 


An auctioneer in the distance. 


The proud cliche of a lie laid Western Lore. 


The hot irons of pride in your sockets. 


You can't even see how hard we're all laughing. 


Only a few of these tears are for you.
I wrote this while driving through Huston for work. Suffice it to say, I was not a fan.
Henrie Diosa Sep 11
some folks in this department
are really full of it —
a curse on those who use my poems
for some didactic ****

but blessings on the amateur
who reads, and reads again
and travels where i’ve never thought
to go, or never been

within the walls, between the lines
to make a hidden way
and use my words to say the things
i never thought to say

to make a subtle gradient
between the truths and lie —
and turn me over in my grave
that i may slower die
This is a poem about how I want people to overread the hell into my work after I'm gone.
Sungmoo Bae Aug 26
Say it to me, baby,

that you want me, still,
after all that I've done to you,
and only.
    
I hear you breathing out hot
- lying flattened on the cold floor -
even after the hard bruisin'

you've gone through - swell, it was.

And I wrecked such havoc on you
all because I care for you,
nothing more, nothing less.

I beat you up swell
to get you in a better shape
just like a sculptor

beating his stone
into the shape of David - bare naked.
I'm modern Michelangelo, so to say,

and I want you
to whisper to me
that you crave me,

    that you desire still
    such tyranny of mine
    even more. So just say it,

for your perfection
and a sheer thrill that follows
- all these, right at our hands - are so close.

    Wicked as it is,
    my whispering to you demands it.
If interested, you can also visit my Facebook page as well:
https://www.facebook.com/sungmoo.bae.3

(C) Copyright: Saul Bae
KHAYRI WOULFE Jul 18
Maria Ressa, ano'ng problema?
Ba't hanggang ngayon, mukha pa ring lamanlupa?
Nagkakalat-lagim sa mga balita
Mayro'ng yayari sa'yo.


Ito'y kuwento ng....
....isang BULATE,
TUKMOL sa umaga,
TUOD sa gabi,
Pisngi man niya'y punuin ng kolorete
Mukhang BANGAW pa rin, walang silbi
Ibaon na ang IMPAKTA.


Maria Ressa, ano'ng problema?
Bakit mukha pa ring nayuping pugita
Mga galamay mo panggulo sa media
Mayro'ng yayari sa'yo.


Ito'y kuwento ng....
....mga payaso
fake news sa umaga,
fact-check sa gabi,
mukha nila ay sintigas ng adobe
bungo naman laman ay kamote
Ututin pa ang bunganga


Maria Ressa, ikaw ang problema
Hilig **** magkalat ng maling balita
at kapag sinita biglang magpapaawa
#DefendPressFreedom kuno?!


Ito'y kuwento ng....
....mga bulate
walang voter's I.D.
banyaga kasi
bida-bida, sumasama pa sa rally
wala namang bilang, hindi noypi
i-deport na sa kangkungan


Maria Ressa, walang problema
kahit maglaho pa tulad mo sa media
Marami pang ibang magbibigay ng balita
Walang manghihinayang sa'yo


Ito'y kuwento ng....
....mga bulate!
Date
15 July 2020

Copyright
© Khayri R.R. Woulfe. All rights reserved.

Note
This poem criticizes a public figure, an act that is within the scope of free speech and shall not constitute harassment.
Inspired by Magda of Gloc9/Rico Blanco.
We are asked to be nonjudgmental,
for the failures of others especially the aged. Even when they have wasted their whole life with foolish acts. How are we to blame when they have failed to understand the game. Angered at our positive criticism public turn against us.
This attitude of the crowd spoils the chance of at least one fallen mend his ways. The ladder to survival is steep and long making it difficult to hang on. We trick our mind into believing in fate convincing ourselves with words such as that's his fate non can change.
Micah Green Jul 8
An unloved soul travels a great distance to find peace within itself
It flickers and flatters as it cries for help
This soul may not be so deserving of love
Nor a sweet chocolate dove
But it continues to travel in hopes to redeem itself of past sins



The soul sits in a crooked closed cabin
Waiting for the love to come in
Though it is the soul that needs to come out of its miserable shell
Until then it will always remain in a emotional hell
Unable to repel the hate that dwells
As its feelings swell
Its mind becomes unwell
It has lost any indication
whether or not it's on the right trail


Until a loved soul feeling well comes upon its trail
It opens up the closed cabin as it hears the cries for help
It comes upon a soul very deserving of love and gave it a hug
It traveled a great distance to give peace to the uneased
In hopes to cure it
In which it would succeed
An unloved soul traveled a great distance and found an undeniable hope
And at last it can finally breathe
I am working on this poem I don't think it's that great as it is now but I think it has potential can you guys and girls give me some constructive criticism. Thank you.
michael Jun 22
We spend our days watching, by the hour,
The Kardashians in their ivory tower

Fifty-one million one can make,
And yet from the poor we continue to take.

With another tape, they could make more
Here men are, paying, preaching; “she’s a *****!”

Punter, performer; why is only one disallowed?
Sexes sin equally; Mz Davidson would be so proud

But a role model she is! Some also bark.
What about Wu Zetian, Zenobia, Joan of Arc?

They are lost, not as important as ingot
Instead we’ll recall Weinstein, bigot.

Stories of their tweets dominate the BBC
But where is the plight of the LEDC?
Marissa Jun 15
How can you bare to look at yourself in the mirror?
To claim that cheating face — the one that spit out irrevocable lies — as your own.
As you stare into your smoldering eyes, all you find is an eternal disgrace of your name, your family, and your humanity.
Not even a hero could locate the dignity that been retracted from every source in your body.
In essence, you represent hopelessness.
The pitiful source where we must never direct our wishes to.
After years and years of crumbling, your process of collapsing has begun, but only to suddenly end in a silent thud.
A noise that will never be recognized by the ears of mankind.
You are your own worst critic.
I will take the truth from your lips
And kiss the pain out of it,
Till all that remains
Is our happy little lie.

I will take the love in your gift
And throw away the wrapping bit,
Revealing the gains:
Our happy little life.
Not sure what this means but it sounded nice in my head.
Dez Apr 24
I am not
I am not
I am not
I am not
I am not
I am not
I am not
                         OR SO THEY THOUGHT
They nearly had me convinced
But then I tried
And found a different side
So from now on I'll always try
Even if I don't know why.
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