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OpenWorldView Oct 28
An Orwellian term
used by self-righteous hypocrites
hiding behind a cloak of morality.

Wake up.

Political correctness controls the narrative
by shaming and suppressing.

It forces upon us
the “one true” ideological orthodoxy.

It eliminates decent and
makes people lie and self-censor their words.

Stand up.

We must allow others to speak
and voice their thoughts.

Some might be ******,
so let’s expose their faults.

Some might be outrageous,
so let’s pause and defuse.

Some might be hurtful and mean
so let’s self-reflect and steel ourselves.

Speak up.

Political correctness leads to sameness
contrary to the individualism
it pretends to protect.

It is a road into slavery.
First the slavery of your mind
and later slavery of your body.
Open dialog and discourse instead of laws and restrictions which put chains around words.
Ken Rafiñan Aug 5
Her flamingo feet flinging,
tipping, and kicking men into a flutter

It’s them or me—that thunder; I’ll ******.

I’m stirred up and monologue-ing:
smoky lungs deeply stroking hot fires freely stolen.

Exhale, esteemed son.

******* then concentration:
spot all the dealings—
drop-top feelings.

Our collective discourse;
collaborative, of course.

Force a real proper steal,
and linger on a plate we should sit down to, chew, perhaps do a few…
clarinets blow.

Meditations of the wise ones on the side:
low-key surmising ways to go in—
flipped-up mentality—
and come out: hot pop quality;
positively in great quantity.

Society watching the mood I’m mixing: an addiction
feeding her every volition.

Feeling just a little out of place
in that space—
convicted of an ****** condition.

Shaded off-site: centered.


That cocktail’s swooping in slyly,
then creeping on hot.

No choice but to vibe to it,
ride through it,
and arrive at a certain point.

Cursive lines make me curse the times
where there’s nothing left
except rational satisfaction.

Her lips unfold—were they really yours to hold?

Choose: tonight or tomorrow?
Sleep or sweep her off those feet?

Slowly dose it.

Easy swinging,
steady hanging;
chasing wonder.

Always the smell of rains
staining them wavy blue.
Someone said to me once
that "you have to have empathy
to be a true poet."
     You have to have empathy
to be a true person.
I said that.
Ken Rafiñan Apr 8
She was red-light flawless:
districts of ephemeral perfection luxuriating on along sensual stretches.

The unmistakable presence of a woman;
some sense of the sublime:
its invisible edge cleaving my being wide open upon its passing.

The glitter of her dark eyes
a secret signal
tempting me toward sensual settings:
situations whose scents pull on plots pushing potent agendas
and explosive endings.

Ancient intersections awash with new blood;
a warm awakening of an almost forgotten biology.

Our contours resolve an oft-imagined samba.

Her hourglass orbit caresses kisses all over our angular philosophy;
some sympathy—
for the existentialists transpiring in all of us.

A distinctly human complexity that’s haphazardly indignant,
and disturbed only by the tediousness of interstellar transmission.

Into a feathery instability the thread digresses,
then back to hormonal flushes it fluxes,
and by its muscled materiality it flexes.

From ingress to egress:
defined by an awkward acceleration
of her truth’s unrefined relativity:
its complicity
in multiplicity
a welcome duplicity.

Pause: a space apropos: somewhere between ellipses and apostrophes.

A much need riposte from a feminine intensity most imperative.

Tomorrow is another day
and also a night:
further discourse in the eternal struggle
of leaving that her,
losing this me,
and living as we.

The de-territorialization of our skin maps out a dystopic equilibrium:
a chaotic futurescape that only the likes of our they can inhabit.

A final monolith reads: The Grand Narrative of Us.
*Filipino uses the gender-neutral "siya" to refer to a human agent-object.

This ambiguity is the space that the implied actors in this scene inhabit.
Julian Delia Apr 2
You are
My heart’s invader
An enabler
Of its desire to open up to you
Drawn to you magnetically
A living soul
Filled with passion and love
A spirit that is elevated.
This iron heart rusts
A corroded tool
Left in disuse, its owner played like a fool
Yet, somehow
The world isn’t such a terrible place
When I hold you in my arms
And gently caress your face.

I don’t know
Whether this insatiable need for your touch
Is sustainable
Whether or not
It’s a future that’s attainable;
I don’t know
Whether we will always be good for each other
All I do know
Is that I never want
To let you go.

This feeling was once foreign
A concept whose origin
Was swallowed by the sands of time;
An Alexandrian library’s worth of loss
An ancient civilisation’s ransacked ruins
Covered in moss.
Yet, somehow
To destiny I must bow
As I attempt to comprehend
This newfound emotion
Of wishing the hours would never end
When you are here.
I am now handing you
The keys to my heart’s kingdom;
This “falling” in love
This attachment
This instinctive need
To drink from your fountain
To greedily gorge myself in those moments
To relish your soul flowing through mine -
A chill goes through my spine
As I consider this…
The night
Doesn’t feel the same
When I don’t see you.

