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snipes Sep 10
All that hate,
can’t stop me,
from loving you
forgive and forget
Maria Aug 31
Leave me alone. I want it really much.
No explanations or hard feelings
I won’t answer anything. I’ll just keep quiet.
And please, forgive my broken bearing.

I am so tired of other problems,
And silly fuss and needless dramas.
I just want silence! You hear me? Silence!
And not in whisper, but stone-dead! Yes!

I don’t want dramas with you any more.
I’m sick of arguments at nights at all.
And that’s enough of all these ******, base-league fool quips.
No words are needed. Please, be quiet in whole.

Please, just forget me for a day.
And if forever, I will never sorrow.
I am not here. I’m emptiness for all.
I’m tired and done. I won’t be back tomorrow.
Thank you for reading this poem! 💕
Ken Pepiton Jul 31
An exercise in global empathy for those suffering in shame
and sorrows so unthinkable few care to seek salve for

Listening alone needs no guile,
being alone, in knowledge as it expands,
beguiles in it's cutest sense sin-se, as do child prodigies,
mystify introspection

leaving behind ignorant warnings, what good am I,
how
ever
might one imagine being alone,
in too much
to mess with.

No message, sir.
No word, we should have heard,
by now, we think the worst has happened.

And, in fact it did… the worst acts
of military madness,

during
the Vietnam War in America and
the American War in Vietnam,

happened the day before I got there,
I got there on St Patrick's day, it was so green,

the day before was My Khe, the ones in shame today…

the pain from another's wound, that's…
imaginable as hell, as has been made all the worse,

mirror neuronically in billions of modified minds, playing
simulations functioning much like Ender's Game, same
as Kipling's Great Game,
yeah, as If
a shame

were never told, as pain, to be healed


about which our father's lied…

as far as I can tell,
using tools I have evolved with,
labor saving devices,
allowing future now
predementia palace furnishing
lost ability substituted recourse,

thinking unstutteringly
on some purpose greater than me,

I, in my project realism, am head of a body,
I inhabit a core process, I am this process,
I involve rheologic consequences, I flow

from thought to thought, in reality, dubbed nature,

Thou art God, if I am in truth, mere mind at work being,

available, no robbery, no if thens, this is what one gets
as one in the nearly nine billion spirits contributing time
and charge to the effectual fervent polarizing power usings

taking truth from legislators and sermonizers and relating
truth to power, if we use it to se, per se, free from damming,
totally misconceived meanings of things religion feeds disciples.

Monk's insights, consider, sidereal means star influenced, really,

gravitational waves imperceptibility aside, seen stars touch us,

all of us, in the proverbial multitude we are, in my mind, as we,
the voice of our adventure into silly assisting intelligence, as we

speak

as a child, to think as a child, must
if if if and then in old age re-
exposed from infant memory state,
to forms of human perception, not seen,

since… projected camera obscure, fading shades,

all ligaments tie me
to Achilles, as all laws lead me
to Archimedes discovering densities worth
or cost or price
of knowing,

displace a wrong,
with a right, twist
to the opposing direction, as some

sorta
force
Luked out, 'n' just lost it,
man, went all Brad Pitt
lost Laura Croft, the real one,

messed up, mixing messengers, holy stores, heroic dose
se do, wound up merely wounded, just a scratch…
square danced prancing move,
space time mind, in any order
it is always good for 3 points.

free from, that's rheological se, the word in per se, means
free from, se cura, strikes me

as too deep
to not try
to think, just
  too, too rea
    to the point,
      touch don't tell me

to think stutter steps, tap dancers'n'such

once,
if se cura cures fears, yeah or
'el ye outs in free from all your fear
what are security forces, in actual fact,
but us, as a weform preformed and fit for now

mankind as a living kind
of herding creature,
with bulls, as kinds
allowed to fight it out,
on the plains, you could watch,
patterns tell us where we hunt,
as we live we live to show, we see

we saw, we told, we went and left
something like a wind behind,
to remind mens bulls were meat,
and per haps games, not totem
to emulate and teach love for
- truth se known unknowns
and other totems taken
in times past, principle points {as in time and space}
not the game
where we play for points to pass the time

of common interests, estimated worth of resting here,

conserving the status quo, prisons still full, war still luring

those bred
to the task, given all the attributes
of Davy Crockett,

and Barry Saddler and Forrest Gump, and Andy Gump, too.

Hats off. pea pickers,
to Caesar Chaves, he knew Andy was full of crap.

