rocking back and forth
on creaking wooden swings
aged with time
the sky dark, casting a blue-grey filter over the world
a little blue skirt swings with the inertia
a teddy in the small pale hand
"are you like me"
patent leather shoes scrape the wet mulch beneath the swing
"that depends, how do you play"
"i play with minds, i show them things only i can see"
"well, when i play, they feel things they dont know how to feel"
"so you are like me"
"i guess... do they take you to big people in white coats"
"yes... do they try to make you blind like them"
"yes... i tried to introduce them to my friends, but they couldn't see them"
"i can help you"
"wanna work together, to show them"
"yes, that would be fun"
one thing you didnt notice
the teddy has no head
hey, im back, feel frickin free to comment, as always
Age Is catching up with
me I feel the beginning of
my memory slowly fading
can't always remember things I did the day before even of things I need to
and with my health deteriorating quite fast too Osteoarthritis throughout my bones twisting and distorting all
sometimes I can hardly walk at all, prospect
not looking good at all down to the curse of growing
but yesterday when I was young, now seems a world away I had the Innocents
of youth and no fear of growing
The curse of growing old where once when was young seems a life time away for I had youth on my side and the feeling of never growing old
A haze of betrayal
as memories twist, crawl and scream.
We once experienced bliss, childlike innocents,
and untainted love.
We dont want to go back.
But your desire vanished.
A horrific pool of agony.
Follow the night,
follow the darkness.
Love was torn apart that day.
In a haze of betrayal.
I still love you.
The moment I first looked Into Helen's eye's I was
hooked, beautiful blue eye's but Helen had that kind of
always smiling, take you to bed eye's, she had this way of widening her eyes quickly so
would mean she fancied me make me want to melt Into her Helen had a very wicked laugh
everybody loved her she was naughty but nice
but she had a sweetness
loveliness about her
couldn't help but wanted to
be with her, sometimes It's
just little things I miss about her I know I'll never stop missing her, but realise I have to learn to live with the loss In order to make something of
what left of my
Helen was an Incredibly **** real naughty wicked laugh but also a genuine sweetness about her almost like a schoolgirl Innocents
LOST INNOCENTS…by Jessie
Children, the tiny seed of man; their innocents won’t last
For all the history of the fathers
Present to the past
What's sad is children never mean
Kind and pure of heart
People take that innocents and tear it all apart
The hopes and dreams of years to come
Placed within their hands
Expectations way to high
For them to understand
Pressures put on the child, from an early age
Just so fathers get the chance to stand on center stage
Weighting down the children’s will
Boot tight on their throat
Trench dug deep around their soul
A finely crafted moat
Children grow to be adults
And do as they were taught
While all along the fathers words
Sit within and rot
Blood of the innocents spilled, can’t we live in peace?
Stop the war, cherish and respect the people around you. Spread love, not hate.
Inside the great
big global village
not everything is rosy
even a cat knows it
a leaf can sniff it.
The Moon shines
not in every night
nor God promised
always a blue sky.
Still the roses bloom
Cinderella has the heap
the reasons to groom.
The richest among the folks
turns philanthropist in the globe.
The wisest among the men
celebrate the era for it’s
the civilisation at its peak.
Hooray what now triumphs at last
is the wisdom and humanity!
Really? O please tell me?
Not very far, nor for much,
just because some differ in faith
mothers and fathers left in pain.
Not because they are to lose
Rohingyan sun nor the land
beneath their feet but in no time
their sons and daughters
can be put to death into fire
that too before their eyes
before the silent established world!
Slouched atop the bookshelf resting his fluffy head
against much loved Rudyard Kipling's finest.
He watched the day to day stories of King Anthony
'The child ruler of the world' and his beloved younger sister Anya.
Avoiding arguments downstairs in the dying segments of daylight,
the boy's reassurance to Anya showcased rare moments of humanity
not seen by Little Weissel's beaded eyes since occupied Holland.
Amongst his stuffing was still memories of his first best friend,
in which many a day was spent quietly hiding away,
listening to the sound of boots roaming around the house.
King Anthony reached his hand out in full view of the aged bear's face
and plucked him from his perch.
As warm as the bear felt to him, he felt to this plush relic, whose eyes
would dilate in the melt of such moment if only they could.
From his arms passing down to her trembling ones;
she was looking for solace in the wake of mother and father's quaking
voices in the kitchen.
For Little Weissel it seemed like 'what was old is new again'
and now after spells after neglect he was experiencing a second
lease of life.
As the war downstairs fizzled out into quiet evening, King Anthony and Anya were locked together, both tenants of sleep with
Little Weissel just as lovingly clung to as the first moment he'd been clutched.
Maybe in the new harsh terrain, the scabby mass of the little bear
could once again feel the need to be needed as any good plaything deserves to be.
You can hear the children secret cries.
You know what the adults have done,
But you don't utter a word.
The children have no clue why they run,
They just know never to disobey,
"The superior one."
They silence their words,
Allowing themselves to leave them in their throat.
While they choke on the wild thoughts,
As words are throw like daggers at them.
The superior ones,
That's what they call themselves,
But the children see them more as the monsters under their beds.
They children don't understand,
They just want to make the cruel monsters proud,
But their trying just gets throw back at them,
With insults as the bonus.
The children never utter words,
As mentally bruises are put upon their innocent minds.
They stay silent as they get bullied away by the superior ones.
Sometimes we have wonderful teachers, and sometimes we don't.
learning once more
of innocent people killed in the name of whatever
some psychopath’s personal crisis
a violent protest against other cultures
or an abuse of some religious creed
the motivations may be different
yet the results are all the same
the wanton killing of women men and children
who do not know that they are ‘enemies’
of someone whom they also do not know
the murderers may have been led to think
that they are heroes for some glorious cause or god
fact is that they are simply murderers
and I believe
they will not even receive
their 72 raisins when they face their gods
because to ****
in the name of any god
is always wrong
Apropos the massacre in Nice, on July 14, 2016.
NOTE: The often propagated notion that DAESH martyrs look forward to 72 virgins after their suicidal attacks has been revealed as a mistranslation of that passage in the Quran.