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Pick up the phone for a dial tone
While alone for the first time
With a knife to your neck
You express how echoes affect your life
Never once do you hear from the other side
I self destruct you press your luck and replay lost time

There's no break in the wake of my silence
Now you hate that I'm late to the violence
This mistake, our new fate has crossed through
What is lost, what it cost, but ain't really nothing new
Nothing new

Oh! Cara, Cara baying blood
Cleanse yourself from tracking mud
Hear me out, I think you should
Crying never did no good
Take the blade from your hand
Throw it up and take a stand
In between the lines you read
Rooting vines can't hide your greed
You deceive all the tricks
Laughing as you get your fix
Turn around placing blame
Shivering from all your shame
This is an attempt at song writing for me with a punk theme. Cara Cara starts the chorus and will most likely be used twice
Tuesday Pixie Mar 2016
And the fiery haze came down
All must burn
All must burn
Heart drum rears up
Urges forward
booming through a body
Amplified by bones and skin
Amplified by jaw set, eyes hardened
Hands clenched, soul rising

A challenge has been met.
Ajey Pai K Dec 2015
I'm not allowed to live among people.
I guess I don't deserve to be one of them.
Or maybe, they're just all the same?
To breathe someone else's breath: suffocating.

I am not allowed to live by myself.
I guess everyone is worried about me.
Or maybe, just filthy intolerance of my being?
Adhering to everybody's advice: enslaving.

I'm not allowed to give an abstract meaning to life.
I guess it's sad to not have someone beautiful beside?
Or maybe, they don't understand that beauty has no appearance.
Being a judge and picking people: inhuman.

I'm not allowed to live in the moment.
I guess carrying the past on your back is nostalgic?
Or maybe, thinking of the future is too fantastic!
Being busy, disturbed and in misery: deathly.

To not admire what you have and living in an unquenchable thirst to possess,
To have money and not knowing it's value.
Earn, spend, possess and finally get bored.
To repeat this cycle countless times.
To meet unusual people and brand them socially awkward.
To be selfish but fake the concern for others.
To call this life, is mockery of my being. It's blasphemy.
I'm not allowed to live among people because that's not my life.
Mike Essig May 2015
Today a ten-year-old girl
threatened suicide at school because
a trusted uncle had molested her.

What kind of ******* world
has this become?

Police were called,
Child Services arrived,
statements were taken.
no doubt social workers
were stirred into the mix.

I am a man of the 20th Century,
just old enough to remember outrage,
to remember when too much was taboo,
to remember personal honor.

When I was a kid, this monster
was snatched from his bed
by righteous neighbors, dragged begging
to a private place beyond help
and been beaten nearly to death
by the fathers of other potential victims.

Imagine a circle of men, ordinary men,
mostly World II and Korea veterans:
insurance men, car salesmen, farmers,
store keepers, salesmen, even a lawyer
tightening the circle in the torchlight.

The monster begged, pleaded, wept,
wet himself, **** himself, whimpered.

The sheriff  watched, smiled,
and then rearrested the pervert for resisting.

Had he lived, the monster would never
have touched a little girl again in our town,
knowing that his life would be forfeit
and end abruptly and anonymously.

Probably, he would have just slunk away.

This new state of bureaucracy cares nothing
for the victims it claims to protect.
It only wants the paperwork filled out correctly.

I was 11, 1962 in a quiet sleepy town.
My father took me to see what evil brings,
the best lesson he ever taught me.

If I had been old enough I would have joined in
without so much as a twinge of regret.

You liberal ostriches can call this brutality if you like.
I call it community action, community justice.
People protecting what is there's to protect
when the official guardians just go through the motions

I miss the 20th Century. I miss justice.

True incident
Lisa Nov 2014
Pacing rapidly, doors slamming in the background.
I can't find - irritation is building up inside of me - it's about to erupt. Where is my iPod??
In a violent flash of outrage, I smash my earphone against the desk.
Dropping down to the chair, and gazing out of the window, I'm suddenly thinking who is this hot-tempered person?
Thia Jones Apr 2014
This is a poem of anger
this is a poem of grief
this is a poem for those
to whom death was the only relief
from the words of abuse
from attitudes of shame
from the spittle and curses
from the taking of blame
from the raining of blows
from fists and boots and rocks
from the penetrating blades
that **** like sharpened *****
from the bullets and blasts
that tear flesh apart
from the tearing of veils
from the hammers and nails
this is a poem of outrage
this is a poem of pain
this is a poem to honour
those who were never to blame

Cynthia Pauline Jones 20/11/13
For International Transgender Day of Remembrance
I wrote this on 20th November 2013 and on the same evening this poem became my first ever public reading of my work. Each year, trans* people and allies gather on that date to observe International Transgender Day Of Remembrance (TDOR) where the names are read of all those who have been notified as having lost their lives as the result of transphobic violence during the preceding year. In 2013, over 250 names were read and it is thought that the true number is much greater. Suicides (trans* people have by far the highest suicide rates of any sector of society) are not included in the names read, though they outnumber those directly murdered many times over.
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