I don’t know what else to say -
I have been afraid of this day
For I don’t know how you feel
This is surreal
I find myself in a daze
Trying to fathom
How you get through the walls of ice
How you have me coming back like a vice
It hasn’t even been that long
Yet after being with you, my heart breaks out into song.
I am fearful of this day
I will never regret
Being real with you
This is who I am
This is how I feel about us
It is undeniable
The chemistry is indescribable
A surge of current
Polarises my insides
Every time
These two wayward souls meet
So, no more shuffling of feet
I am playing all my cards
Summoning the power of the ancient bards
To bring you this poem’s clime,
With one, last, hopeful rhyme
And the following words:
*“I love you.”
What can I say - the heart wants what it wants.
Lacey Clark Feb 19
"There are two types of people in the world," he laughed after a heavy swig. I laughed and anticipated a mindless reply.
"Those who are pens, and those who are pencils".
An eye-roll dismissed the statement but a curious brow stayed in place.
"All I'm saying is that some folks have a certainty about them. Everything glides off their tongue like cursive dipped in black ink".
I thought of where I might fall on the spectrum.
Imaginary conversations series...
Aaron LaLux Dec 2017
As the sun,
starts to slowly rise over Sydney Harbor,

I stand alone,
looking out over the balcony & wonder,

why do we feed,
our future seeds,

poison in everyday things,

the ointment,
is the poison,

we focus on nonsense,
instead of what's important,

everyone on their laptops & phones,
feels like Attack of The Clones,

with skeletons in our closets,
& a backpack full of bones,

in pain from it all,
but when we complain we're fed Tylenol,

administered drugs from sinister thugs,
Woolworth’s is the main culprit,

we’re all going under,
& we probably all deserve it,

we’re all in trouble,
with nowhere to run to,

where will we go,
when we finally come to,

nowhere to hide,
from the Light of the Sun rise,
& this is the truth,
even if it doesn't sound right,

come to,
your senses,

we are all our,
own worse menaces,

tooth aches head hurts,
maybe I should see a dentist,

& I'm sorry for insulting you,
but the worst part is I meant it,

feeling all jolly,
all dressed up in our splendor,

wandering around all jaunty,
wanting to congratulate The Inventor,

for the exponential growth,
that’s occurred,

from obscure to a buzzword,
in less than a lightyear as space blurs,

& I wake up,
still awake from the night before,

to the lights of the Harbor,
upon a building built on a concrete shore,

in a city called Sydney,
built by criminals & slaves,
but I'm singling out Sydney,
because America was built the same,

as the city's lights slowly start,
to give way to the sun light,
of the new day I give praise,
& thanks to *** for this fun life,

for this one night,
that felt like a lifetime,

gone now luckily I wrote some lifelines,
which I disguised as lite rhymes,

when really they're the right rhymes,
to free any imprisoned mind,

because the ship is still sinking,
but you’re still at the bar drinking,
& you're starting to get this feeling,
you've been caught & you start reeling,

& no one else is there,

no other drunken patrons,
everyone else is gone,
& you'd go too but you haven't a home,
no one's around not even a waiter,

and that’s when,
you discover these,
proverbs under the cover of these words,
& you find they're your savior,

as time tick-tocks,
you kick rocks like Kid Rock,
getting kick backs,
until you find right there,

that the Tic Tacs,
that you kicked back,
are actually a syntax of medicinals,
candy disguised as Lifesavers,

& just in time,
you find these quotes before you choke,
to get you to the right life boat,
now that’s what I call a Lifesaver,

& once I take note,
that you’re safely to shore,
I turn to go,
up Heaven's Elevator,

but before I go,
I give you one more quote,
& simply say to you once more,
“Goodbye For Now you can Thank Me Later.”.

∆ LaLux ∆

from The Sydney Sessions, available for FREE worldwide here:

on kindle and paperback here:

Available FREE through the link.
Shane Willey Nov 2017
She feels all alone
This feeling is prone
Nothing can change this
Not even sweet bliss.

Aye it may work for a short while
But life is like an unfair trial
A *** sits with unbearable wit
All his plays seem to fit.

What can she do? Is there anything?
Such a struggle, when clipped was her wing.
Falling falling spiraling down,
Off his head falls a golden crown.

He's lost the one valuable force
All because of one small discourse.
Gone gone, distant, afar.
All because of who we are.
What are your interpretations? I'd like to hear them.
R Nov 2017
I need to make my point
as the most righteous of them all.
But the stairway towards my soapbox
is made of living people.

Ten steps, each step a taller pile
of people I must trample
to make my point.

I take the first on an older man
as the bones of his spine ***** against
the rubber padding of my florsheim shoes.
The next upon a pile of women weeping.
One of them is pregnant, so I make sure
to avoid their swollen, plump belly
as I step upon their face.
The third, a bunch of teenage boys
as I trample through their necks.
The poor, the sick, the needy,
the mentally ill, the dead, the pleading.

As I climb those stairs with solemn righteousness,
I see the final one.
Propped like fate, it's me
upon a pile made of my own family.

It shocked me to know that they had walked this path before,
and when they finished
they fell and piled down to help me make
an even taller soapbox for myself.

Nothing had changed. It hit me then.

What I advocated for, was only to keep things the same.

I accepted my fate, and took that final step.

Aren't I brave?
Hannah Jones Nov 2017
I won't pine for you.
You may satisfy for now,
but this isn't real.

You are beautiful.
I reach for you, though I know
you're not what I want.

Spending time with you
fills my heart with so much joy
but I'm still empty.

There's a gaping hole
where I try to keep you, but
you don't belong there.

I want something more--
more than you can ever give
in your brokenness.

You're not perfect, love,
no matter how hard I try
to think otherwise.

Someday I'll move on.
Someday I can love you sans
the idolatry.

We'll grow together.
We'll see what our hearts can bear
when we look elsewhere.

For now, forgive me
as I break these tendencies
to crave only you.
Friendships often go awry when I begin to seek consolation only though people. My heart has a void where I keep trying to put the love of other men, but they won't fill it. It's not their place. I need to learn how to be with my friends without hurting them/myself like this-- before it's too late.
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