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Francie Lynch Nov 2020
We've never heeded warnings,
We surely won't start now;
Because we ate from a blissful tree,
We're mopping up our brows.
They witnessed a smoking Vesuvius,
Yet went about the day;
We mark washed up bodies
From distasteful lands,
With arms wrapped round each other;
Signed Versailles to end a war,
But postponed it instead;
Ignored the bottle's label,
Drank whitener before going to bed.

We're blinded in Casandra's world,
Ignoring words of peril,
Uttered for our good.
Eric Babsy Oct 2018
Is the moon not hung right tonight?
Can you not just help make me the world bright.
Oh no it is not bright.
Too much not to take a life.

The victim is not right.
After all heat of day.
All the others went away.
You were the one who stayed.

Help me in this fight.
Because the odds are not in my favor.
Is this alright.
The kind that cures wild behavior.

I need to have a little time to get adjusted.
Because the doors open.
Then the bolts are busted.
At risk, for a heart I am hoping.

Just give me time.
Time to not waste and throw away.
In myself just what I find.
Now on the ground I lay.

The victim of another day.
Can not throw it all away.
Soon maybe I will see.
Forever a victim I cannot be.
Routine -- a dastardly habit fed
to control you, and your mind
give your body a boring rhyme
to dance to and not feel tempted

into the lands of chance and reason
letting you decide when to wake
when or how you take your break
because to trust your dedication is treason

and foolhardy, why they must train
you when to go to bed and when to wake
and of course how you should operate.
Oh all the things to teach your brain

but like bleeding out a poison, time
is always on your side, for nature
she likes things the way they were
your natural rhythm, denying it a crime!

That is her insight, as you sit awake alone
the clock ticking faster than before
the coming day a dreaded chore
your days spent sick now like a precious stone.

How is one supposed to go to sleep at night
when they know what comes with day
the hum drum, daily toil and you left to fray?
This is the story of man's modern plight.
Unpuresoul Dec 2014
I may not post poetry all
The time, but when I do
it's from the heart and I stop my fall
I hope I make you feel the same too

    I will not live forever
this fact I have accepted
but my words do not endever
my fears aren't of death but loss protected

    My faith is not questioned
My trust is un-shooken
pain I have sustained is not treated
the wounds gape and are unforgiven

   In pain I seek salvation
But I dare not ask for I fear
not of death but to find a solution
the solution to depression and Find
                         *THE CURE
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
angry men who do not know I do not have a dollar or a cig to spare. Ugly irrefutable contagion-handed howlers. Angry mischievous heathens that pantomime on 6:00a.m. sidewalk, Wicker Park gallow stop-sign, choreographed gutter-punk drunk walk. And of all he wants and could ever want splits down his gooey membrane brain in the outline of a noun shaped fragment of a clause, "Couldja spare 80¢ for the train," but of course I don't spare on the ellipsis or the period. Semi-colons I won't! My rubber-bottomed leather boots lash out, heavy scraping sounds trail this mirrored shadow half an angle behind me.

*****!! Blonde framed sunglasses from American Apparel, a gift from my sister in a folded Ray-Ban case is scattered on last nights bedroom floor, my girlfriend has certainly not noticed, the gloom-coated morning sun spray has not noticed; but I have unzipped a fissure in the ocular lens. My heart skips a beat. Her bedroom might as well have swallowed them whole. Now the house can halt and have the shade, swaying in Spring air in 10:22a.m. shadows. The aviator himself Howard Hughes would strike me with his 488 aircraft. Edwin Starr in his invincible sinister calypso of War would turn me round. I was sturdy as a rock until I began to forget my forgottens. These unknown unknowns I knew I needed. I'm over a quarter-century on to noon going nowhere- and quite blindly.

But then, still she could stand upright and find me. Her neck crooked, looking onward through the East, the gristly roots of rhubarb buried in her searching fingernails. She's threaded worse, and of course if I could just tell her- this is the kind of nursing which requires acute temperament and flexibility. I am thus on a journey to strike nonsense and fear from the idiotic vocabulary that put this nonsense in my head. Split through me like a butter knife into my apotropaic. Perhaps tar water could cure my ails. If not, certainly a sliver of vanilla would set me straight. Or if could just rain rain rain all day, then I'd make do without, but she is at school. My pistons are racked and nervous, and I'm not going anywhere but my rucksack stoop. I am camped in midwestern Spring soup. Fog, rain, and shade. The nightmare of day.
Inspired by William Butler Yeats 'Beautiful Lofty Things'

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