So what if I die today?
The strange blue and green marble of chaos keeps spinning
The meaningless beings of hate stay floating
The sun and moon rise and set day in and day out
The broken cries of that starving child still cry and shout
The bullets keep flying and the bombs keep dropping
And as much as we'd like to leave our marks on the world
The world always forgets and moves on
Down the same destructive path
Over and over
And over
Until all our marks fade away
Till there's nothing left but
dust

Another cynical poem by RH. It's strange though because the RH I know is both cynical and hypocritical and basically a walking contradiction. She's pessimistic yet believes she can help change the world for the better and leave her mark and I have no doubt she'll do just that just like all of you wonderful people will one day accomplish your goals as well. Happy writing ~BM

Learn to let go
Ive always been so inconsiderate
But only it you consider it
Learn to let me know
If forever is legitimate
If not let reconfigure it
Become indulgent I've
Strive to let the in between
Become me
Should it die or revive
The median or mean
Animal me
Dip into cynicism
Mental anguish
Bang to the brain
I'm awake in hypnotism
The main dish
A plate in no stain


Sigh

Copyright Matthew Marquis Xavier Donald
7/5/2017
11:23pm

The cynical kids with their cynical minds
and the rebel actions, are just looking for distractions
you can't see it cause they mask it
but they're hurting in their hearts.

You won't let them be
cause you don't understand
you have never been so low
that you start drowning in the pain
but they have,
and they feel dead inside
so they spray paint your walls
and break the windows of your cars
so they can take their minds
off of the things that kill inside.

NUMB SELF.
Yozhik Apr 26

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.
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