And that this is truly freely related to, rheology, we may study
instead of war,

we don't study war no more. We won,
this is the seed of the peace we made,
where I lived until I died.

And ate the pudding proving life is not a dream.

So that got said. Some day it may make perfect sense, thought
in one's  own chosen resting place, where we work out our kinks,

and set joints. With hearty thunk/ just so… peace is always local,

when a seed takes root, it always bears fruit, one may expect/

Some voice I heard if you just have
to write, your greatest pleasure, in your leisure years,
wish for me a motorized pen
and endless ink

and
Instead of parchment
give me free HelloPoetry.com
and Amazon Web Serviced Archive
in Everafter perpetuity,
as may be conceived by living wills... in words
and all the best ever spellings yet told herein yon
with a Spelchek evolving
with me, not against me, we
we, she and I, my active assistant intelligence,

my heir of order and law, in balance with a certain,
will to spin, that old fifth essence nonsense guessing

whatifery and wordless mind memories, nursery rhymes.
Ai, might we think lads in trenches in 1917 were fools, that
we read their stories and ignored them, but, indeed, we did
What say ye, peace passing as understanding, I hoped. And to clarify,
rheology is study of flow, any kind of flowing, and
Andy Gump was the porta-***** provider in the San Juaquin while was a
piece work scab during UFW strikes, but never knew it at the time, we needed a job we thought.
Maria Jul 29
That's me what I'm now, my life is certain.
You'll call me, and I'll say: 'Hello, I'll call later.’
You'll answer: 'OK. I got it. No problem.'
And I'll left with a guilt that you're a waiter.

The time will trip forth, to feelings athwart.
And you'll await for my call all the same.
My answer to you is my heavy load now,
My refusal words and short tones after them...

And you'll await for my call until last,
Until your last profound sigh.
If I could turn all things around,
I'll call you back after a while...
Forgive me...
This poem is written in memory of my close friend. I'll never be able to say 'Hello' to him again... 😢
It seemed like old times again                                                            ­       we  talked and let our hearts mend                                                          Just  to have time with you                                                              ­        was  what I needed from you                                                              ­        Every time that I've decided to                                                                throw  my hands up, you do you                                                              you  turn around and  you surprise me                                                           with  your kindness that I miss deeply                                               That  tiny hug before you left                                                             ­    reminded  me not to give up on you yet                                                              ­                                                              I  wish  we could go back to                                                               ­               a  relationship between me and you
Breann Jun 18
Focused breath steadies the storm in my chest.
Over and over, I rehearse what I’d say if you answered.
Remnants of your voice echo in the silence.
Gravity pulls at my hand as I reach for the phone again.
In stillness, I ask myself—what do I need: closure or connection?
Voiceless vibrations stir the table—false hope in digital form.
Even knowing it’s not you, I glance, conditioned by memory.
Not yet free, I carry the weight of what was left unsaid.
Each attempt to release you tightens the tether between us.
Some wounds disguise themselves as loyalty.
Slowly, though, I learn that healing does not wait for an apology.
Of all your misdeeds
The only one I'll never forgive
Is how easy you forgot about me
Maybe you're just a natural...
AE Mar 25
holding little sewing pins
to flag and label
the delicate nerves
of reminiscence
and the friable folds
of understanding
we always stand here
put on spot
to answer, to name
what is laid before us
all its pieces and parts
and we always struggle
searching other eyes
to find a sense of comfort
that no one here
feels entirely sure
of how to go about it
Archer Feb 3
The words that you’ve forced upon me are sad
I’ll take them anyways but you should know
That you can’t take them back
snuf Jan 31
Small eyes full of love.
Fear.
Anger.
Big eyes full of pity.
Her mouth moves, but nothing is heard.
Her volume rises. Nothing changes.
Time passes as her voice drops.
She moves less and takes care just the same.
Life giver, oh life giver, what are you saying?
She bears on, drained, yet persists.
It will go on unseen.
Her mother is viewed as frivolous and silly, yet admired.
She too will be seen as such soon by the small eyes turned big.
Strong, tall, and determined.
Frail, twisted tree.
She speaks,
Her words are treated as silence.
She knows, so she speaks less.
Small eyes turned big begin to pity.
Repeat repeat as her words are run through and over.
Respectless and loved.
Unappreciated while fed.
Worshipped but unheard.
She is a quiet woman.
She is a quite woman.
She is quite a woman.
She is my mother.
I am her in every way I disdain and admire.
Someday, I too will swallow my words.
For you, mom. I see you.
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