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ConnectHook Sep 2015
Why is he Vaticanizing
when he could be catechizing ?
This silly man with a funny hat
this doddering puppet
with his dead Jesus on a stick
this irrelevant vestigial *****
this geriatric Marxist-Lite
outdated Liberationist
terminal Global Warmist;

no wonder the World
heeds his incoherent discourse.
No wonder they
listen to him
but hate the Truth.
Don't get hit by the Popemobile.
♗♗♗♗
Daniel Apr 2015
It was really a
Lazer Tag survival love story.
Two kids in a 4 year summer--
She just shot me in the end.
Bang Bang
Never understood if it was intentional,
if her gun went out of her control,
if she was sorry afterwards.
I doubt she understood either.
Novacane -- "Novacane" by Frank Ocean (Nostalgia, ULTRA)
Bang Bang -- "Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)" by Nancy Sinatra.
Serebral Spring Oct 2014
The Oppression of my people
can not be summed up in one word

A word that flies
Flies like a hummingbird

He eats soup
As I cry

he prays
As I sigh

You Do not KNOW ME
You only know my struggle

How Dare You come to me?
In your time of Need.

You need a fixin?
God Bless Juan Dixon.
SLAM poetry.
Jennifer Weiss Sep 2014
In the face of one's dreams
there are many deterrents.
The river will rush and ravage,
just go with the current.
Just toss yourself in,
don't open your
eyes. The safety
you need
is found
in the
mind.

Ebola.
We will die,
so what's the point?
Terrorism.
We can't control it,
so what's the point?
You're white.
I'm still rolling,
so what's your point?
He's black.
No factors depend on that,
so what's your point?

The point is life is a delicate process
it never stops existing,
there's some kind of progress
it cycles through birth and death
all the time. There is no sense
to fear, stress, or worry.
No sense of any kind.
Anne B Jul 2014
No similes
No metaphors
No allegories
No alliteration
No irony
No paradox
No rhythm, and no rhyme
No more stanzas
No more verses
Only
truth:
I miss you.

**2 8 . 0 7 . 1 4
It's not pretty. Why should poetry be a lie to that obvious truth? This is the truth; my body aches, and I think that writing will cure it away, forever. It won't. The world is ugly, so we should not cover up the truth.
John F McCullagh Jul 2014
These empty rooms
devoid of life,
behind a bookcase
in the hall.
This was, for a time,
our home
while the Germans
held the Dutch in thrall.
My wife since dead from huger,
my daughters in a common grave.
I, Otto Frank, the sole survivor.
Is there no one I can save?
Annelise, my dearest daughter,
Miep Gies gave me your book.
The Germans cast it on the floor
without a second look.
Here in your words I find
perhaps not all of you has died.
Here in print your words may speak
for all who suffered, all who cried.
Its small comfort for an old man,
broken, ready for the grave,
but my girl might be a symbol
for all those we could not save.
Otto Frank's discovery of the diary that would become known as the diary of Anne Frank. She would have turned 85 this year had she lived
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