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Lively and bustling and never stopping,
Here's filled with shadows I will never know.
Hitting and yelling as I sit watching,
it killed me before parting utero.
Explosions create when behind a screen.
Fooled into believing the romance lie,
all shadows nod, they don't seem very keen
until the sky falls and the oceans dry.
These poor shadows, victims of their own silence
pass through justice under the feet of gods,
smile disgustingly at the sight of violence,
shadows of gods, who pretend they are not.
All shadows are black, old and new and dead.
Are short eternities with humans wed?
An English sonnet
He tried to tell her she was perfect,
but she couldn’t believe him.
She wanted to, he could tell she really did,
but she just couldn’t believe him,
‘cause what she saw in the mirror reflected a much different story
than the one he was telling her.
Written on June 11, 1998
Composition number: 47
Z 7d
22
"wake me when you leave" she says
she sleeps, i watch her breathe
i wait, i write, i look at her
and grin in disbelief
JS Carie Feb 6
This is immediate
Everyday, hour
Every time, every moment
Accompanying a lack of denial
Or refusal, is a confidence
My head is level
Eyes are straight
Heart is a little off beat
Even still,
Keeping possessed by this thoughtful nature and
the usher cast for a mind under clouds
Those chords from those organs Equal
My understanding
My forecast
My disbelief
My expected
My growth
My overthrown
My burn
My yearn
But I do deny what is known
from hearing the being
And seeing what I was hearing
Held my place for seasoning to marinade and stew in
A Well rehearsed
And Tirelessly versed
Can’t deny how much comes and
what is earned
is now learned
Forever Renouncing any feels of the spurned
Laid this body down over puddles in storms
In a wonder what will form
That's the drive most important
Only the girl,
She's all that really ever matters, only this one

for her return
toleomato Feb 3
I am justly inadequate
no one knows my name
the strangers I pass by
all treat me just the same.
They never ask about my day
or if I feel okay,
we look on, all in silence
repeating yesterday.

I am justly inadequate
I work hard to be not enough
my conscience is never heavy
but my heart isn't up to *****.
My hands are warm and loving,
callused, hard and rough,
a willing heart without a reason
just never will be enough.

I am justly inadequate
I stare out windows thinking that
if I could just be someone else
then I would get a chance
to be the man I could have been
but as I am, I know I can't.

I am justly inadequate
no one knows my name.
And every time I try to laugh
I can only muster shame.
I try to smile,
once in a while,
to trick the gloom away,
but I still know that I am
inadequate any day.
AmeriMav Feb 1
You shake your head in disbelief
Cause deep inside you can't embrace
Though stirred to flight like wind blown leaf
You still insist you're commonplace

Cause deep inside you can't embrace
The light I tell you that I see
You still insist you're commonplace
While burning bright and full of glee

The light I tell you that I see
You say it's fiction in my head
While burning bright and full of glee
My compliments you try to shred

You say it's fiction in my head
I wish you knew, the truth I know
My compliments you try to shred
These seeds I plant will one day grow

I wish you knew, the truth I know
Though stirred to flight like wind blown leaf
These seeds I plant will one day grow
You shake your head in disbelief
Pantoum form
The monotone mumbling of a prayer
rumbling and memorized
i hear it
in my third eye
or my third ear
what, can't you hear?
the sounds of the faithful
who pretend to be unbreakable
but are just people
who pray at the cathedral
to a marvelous person
of which the existence
is uncertain
He who created the world
and then left us to destroy it.
unpopular opinion:
we aren't really living
but we aren't really willing
to give this false life up,
why?
you wonder,
do we live in this life
if something inspired
is on the other side
well we don't know,
we are humanity,
a mix of profanity
of hate
of ****
and a false understanding
of what we are
and what we can be
so we pray to something
that we can't see
so we are bold and confused
broken, overused.
and still we believe what we tell ourselves true
but we are just cells and atoms
remnants of cosmic dust
rejected by the universe
and I mean no offence
to those who believe in
a mighty man in the sky
but I cannot
not because I can't see him
or because I can't feel him
but because
I do not know him
and sadly
I do not wish to
call it weak
or call it strong
but I do not belong
with the saints
hung on my mother's walls
I do not belong anywhere
because I do not see
fate or luck
all I see
are the mistakes
humanity has made
and I do not know
if someone
is watching me now
write this poem
hiding behind
two sided glass
but if someone is,
I only ask of them this:
"what truly awaits us?"
a ramble
(a little controversial, and I am sorry but I just had to write like me.)
Anneli Dec 2018
I just want someone who,
above all,
craves me,
wants me,
desires me
and my perfect imperfections

