Yozhik 4d

There once was a boy with the thought
a girl too meek to have fought
So despite her plea
he just took for free
What a gentleman ought to have bought

There once was a girl with a bowl
Which hadn’t in years felt full
Though less it may weigh
Heavier it lay
In her hands and on her soul

An old man came to rest by their side
Long after his poor dreams had died
For him there were tears
But reverse forty years--
For his dreams, only he cried.

There once was a magical mythical nation
Who felt threatened by half of its population
So they shot them all
And sounded the call
For a goddamn national celebration



And there once was a shield named Cynicism
Who sought strength in criticism
While it suffers each day
Bitter decay
It won’t be let down like idealism

Spencer Apr 1

it's the seventh inning stretch
and the kiss cam never works properly
but they scrabble like insects across the dirt
and shriek as they scrape their knees

starches and proteins bind
to be crunched under less than pearly whites
shrapnel flying in the wind
tinfoil scarves as a blessing from obesity's lover

they're all just seagulls
swarming to the scraps hit foul
and the notes warble across the speakers
and the sticky plastic meets sticky soda

cynics and critics and bulimics
Frank Ruland Mar 10

my Flock, welcome and goodbye, for today we ourselves will taste the forbidden fruit and come to know the gospel eden's serphent yearned to preach. we are a starved people whom hunger for more than the leftovers within our shackle's reach. this is the black sermon that for many sound like heresy, and forgive rhyme and reason, but to its own...     you're each. [SIC]kles are the tools of the hungry, but hunger is the tool of a wise man.

The first installment of an epic monologue which my brain has toiled over for the last year of my life. It is not religious nor is is about race. the black sermon is my own personal life philosophy and I genuinely hope you groove with my unfiltered cynicism.

​Compliment me

but let me be humble.

Let me accept

this honour,

and let me move past.

Past my ego,

past my desire

to be approved of,

past my desire

to be adored,

past my desire

to be validated,

past my desire

to be perfect.

I am in a safe space

now,

a space of

peace,

love,

light,

and joy.

It is my challenge

not to criticise and

not to become

cynical;

to recognize myself

in others,

and others

in myself.

It is your challenge

not to feed my ego;

it is so much more loving

just to accept me

and humour me;

to entertain my ideas,

if only for a moment;

and to treat me as family.

The more my ego is fed

the more I must challenge myself

to purge of criticism

and cynicism.

There is nothing wrong with a challenge.

Indeed,

each decision must be challenged.

Every lesson

must be tested upon.

Faith rests not upon the absence of

doubt,

faith rests upon the existence of

doubt;

the constant

and consistent

decision to move past

doubt.

Written in 2017.
Bethany G. Blicq

Like most do,
I cheered for the heroes when I was younger.
Handsome faces, elaborate costumes, the face paint and masks-
living personifications of true justice.
For the people, by the people.

I still watch as an adult.
Yet, I find myself no longer wanting
that happy ending.
I'll occasionally detest it.

The "heroes" are now a bore.
For the people, buy the people.
I cackle, even respect the "villains"
for cheating to win
or running from danger
to only back stab when opportunity strikes.
The boos from the Chorus
are the punchlines for their saga.

I don't believe this is a problem
of learning to hate your heroes
or living long enough to
embrace villainy.

Fairness is a farce.

After awhile,
it's just time and people
revealing to you
what's a work
and where you can expect to be
on the card.


© Derek Devereaux Smith 2015 - 2017

Bleurose Feb 25

Beauty is draining from the world at an alarming rate...

Nothing means anything anymore.

Sex is just a past time and not an expression of anything, trust or otherwise.

Words mean little, often biting and cruel

Society has grown jaded and water is thicker than blood.

Family keep secrets and speak not to each other, but to the masks each has created.

Friends are not true and often hard to find....

Loneliness is an epidemic, and no one cares enough to find the cure.

Within every cynic is a dissatisfied idealist.

The clouds were not shaped for us to glaze at,
Nor were the stars made for us to live by -
And that doesn't stop any wise man to ask "What
Is the meaning behind all that
Which will remain for a long, long time after I die."

The one who can deeply dream
Hides behind his third eye and soul
And watches as he'll ever be seen
By the bunch of awe inspired whim
Rebelling against their mind and souls' overhaul

Caused by insipid tyrants who control the norm;
The vexing tyrants who make the whole whole,
Obey their own laws and find themselves torn
Between a soft spot in the body of a worm
And a feral n' crazed tut whose obsessed about the form

Of the tried and failed yelp of a plan,
Which was made to fall for and believe
And no one will know how it all begun,
They'll only scout and live

Until a better time will go justified
Until the belief all find factually
To be more than a lost rectified
Romance, which is more truthfully

Told to the messed witch are mold
And let rotten from the feet
Of those creatures who're bold
And suck everything dry which can be possessed by wit.

Dumping old stuff - poem 0d
Quickly added the last two verses -
Really need to get back to this, even if it's not that good, because it feels utterly unfinished.

Isn't empathy
Just some kind
Of soul bribery
Which'll unbind
An angel off his guard
To leave his divide garden
Defenseless, with no warden
To ward off the fiend,
Whose mask is of a bard,
Who'll truly just retard
And hinder the host
Who'll in the end get lost

Among trust,
The age old lust,
Which will be used
To get the warden bruised
And the host sedated
And his guard elevated
And under it the bard will get hold
Of the divine gold,
And all which is most
Important to the benevolent host.

Dumping old stuff - poem 09
I actually don't fully hate this one either
Graff1980 Feb 1

I think there is something wrong with me
for I cannot love as deliciously
or deeply as I used to.
I cannot be swallowed by the hope of
unconfirmed fictions I once called love.

There is a still an inkling of
fierceness that wants to clench someone
so tightly to my body that we become one
wet with the desire of perpetual sexual motions.

I am broken for the shadow kin still sleeps within,
longing to uncover soft warm pale skin underneath
her tight white lacey dress, and thin white sheets.
I still long to let my fingers swirl,
submerged in a wetness of that beautiful girl
gyrating as our tongues vibrate with
the sweet sexiness of her pink part lips.

I am broken because I would let her
harness me, riding to find whatever she needs,
bending my tongue to taste
sweet strawberry juices from below her waist.

But that will never be.
I am broken because I no longer believe
there is anything less then
masturbatory fantasies
left for me.

Graff1980 Jan 29

I do not trust a happy day
My mind recalls past patterns
And each time hope has come my way
Peeking past life’s parted veil
Singing songs of sweet tomorrows
The weeks that come are always hell
As are the all the years that follow

I do not trust a lover’s promise
For they can be given so easily
I have seen certain hearts shattered
When loving to carefree and happily
I know one cannot pledge eternity
Anything can be broken even the best family

I do not trust a possessor’s passion
Cause in pursuing owner’s pleasures
I have found all things are only passing
For the taking, to give, in the asking
We all tire of the new toy
Sweet things can rot away
Adding one more item to your pile
Won’t save you from your final fate

There is a far darker day dogging me
The shadows tight on my trail
Night will fall sooner than expected
So even when I smile, I do not trust myself
Moods will change, ebbing and flowing
With the winds that keep my armor
Flapping up and down so my scars are showing

The good is just a phase
Then again I could say the same thing
About the bad days coming
Neither are permanent
Only one thing is inevitable

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