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Left To Rot Jan 26
What is the right way of seeing people?
Is it as individuals or groups?

Only numbers to be added to statistics, potential predators and prey...

Are we even so smart at this point?

If the industries hadn't made us see each other just as competition, it'd be very clear
that the right way of seeing a person is as a person, period.

What kind of meaning do you even see
in living with so much hate for one of your own
buried within?
My Dear Poet Jan 23
Come, sit beside me
Grab a chair, a stool, a couch
Bring coffee and conversation
we’ll slump, chill and slouch
It matters not on how you sit
nor on, what you sit on as well
As long as you come in peace
with things to share and tell
It’s of little concern what you look like
or the accent that you leak
as long as you make a good coffee
and we listen when each speak
on a matter of personal opinion
maybe another point of view
So let’s enjoy each others perspective
and feel free to express them too
kiran goswami Oct 2021
My teacher, during the class said
"Women are Paralympians".
I had never heard a truer sentence.
Kewayne Wadley Jun 2021
Some say that life is just around
The corner,
Some say that fun is just around
The corner
But unless you’ve been there yourself
You wouldn’t understand the billboard
Above the corner store.
Although things change, it’ll surprise you
What stays the same.
What ghost appears & possesses you
One second to the next.
Barely visible labels taken down
& replaced,
Old rusted metal.
A small reminder that things can
& will be replaced.
Just through the intersection,
Just around the corner.
Some say that things just aren’t
The way they use to be.
The news broadcasts certain events
That take place under the billboard.
A mans been shot five times &
The police still haven’t responded.
Unless you’re a bear wearing a headdress
Wearing shades, & riding a dull grey bike.
You’ll search for a place to belong too,
Up high above on the billboard,
Above the corner store.
Unless you live on this side of town.
You wouldn’t understand,
Why he peddles the way he does
Jade May 2021
⚠️Trigger Warning: the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicide and death⚠️

When a person dies
of a physical illness,
you mourn them.

When a person commits suicide,
you assassinate their character
and call them
selfish

because their death is a result
of a self-inflicted action.

Because they chose to die,
right?

Because they not only chose  
to destroy themselves,
but the lives of their family and friends,
right?

But
just as a physical illness
turns the cells against the body,

a mental illness
turns the mind against
itself,
convinces it that
death
is the only option.

What you don't understand
is that the person isn't our
killer--

depression is.
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Jade Apr 2021
⚠️Trigger Warning: the Following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm and suicide. ⚠️
~
This piece is an emulation of Aesop's fable "The Boy Who Cried Wolf". Any similarities, as a result, are purely intentional, and I am thus giving credit where credit is due.
~
There once was a girl
who cut herself,
a plan by which she could get
a little company
and
some excitement.

(Or so it was presumed)

She rushed out from the
school washroom
after tearing herself open
and called out,
"suicide, suicide!”

And her teachers and classmates
came out to meet her,
and some of them stopped
with her for a considerable time.

This pleased the girl
so much,
that a few days afterwards,
she tried the same trick,
and again her
teachers and classmates
came to help.


This pleased the girl
so much,
that a few days afterwards,
she tried the same trick,
and again her
teachers and classmates
came to help.



This pleased the girl
so much,
that a few days afterwards,
she tried the same trick,
and again her
teachers and classmates
came to help—

But instead of
trying to understand
the chronic illness
that plagued her,

they resorted to an archaic stigma
to inform their judgments
on the subject of mental illness.

They believed
that she only bled
to receive attention,
and was therefore named
The Girl Who Cried Suicide
after The Boy Who Cried Wolf.

Eventually,
she wasn't allowed
to use the school washroom
at all anymore

even if she had to
take a ******* ****

cuz
it would only encourage

"maladaptive
attention
seeking
behaviours.”

Despite them never
saying this to her face,
the girl was not
stupid

and

discovered

the defamations
that had fallen from the
tongues of these
black sheep.

The Girl was so
profoundly hurt
by this betrayal

that a few years
afterwards,
as she attempted
to bleed herself dry
in the bathtub
at 3 Am
on a stormy
May 30th,

she dared not
tell a soul

for she knew
they would think
this to be an act
of deceit

a freak show
she put on just
for the ******
hell of it—

crowned

liar

in some sick,
crimson pageant.

But this was not
a game of
make-believe


no—

the wolves
had always been
there

rabid

&

howling

to the blood moon
of her mind's eye

every beautiful thought

disembowelled

the fabric of her sanity
torn from her skull

(And the veins torn from her flesh)

the wolves’ cry
a siren song

leading the lamb
to her slaughter.

~
Don’t you understand?

I am not playing dress-up

I am not the wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing
I am not the wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing
I am not the wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing

I  am

the lamb to this slaughter
~
Tell me

If it was all just for

*******

attention,

then why did I feel the need

to hide my cuts
with long-sleeved shirts

during gym class

in the summer?

Why did I start
cutting in places
Where no one would ever
think
of looking?

Why did I tell everyone I
stopped
when I hadn’t?

~
Did you really care about me?

Or did you care about
What would happen to
You
if the liability killed herself?
~
You cut me in ways
a razor
never could.
~
How could you
How could you
How could you
~
Honestly?

Go **** yourselves,
You uneducated
*****
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Josie Stewart Mar 2021
When the smear of filth spreads across the wall,
Dragged by yet another bilious hand,
I wish that they would in an instant fall,
Dropping dead in the very spot they stand.

I feel no guilt though I am not a violent soul.
I mourn the casualties of their callous hate.
Longing only to end the crushing toll,
I curse their lives and hope bloodthirsty history to sate.
I am warrior, I am free, and in flight.
I am dancing, and swaying in fight.
I am warrior, but not out of spite.
I am warrior, against a discriminate plight.
I am warrior, I am advocate.
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Penny Z Mar 2021
You tear our kind away,
those pesky weeds        
                                    that stunt
your plump full seeds  -
that steal and cause decay.
You landed by fortune,
fortune of the windy chance -
you earned it. What is different is dangerous
less valued - not worth a glance.

Warm soil in-between your fingers,
You have power here in the garden,
Pulling and wrenching the stems from
home
We’re unwanted, not needed
Not useful, not beautiful,
Not enough,
                      but too much.
                                    

Strong weathered fingers grip our necks,
Trampled under steel studded boots,
We seep into the soil disappearing,
Just like you wanted us to.
Suffocating ignored as grassroots,
condemned to be always taboo.

Weeding is good, you say.
Weeding is important.
It keeps the garden healthy, comely,
presentable.
We’re the intruders, thieves!
in search for better light.
Worn down we grieve.
why do you see not our might?

A garden improved

Standing up I arch my back,
rusty and cramped.
Tiresome work removing the
unwanted.
My hands scratched and torn,
the limp bodies neatly packed,
the garden is reborn.


The flora look uniform now
no insulting dark stems,
only the long strong boughs
of rightful King Oak,

and no more of them.


But a king without his subjects is a peasant.
With our loss fades your treasured soil,
your sterling root networks anchoring your  
flowerbeds of wealth.
We are the pests,
we stole your soil,
so why does it grow grey?
You wanted growth
I heard you say.
You can’t have both.

What a nuisance.
Us or the decay?

So I am a pest, you say?
Well, to that I say, we pests always grow.
Your tulips and rose corrode,
but you reap what you sow.
No matter the hate that spits our existence,
the sharp teeth of the chainsaw or
poisonous pesticide bidding good riddance,
we are green, and life sustaining, and we are resistant.

The aim is not good riddance,
but co-existence.
An allegorical poem on the importance of assimilation of differences rather than separation
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