A passion expressed in love,
not one that turns into insecurity
and disbelief
Scott Dec 2018
A morgue is an unhappy place regardless of time or place.
The somber few that haunt the halls often project the surroundings dreadfully.
While walking the gray tiled rooms it’s known too that we shall one day wear the toe tag.
But mortality gives way to reality and jobs are done with quiet respect for passed souls.

And then there’s the Juarez Morgue...
A hot July day and a drive through Mexican customs brought a meeting with police officials.
A body in their possession, they thought, would bring transportation home.
Calloused officials with shiny gold 45’s aglow, spoke rhythmic Spanish in their police code.

A “******,” said one and this should be fun a ride with those looking more like hit men.
A car loaded with “Madrinas,” in tow and AR 15’s laid in seats in a row.
How odd thought he in a land purportedly free and fright on passerby faces.
Cocky bravado speaking radio slang,
did drive towards the Juarez morgue.

A couple miles out a turn in and out did place them in a neighborhood quiet.
But a familiar smell in a nose did swell, and wonder of how that could be valid.
Putrefaction it was, the odor rose above as the children played gleefully nearby.
How could it be when he could not see the edifice emitting the smell?

A small octagon building, small air conditioners in four windows.
Could it be that this was the morgue?
The desert sun bright and heat overbearing.
My God this is a place of death among many living, what a fright!

The escorts did enter, the detective slowly met the front door.
He was quite pensive when sliding from light to the dark.
His eyes gone black his vision insufficient, as he started to be able to see.
A wet sounding step and a curious glance, did place his feet in crimson water.

Disbelief as the room came into focus, he saw well the visions of what belong in ****.
Bags of bones stacked they were, a femur and skull, the fully decomposed welcomed.
Four porcelain tables and bodies disabled lay upon with nary a stare.
Just shortly behind bodies piled feet high forget a tray or a gurney.

Overcome by it all he began to stall, and try to gather his thoughts.
Rank smell in his nose sent him scrambling for his cigar.
The smoke unable to cover what he did discover, his heart fell hard to his knees.

How inhuman it was to see rampant disregard for the dead.
No scalpels used to cut the Y,
a kitchen knife he could cry.
Sewed up a corpse, with rough twine of course, he regretted where he did stand.
His spine became metal his mind did reel and a new wrinkle appeared on his brow.

On some summer nights when heat fills the air, he does look up to the moon.
His mind travels back to the withering stacks, and the odor still gathers in his nose.
The years have passed by and he doesn’t know why, the memories will not fade.
Restless sleep, fallen heart, many more new wrinkles have taken there place.

A war there has broken out,
and factions viciously ****.
He can’t help but wonder what has happened in Juarez.
The tractors and the bodies they plow.
No building this time a long ditch in the ground scores of people pushed into a long trench.

He walks each day with what he has seen, which cannot be unseen.
Wrestling with himself in the bed, and covering his head.
The dead they do come to visit still.
The Morgue in Juarez left it’s print in the mind of a young fellow.

Indulge the last line if you have some spare time.  Dios bendiga los muertos de Juarez.
True occurrences.
Sara Kellie Dec 2018
The bones of the
not yet murdered,
hurriedly re-dressed
by the hands of the guilty.
Creating a cloak of invisibility
that no one can see.

Whispered words of
the guilty liars,
drowned in their own
breathy stench.
To conceal the truth
that no one can hear.

Words once tearfully written
still undiscovered.
(for time cannot heal)
that only I can feel.

The reaper knocks,
One, two, three
and I ask he call again.
Maybe tomorrow,
but I don't know why.

Poetry by Kaydee.
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