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OpenWorldView Feb 2019
This world is broken.
Hypocrisy everywhere.
But it always was.
Arpita Banerjee Jan 2019
A mutilated corpse in the middle of the city
Frothing at the mouth
A suffocating hostage
A sacrilege
A sacrifice of religious anonymity
You flow and stagnate
Making us all ruminate
What life has created
Is nothing but destruction in its wake

In the hustle of the city
You remind me of pity
Not for you
Not for your desperately dark waters
Not for your absence of tethers
But for me
You remind me how small and insignificant
Is the mind that dares to see
Dares to write
Dares to referee
Against your will to end
No destiny can revoke your decision
No human can make you bend

In your twists and turns
Your tortuitous burns
You are resolute
That the ones who killed you
Will not play the immortal flute
Or their resonating glory
Of conquering what you are

They tried to claim you
They tried to blame you
They tried to reduce and maim you
But from your eternal sleep you may never wake
The city may run
The city may burn
You will support no flora
No fauna
Rest in peace, Yamuna.
The Yamuna is one of the most significant rivers in India, a civilization that is historically dependent on rivers and attributes them a divine status. For the past few months it has been covered in industrial froth and the dark waters of the severely polluted river resemble a scene of heaven, with soft white clouds covering the deceased soul. The poem is a reflection on the ghastly vision of the transcendent glory of the river, whose waters are now a toxic propagator of death. Yamuna could not be brought back, but Yamuna's death is a protest against the vile species that inhabits its banks and turns a blind eye towards its writhing crawling tormented journey with an aching will to survive. Yamuna is lost to us forever. Rest in peace, blessed river. The human race never deserved you.
Aaron E Dec 2018
I'm somewhere in the middle.
Forget-me-nots in a pistol
tripping on thought tangents
playing a fist full.

Feeling my teeth caught,
biting deep in the gristle.

Seething a heat,
not green
not at bay to the whistle

my impatience is simple
I'm awaiting the gavel
And I'm somewhere in the middle
I fear the venom and rattle
and play the innocent *******.

beginning to wait
to watch the ending begin

approaching the line

I'm Here.

Watching the moment again
feeling cold on the fringe
seeing it blow in the wind

watching it pass
stopping to gasp
at how fast it was stolen again

seeing the difference,
between a fold and a bend

Peeling the image apart
and rolling bones for the gold
on the spin

Hoping next time
I'm not a line up of bowling pins

sitting in wait
asking the past
for a day to do over again

I'm somewhere in the middle.
Nothing’s burning. What went wrong?
No one desires the simple song
you croak out for crumb suppers, ‘cos
it doesn’t make them think of feasts.
Release the guise of competition -
like you’d ever win these heats.

Behold who placed: staid mottoes
wearing proper faces wrapped
in proper chains.
Observe their seats in proper chairs:
the owners of their stake
never relinquishing the bloodline’s hold,
impenetrable walls between the well-born
and the cold.

Who likes us? Weakness does:
tremblers demanding ones like you
to save their damsel hide. The saved abide
all laws convenient to them;
for the rest, they cut a deal,
and you’re not in it.
Be afraid of that. They ratchet up
that fire finesse and do
damage control: what dare we salvage?
Wayward cities? Idle souls?

Compress them in a tank of rigid steel
mixed by the craven powers.
I’ve got mine - don’t call it ours
(although I speak for all of you.)
We’re through if you don’t show up
at my dinners, check in hand
in sleeve in shirt in suit
on fire -
when I’m done, sweep up your soot.
Joshua Krueger Oct 2017
glass half empty or half full?
why do we even ask at all?
all this thinking takes its toll
on our society of analysis
anti-action and paralysis
it really is a dangerous thing
overphilosophizing i mean
we've fallen victim to the allure
of thinking that we can cure
anyone anything and or any problem
with enough thinking tinkering and or solving
but truly there's really got to be
more to cure the modern malady
of paradoxes and dichotomies
and meta-epistemologies
we've come too far for us to merely be
just because i think we think
if i can really only see
what's standing right in front of me
once it's gone to the periphery
then i'm positive that we'll all have been
over inacting and underachieving
for far far too long


