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Have a nap
And a snack
Before you attack
someone undeserving
By overreacting.
When anger fills your veins
let your blood boil
But speak kindly.
I gave you room
for more than one feeling at one time;
but only one tongue,
so speak to my children with love.
Each word spoken
Doubles in sound
And what you give to this world
Will come back around.
Glove your hands.
Cushion your grasp on the world.
I made your palms strong;
More than enough
To build up life,
Though it's by choice
when you tear another's down.
Don't clown around
and waste your life
Denying Time.
There's no excuse.
Even I am not as old as she,
And she is stubborn
And unyielding,
So walk steadily,
And stand tall.
Be proud of yourself.
Stay grounded in what you know-but Always remember:
I know all.
You know some; some others know more, And some know none,
Yet no one is dumb,
Just unsure.
For those who have no conviction
Or strength to fight
I gave you feet like the tree roots,
Dig your toes in the sand and tower over Anyone who chooses to be
The first flame in a fight of fires.
Be my burning bush for hope and change, Boiling blood exists for a reason,
There is a time and place
For everything that you are,
And everything around you.
Travel far
And feed the hungry
Under the blue skies I reside in.
Shade and shelter your kin,
Yes! Your brothers and sisters.
Even if you don't know them..
Especially if you don't know them!
Then get to know them!
They are your family!
And i command loud ringing
Voices of comraderie,
Echoing happily off
Homes you built
Both outside and in.
Your temple
That houses me within you
Is coming along splendidly,
Child!
You've grown into a fine reminder
Of where you've been and who i am.
Keep going,
And do everything you can.
Like storm at sea
Rowing over waves,
Keep faith and,
Also remind yourself that
You're worthy of the efforts you give others,
So another's love
Had better
Match your own.
If i answer "No" don't fight it.
I know it stings.
Oh yeah, protect the bees, they're important down the line.
I hope you like flowers,
And rivers,
The fruits of my labor are for you,
And yours should be for your children too.
Teach them well,
And after a blink or two in time,
You'll see them like i see you,
Nearly divine!
You'll feel proud to know this world ive gifted you is safe for another day.
So rest your feet;
It's time to come and stay with me.
Let's watch the world you helped create,
And Rest easily.
I wrote this poem on one of the worst nights of my life thus far, in one go. No editing except for capitalisation, punctuation, and line breaks have been done. I hope you enjoy reading it.
Michael Nov 23
No words can describe the sadness I feel
Listening to musings of those mad with power
Dividing this house with vigor and zeal,
With no ear for cries of the people devoured.
Then again, does it even matter what’s right?
Victors write history, and a win is a win  
Regardless of rules, or how ***** they fight.
Will it be enough to hide the truth of the sin?
Another one I wrote several years ago and sadly it’s still relevant today.
Michael Nov 17
The luster has worn off
Revealing the worm eaten rot
Of unvarnished racism
Confused conjucture breeds many different lies

It becomes the screaming banshee of our time, wicked as one can see through our rose colored glasses

It is like a pocketwatch that has been wound up too tight, the springs have sprung on the inside

Demented through the years, they become uncertain with time itself, grey and cloudy

Pressed against the center stage,  a voice rang ill-fated truths to all ears, but no one was listening

Pushed out of the seat of demise, we stare back at the crimes, allowing a dismal approach to our self conscience

It is to say four be six in a different view only to sit below the compass of the operators

We can imagine many things forfeiting who we are, bleeding rituals of cultural disbelief, we turn around and see

So be the right or wrong, it becomes a sense of our moral code, when do we pick it up and put in our pocket though
I have, from time to time, heard this simple phrase:
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
It’s always puzzled me.                 It seems illogical.
No, the road to hell isn’t paved at all.
It’s an old road, constructed when the first stars lit up the sky. It’s been here longer than us.
And we’ve used it. Many of us, over and over.
The road, once pristine, has seen the footprints of a billion souls.
And so, it’s cracked, withered, decayed. The dust, which was once cobbles, blown into the wind,
never seen again.
In fact, it’s not a road anymore.
Roads are strict, they instruct where to go.
But the road to hell is so distraught that it guides no more.
Loose stones are all about, and any semblance of a path is gone.

