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Emilie Vang May 2020
Black small things on my face.
They never seem to go away.
The only one with so much out of my sisters.
I can’t seem to tell if I’m different with all these whispers.
Let me tell you a little story.
A little story, I shall tell you.
Keep it hush.
Yes, please do.
Down to memory lane, let’s run this cue.
Once was a little girl, with six dots on her face.
Questions asked, so let’s cut to the chase.
“What are the dots on your face?”
“Why do you have so many?”
“Are they freckles?”
No. I don’t know. And, no.

Back to the top, now here we go.

Black small things on my face.
They never seem to go away.
The only one with so much out of my sisters.
I can’t seem to tell if I’m different with all these whispers.
But my mother can.
She meant no harm.
However, harm was all that was felt.
I know she just wanted me to be the same.
It really was a shame.
“There was too many” she heard and said.
Which left my self-confidence to dread.
Pick in, pick out.
The dots would continue to fall down.
But they’re a part of me.
They would come back and sprout.

I believe I’m okay now.
Like was stated before,
My mother meant no harm.
And I still love her very much as usual.
I believe she was doing her best.
And her best was the best.
neth jones Sep 2019
This generation knows only darkness
and sleeps on its back

the sleeper windmills violence in upon
it’s own sensory plate
                                       (the turbulence of
                                        fit-fusion
           ­                             and shapeless
                                        mood based dreams)

                
protest whine

offence

a life less of assurance
awaiting instruction

bore
froth
tend
endurance

Days are no fun
played out underground

A Mole baring task-force
A clunder

Muscle beings
reading the darkness

              

Tales held of the higher plane
an existence firm upon the roof terrain

Once a thriving insistence
ocular culture and unpushed air

This is what came to the generation
of post surface availability

              

The Moles are quaked
they raise in hunch
reach out for their boots and tools
begin the awake shift
Notes of The Post Apocalyptic Underground
Riley June Dec 2018
This is for both a bully and friend. They were like a tattoo I never wanted. Ink swirled under my skin screaming at me in victory. I woke up one day discovering this design dwelled in me making itself at home. How did this happen? How come no other kids had ink under their skin? That’s when they became a bully. When I got older the ink got meaner. Everything I did wrong they used against me like an arsenal of regret.  Elementary school became a battlefield and I always wore my armor. Children choose their sides not understanding the consequences each battle held.
Every morning they were there with more loyalty than a service dog. Every mirror was marked by them. Every student knew their name. And every day we would fight. Most days the fights were small and no one but us would get injured but some days there were casualties far greater than expected. This was not just a year or two of them being a bully but almost a decade of them being one. A routine developed where they would show up in the morning remind me they were never leaving and then wait for me after school. If I missed the bus they were sure to be there with me through that but not for support but as an opportunity to berate me.
They had a commitment to me that most marriages would be jealous of. No matter what they stayed by my side. And then I moved away traveling across many states confident I left them behind in the move. When school started I was nervous because I was new, and no one knew me. That lasted all of six seconds before I saw them again in the hallway. How the hell did they manage to cross six state lines to follow me and could I just disappear. The answer was no so we met again but this time it was as if they couldn’t remember me so this time around we were acquaintances.
As an acquaintance they were like a tattoo that you got done when you were sixteen, not quite what you wanted but it was better. This time the ink didn’t scream at me but talked. Their loyalty and commitment were both still their but instead of battles they became friends with others. It was weird seeing what they had become after so many years of torment, but it was nice to finally have some quiet. This didn’t mean I was completely free of all bullies however, I met new ones in high school that were much worse and far more cruel. After one particularly harsh day my once bully now acquaintance came over to help me stand again. I learned to lean on them and began to trust in them a little more after that day.
When high school was coming to close I still refused to consider them a friend never forgetting how much pain they caused me in my youth. And so once more we parted as acquaintances to continue onto the next chapter of our lives. This time around I didn’t cross six state lines but stayed in state. This was when I started college. I was shocked when I found out that they were to be my roommate I mean what are the odds of that? I still felt the ink under my skin swirl in a sort of salute to them. They remembered me this time around, but it wasn’t a bad thing. This time I allowed myself to become friends with them and we grew close. The tattoo was no longer a mistake but a well thought out decision that held meaning and color. They were now a friend that I could trust, and the ink didn’t just talk to me, but it sang. I want you to understand who they are so keep an open mind as I introduce to you……. my moles.
ponder May 2018
i could walk to places,
i'd meet a lot of people,
among million faces, my eyes encountered,
yours the best, favourable, preferred.
it consists of uneven lids, and that's okay,
perfection doesn't define,
your beauty, symmetry looks strange to me.
rosy cheeks, lips opened emphasises the sweet sweet smile, one drugged me with happiness.
so i began, one, two,
counting moles littered on you,
prominent one, faded one,
one hugging your nose,
one kissing the side of your lips.
my favourite,
the one holding your soft cheek.
It caresses you always,
I like to pretend its me, holding on to you
so dearly.
Tiny specks of beauty,
enhanced soft angelic physiognomy.
No one can hold on to you stronger,
Than those moles,
Forever rid my somber.

- ponder
This took me lot longer to write. Writing it with the person in mind and choosing the words carefully and correctly makes it more special to me.
now who sold out
yours or mine
they flip
for
it

she landed on her head
he laughed

she made him fall off the latter

she hit him

with ***** words

he hurt feelings falling

the squirrels scratched

thier nests cracking

thier pirate loot

***** change

through

seas
rage


find me breadth
find me


leave me alone now
who sold
out
?












...
..
.
freckles
from
...
..
.
blind faith
lead them to believe
in a charlatan
like moles they were
sightless
to the false god

they were following
he who had nothing
of the Messiah's
tangible fabric

never did it dawn
on them
that he was selling
a religion based
on disrepute
none of his disciples
being overly astute

and still they're listening
and still they're standing
with his stead
and still they can't eye
the paucity of street cred
SEAN Oct 2017
Why do we need to redeem ourselves?
To know one and to cherish one
To live thy life that we solely covet
No turning back, only now

Moles are blind and see no light
But they find their way
Carving mud and dust to get
To one’s itinerary

Paving their ways through filth
But they find their way
With warrens, dug in and dugout
And trusting their grit and snout

Working their way through lands
But they find their way
Through hard work with their two bare hands
Burrowing and Burrowing

Heroes and heroine
Harrowing and harrowing, but not like blind moles
Worry, why? Aren’t you much precious than them, darling?
With gift of sight, to see one’s light
Have a nice day. :)

— The End —