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Ryan Long May 2020
There's so much that I want to say
So much popping up in my feed and head today
But the fact is all that comes out now is
I'm so tired of this

You can't have an opinion unless you're white
You can't have an opinion unless you're black
You can't have, you can't think, you can't do
You're racist, you're not a Christian, you're not Jack

For You see,
I'm tired not for myself
But of all the negativity

I'm so tired of a culture that's bleeding
And we think tapping a keyboard is
Bringing about so much change
But it's not, it's leaving us needing

Needing change that isn't coming
Cause of us it's faltering
A constant uphill battle we've created
But to that end we keep running

We used to go out and help a man in desperate need
We used to give out to the hungry without filming it for our feed

We used to never know what happened on the other side of the globe
But now if we don't then we must be ignorant with a broken frontal lobe

We're called to address so many issues
But we don't take care of the ones that are
Right in front of us in our daily lives
You know the ones that you keep hid deep inside

We call out our fellow man and say I'm better
But the plank in our eyes keeps us from seeing that we have our own fetter.

I'm tired and worn
Maybe you are too
But what do we accomplish
By speaking what isn't true

I want to hear positivity
I want to know i made a difference
I met the need of someone
And created a smile where there was none

A lot have been struggling this year
No job, no money, stuck inside with fear

How about we ignore the social media
And focus on the neighbors that live next door
How about we focus on our communities first before we tackle more

How about we turn off the news
Go outside and make some instead

I'm just so tired and worn.
Vampirecadence May 2020
Well I guess people aren't that bad,
Maybe I was just meeting the wrong ones or maybe I was taking them so serious that I forgot there exist some right ones.
Well I hope it doesn't restrict just to social media and its counterparts,
and people stays the same giving hearts and helping those who are in holes of rats,
and not poking and mocking with their hated darts.
Wrote it few minutes ago while thinking hearts that people give each other on social media and all the good talk and dm.
JaxSpade May 2020
Walking along these streets
I hear the birds tweet

As people post what they think
I heard the news fake

And people take

            Seriously
False narratives
Continuously

I look over my back
And back my over

For every movement
At this point is covert

As I stride along
People and pawns

I check the mate
And take the queens arm

On this chessboard of war
For time and it's law

I've been walking along these streets
But maybe I should

Run
Wind in my hair
Through my skull
It blows
Faster than my face
Over the earths pull

The taste of speed
Every mile an hour
Delivers me
Away from slow

If there be a finish line
To start with a go

Walking or running

Perhaps these streets are coming
For a race of humans
Ability to know

What is real
Kanishka May 2020
What if my thoughts are not mine?
What if I do things without insight?
My mind is fractured by the world we live in,
And the breach is used to steal and replace
what lies inside my brain.
No memory is safe, no plan unstained.
Ryan May 2020
A fully qualified journalist,
what path to choose?
I’m not great with breaking news,
I panic too much and get the details wrong,
not very useful under the confines of tight deadlines.

Then there’s the other stuff such as “death knocks,”
while a family is grieving,
there’s no reason to be intruding on their life,
and getting the gory details,
just for a story which improves the page rank,
and Reach PLC can take it to the bank.

Going through people’s bins,
is actually a thing,
but not just dipping in and out,
there’s a plan,
put it in a van,
spread the contents around,
and see what can be found.

This MP talks about healthy food,
which must include no added preservatives,
but what’s this packaging from their fridge?
A chocolate bar?

Is writing a story about this going too far?
Of course not, and we’ll contrive to write a few hundred words,
then run it on page five.

What about an internship?
Three months in London,
unpaid, that’ll cost a bit, who can afford that?
There’s travel money, rent for the flat.
If you’re providing written information for the publication,
they should be made to get you paid.

Anyway, freelance reporting could be the way forward,
work remotely,
and mostly write about things I like,
football, music, and community issues,
which team’s going to lose?
There’s a gig on who’s playing?
The residents are just saying,
“What about these potholes and the business rent controls?”

I can see myself doing this long term,
I need more hours, a few years have gone by,
I don’t want to lose the momentum,
become glum and slip back into the way it was before.
A beginner who is looking for some opinions and constructive feedback.
Jordan P Sanders Apr 2020
I tried to write a love poem, but all I saw was the bleak fog of forgotten dreams,
an endless list of broken promises; I walked circles in corn fields, flattening ***** cornstalks until they spelled out “love me.”

The brokenhearted are the first to sacrifice True Love for a
scientific deconstruction of a lover’s kiss,
rationalizations coded in clinical language,
“oxytocin this” and “dopamine that,”
it can all be explained,
there is no magic.

Scorned lovers dwell in limbo,
swiping right on the first piece of ***
who reminds them of the past,
whose photoshopped photo promises them Heaven;
True Love is now a simulation,
a cold affair with a blue light beaming back cute girls,
any one could be your Pam.

I fall in love with a screen over and over, until,
all that’s left is a bleak fog of forgotten dreams,
an endless list of broken promises;
all I feel is emptiness,
all I see is desperation.

I “Super Like” you, but I don’t even know you;
the dissonance hurts unconsciously,
poisoning a deeply dug well of romance,
the poetic truth serum secreted from the center of my heart is spoiled--
I hate how easy it is to lie,
to delete
to erase
to become a ghost.

I say, “I’ll talk to you later,”
but I never do,
you never even cared if I did,
or at least,
that’s what I tell myself in a bleak fog of forgotten dreams,
that’s what I write on my endless list of broken promises;
the sentiment is returned,
and love, True Love,
continues to hide in art, music, poetry, and film,
the last refuge for a romantic heart.
Paper Heart Poet Apr 2020
You ignored the ‘hoax’
Another dead child 
Consequences of
What you conspired 

Voting for that 
Who’s coming on TV
Watching the news, all those lies
But you don’t believe me 

You think climate change 
Is just fake news 
You laugh at the #metoo
And ****** abuse 

Stuck in your own head 
Misguided yet sure 
That all you have faith in 
Is true, you don’t need more
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