we think too much and do too little
it's not like it's a test or a riddle
we write creeds and manifestos
but there's no credence manifested
if we don't give precedence
not to kings queens or presidents
but to becoming a society-
a people who won't go quietly
whose thoughts and bright ideas
suddenly begin to coalesce
into lives being lived
to the absolute fullest
we need something more
we need a paradigm shift
made from something much more sure
than a philosopher's two cents
but if we don't act now
if we procrastinate and wait
our dreams will just be dreams
and tomorrow will be too late
so then-
if you don't mind
instead of stopping just to analyze and think
i think i'll take that half of a glass
and maybe take a drink
I was had been awake for 32 hours when I wrote the initial draft of these letters on a page. I had just lost (yet another) job and had realized that I couldn't stop thinking. They say guys have the unique ability to think about nothing- but I've never been able to accomplish that feat. So anyway- I took the overflow of my firing synapses and spilled my thoughts onto a page. When I write, I find that I can think about anything and not be stressed or overly emotional about it, as opposed to keeping it bottled up in my mind. So, yeah. Stop thinking. Start doing.
A side note- I don't drink. The most alcohol I've ever had was probably when I accidentally swallowed some mouthwash...
Shanath Apr 2017
You see the man first
Your head above your plate,
The fork and the spoon
In your hands.
You skipped the prayer of thanks,
Or to even pause a second
To see what you had been served,
Even before the server could leave
You had your first bite through
And you could not tell how it tastes.
"You were to escape"
You used to say,
"Escape what" now you question.
Silence flows through you like blood
Must have on that man's face,
If you were courageous enough
You could have counted the slaps
That man had placed.
Instead you paused and stared
Too many answers in you mind
On how there were no words
But you skipped the right question.
You heard the fire,
You heard the structure falling
And you saw the crowd gathering.
There was so much you should do
So little you could
But you skipped your rule
And sat there the way through.
Years of rebellion
And years of righteousness
Washed in that moment of cowardice.
You sat there all
Just staring and answering
The questions you couldn't ask.

Do you remember what you suggested?
You suggested to walk away
To make the man realize his wrong ways
But silly you,
Why are you so much of a coward ,
I doubt
It was simply you running away.
For the thought you skipped to act
Was walking to the man
And holding back his fist
But you so had it all skipped.
You sat there,
A silent prayer running through your mind
Couldn't you tell,
You are no help to the world,
What were you doing there?

And so here you are
The sad, pitiful part
You worried about not having answers,
Silly you,
Now you pace
With answers alone
You decided to skip the questions.

Answer-
You can either comment on the fire
Or ignore the smoke all together
But you do nothing
To douse the flames
You skipped the
Rustle McBride May 2016
Once upon a time,
I had a story I could tell.
But, now the facts have changed
and as I suppose its just as well.

For you see, I say my story
it is one of scattered dreams.
And, I was looking for an ending
that would sew up all the seems.

But, somewhere in the patchwork,
in the throw rug of my mind,
there was a loose thread
that I just could never find.

So, when it comes to taking action
you know why I won't take part.
For, all it takes is one good tug
and my patchwork comes apart.
Molly Jenkins Oct 2015
and often nights? i -
i’ll have no trouble
it’s the screens that
do me in.

the fallen angel
the lithesome, spent glow
of do-overs
it just
does me in.

i am too possessed
by mercurial vapor
a dead self
at 2 and 3 and 4am
egging on, asking
“keep looking? it’s
somewhere in the archives.
it has to be.”

i promised, i promised
i wouldn’t, i promised
or I’d spend months
years, decades of life
living in the guesswork
the in-betweens
lying in the pathways
between the thought
and the reflex.

i could scroll a whole
lifetime away
in wanting.
it’s the screens that
do me in.
David FauntLeRoy Aug 2015
Inaction in action
A most frightening thing

Eyes flash from green to brown
Was that a smile or one of your cute frowns?
I can’t tell up from down
In this vacant hole

I feel like I am supposed to remember

Impact has dried up
Like a drought that makes farmers
Wonder if their crop ever did flourish
Or if the dust simply snuck into their heads
With paintbrushes and vivid imaginations
Of what fresh picked berries once tasted like

I want to run
Faster than ever to where I once was
To where my emotions began
To when a kiss was still intoxicating
And you smiled at clasped hands

Mirrors in my mind turn
Reflections of you blur
Engraved lessons I’ve learned

Were you ever my home?
I trace the walls of your character
Each knot and groove familiar
Reflexive fingertips
Gliding over walls as they turn inside out

I forgot what all this was about

Do I long for a light that once shown
Or just another culpable excuse
To regain the throne
My wishful thinking kingdom
Though my senses are honed
To both authenticity and mirage
I fear I am equally prone

Even so.

If…

If you were ever
Or still are
And we cross paths again
Or maybe for the first time

Kiss me with your brown eyes
Or were they green?
And I will try my best to recognize
A love I fear I’ve never seen

But I can’t muster pursuit when consciousness is stolen by a dream

Inaction in action
Is a most frightening thing
Hiraeth is a Welsh word. The closest translation in English is "a homesickness for a home you can't return to, or perhaps that never was."
Graff1980 Apr 2015
We killed
Hart Crane
Though he leapt
To his death
A poet’s plan
Or perhaps a whim
We hold the blame

We killed Freddie Mercury
And stopped the music
The callous political games
Blocked possible gains
In a needed cure

We killed Harvey Milk
We were the bullets
And the metal frame
Held the assassin’s hand
We hold the shame

We killed
The blond burnt boy
Encouraging
The hate

We killed the strung up
Beautiful boys
The hung up
Beaten up
Broken hearted
Brothers and sons

We are the progenitors
Of the violence
Through action
And more often than not
Through inaction

Maybe a little more guilt
Would serve us well
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