The empire has forgotten the road.
There is no surveyor coming. No highwaymen traveling horseback.
We’re on our own.

We’ll have to find our own way to hell.
Shorter poem this time, more emphasis on spacing.
Klausyuer Oct 10
"
The light we dread on the path we tread,
Scorched by the morals we misuse.
Misread the darkness, our hearts distressed,
Mocked by the values we choose,
Led astray by the prophecies of disharmony.

Heralds of the Righteous, deaf to hideous cries,
Sombre pleas linger, unseen in the abyss.
Angels seek refuge in hell from our treachery,
Watching disdainfully the absurdity we create,
While Demons, now praying for salvation,
Witness the tragic fall of humanity.

Instruments of war masquerade as peace,
Tormenting the innocent’s fragile ease.
A nation built on unity’s roar,
Now silenced by the lies of the false majority,
As citizens, evicted by leaders once upheld,
Fall victim to the very mother they served.

The tranquil ocean of individuals,
Swept away by the puddle of atrocities.
The gavel of justice hammers the innocent,
While the illustrious clowns, adorned in lustrous lies, roam free.
As avatars of Themis fall to Eris' tempting kiss,
Our heroes, once righteous, now stab us in the back with monarchic bliss.

While the poor laugh abundantly at their chains,
The rich weep for sovereignty that wanes.
Failure is the epitome of success,
While schools terrify us to death,
Teaching the race between ending a valuable life
And the finish line of a hollow diploma.

Yet in hallowed halls, they preach dismay,
As arguments and debates suffocate the air,
In this world already choked by toxic despair.

The masks of leadership conceal deceit,
As false ideals march beneath victory's flag.
And when the hands that build also destroy,
Philosophy, once pure and guiding,
Now teaches Angels the art of demonology.
"
-Klausyuer: The ****** Poet
Showing the absurdity and irony of the issues we are currently facing right now
Michael Oct 7
I can’t seem to find the scriptures that state
“Care only about yourself, but not others.”
On what page are we commanded to hate,
Which proverb advises to make people suffer?
Show me where it says to worship the dollar,
What passage directs us to trample the poor,
On what page can I find Gods favorite color,
What chapter tells us how to keep score?
Which holy verse permits genocide and war,
Where can I read that telling lies is okay,
Where is it written who’s life is worth more,
Which chapter says it’s alright to betray?
I don’t know the answers, perhaps you do,
Just pick a passage that’s convenient to you.
Klausyuer Oct 3
"
Rowing through dishevelled bones,
Drifting toward the Undying Halls,
Where the ****** poet reigns,
Composing odysseys of muted souls.

Tombs of heroes line the bleeding stone,
Each crypt houses ballads unsung.
From kings who soared to touch the sky,
To peasants whose hands tilled the earth’s damp soil,
Chiselled on each grave, a forgotten name,
A parable of life, a courage for a story.

Walking through the rubbled road,
Where monarchs and peons once carved their fate.
As angels and demons danced in delight,
Celebrating the fleeting joys of life,
Their smiles once illuminated the gloomy skies,
Now cast shadows in the creeping dread.

Creaking trees bow in the eerie breeze,
Stray ghouls and ghosts drift through the air,
Wounded and lost, still searching,
For the poet whose ink grants peace.
Among the crumbling stone, his hands unyielding,
They come to voice their regretful pleas.

In the garden of silence, they listen,
Bathed in awe as they linger,
Where the ****** poet grieves for each soul.
His quill sways, memories behold,
Etched in every word he writes,
A soul’s forgotten pain—
Every stanza, a homage to their strain.

With each stroke of ink, a life reminisced,
Unshaken, the poet will write until the final tale is told.
Alas, they rise in bliss as the poet weeps,
For a soul, at last, shall find its peace.
"
-Klausyuer
A lore for my self created title :3
Emma Kate Sep 25
Did you know? Did I know?
Did I bury you before death?
Am I culpable of a sinful sentence?
Snippets from a piece about illness and death.
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