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Grant Horst May 2015
For those who chose not to see
To dig deeper inside the real me.

You will regret not giving a chance
When you see me in my winning stance

For back when my words were ignored
You will hear and tremble in fear when you walk through that door

You will wish to go back and change your view of me
But the anchor is dug too deep you feel stranded at sea

I am all around though you close your eyes often
I am what you think about when you try and sleep
I have progressed, accomplishing more feats
than a small thinker like you would ever dream of achieving.

So please,

Next time you think of how you mistreated me
I lean back and smirk about how you never caught up to me
I feel like I haven't written in forever, kicking off some dust with this on. Sorry everyone! I need to get on more. And as always, feedback and improving is what keeps me on here. If you have anything to say (improvement, comments, anything) please share because I value you :)
Paramount Pawn May 2015
The thrill of your lies
Keeps me up all night
You think I'm stupid
But apparently
It's you
For your lies don't bother me
Now that I've come to get you
Randy Johnson May 2015
Your son was a lowlife hooligan.
Last year he murdered my son.
When it came to having the ability to show mercy, your son sure did lack it.
He shot my son right between the eyes because of his expensive jacket.
My boy gave him the jacket but he killed him anyway.
When I identified my son's body, your son had to pay.
Your son wanted to prove to his gang members that he was big and bad.
He shot my son in cold blood and returning the favor made me feel glad.
Your son was arrested but a bleeding heart judge let him out on bail.
A few hours later your son became the victim of a 44 Magnum shell.
I killed him the exact same way that he killed my son, a bullet right between the eyes.
I didn't realize that a man could get so much pleasure by seeing another person die.
It was an eye for an eye, I pulled my gun on him and it felt so good to shoot.
But your son's death isn't good enough for me, I hope he fries in Hell to boot.
This is a fictional poem.
Serge Belinsky May 2015
Cruel times, cruel hearts of fighters
Going to death under the orders of the fathers,
For the blood that binds them,
Both the brothers who fell and friends still alive,

Brutal century, cruel eyes of the war,
Staring with soulless of Satan on the human world,
Yeah heard journalists huskiness news,
Yes does not relieve a state of alarm of the soldiers ' mothers,
What are waiting for years for news of the children.

Is it possible the war to stop?
All sufferers to give a lot?
Blow out fires, bridges to restore?

But the smell of blood strong for the sharks,
Give no rest, so sweet it is.
When the war starts,
no one of the soldiers do not want ****.

But when the enemy kills a friend, who is close to, then comes the feeling of revenge, and the soldiers start killing out of revenge.
They are taking revenge for the bloodshed.

All the soldiers who honestly had fought for their homeland, is dedicated this poem.
Ron Gavalik May 2015
After too many years of mom’s psychiatric issues,
whose pendulum of unpredictable emotions swung
between fits of violent rage and victimized hatred,
I gave up the struggle many of us
try and fail to endure.
Some people who love the insane
fall into the pit of personal torment,
an anxiety or depression of inner madness.
Others choose eye for an eye revenge.
Headlines of such retaliation steam over social media:
‘Wife Murders Husband Over Cold Turkey Complaint’
I made the completely selfish choice of maternal divorce,
to spend Christmas with a neighbor friend
who had endured much of the same abuses
and learned the same lessons years earlier.

Ana and I spent several merry Christmases
at one of those all you can eat seafood buffet joints.
The restaurant was simply a massive room.
A trough ran the 100 feet length of the back wall,
where the cattle lined up to feed.

Each year, we looked forward to our glorious feast,
not for the quality of the food, but the friendship
and the king crab legs neither of us could afford
any other time of the year.

We’d trade laughs and stories of the year.
We reminisced about friends and family passed on.
For 2 or 3 hours on a cold winter’s night,
there was no poverty, no family, no hardship,
no greed, no fuss…only laughs.
Except for the year I asked myself,
‘What would Jesus do?’

Standing in the long, sweaty buffet line,
a mumbling buzzed about a **** up front
taking too many crab legs.
Even though the restaurant claimed unlimited portions,
in reality, the kitchen workers played a good game,
only filling the large metal bin every 30 minutes.
The unwritten rule among buffet veterans
is to take 5 or 6 crab legs and leave some
for the others behind you.
The poor must look out for each other
because we all **** well know
rich ******* only care about themselves.

After a couple minutes of the crowd grumbling,
a heavyset woman in a moo-moo screamed,
‘Look at that guy! Look at his plate!’
The slicked-hair office drone the moo-moo pointed to
confidently strode past the hungry patrons
in his business casual golf shirt and khakis.
In one hand, he balanced a plate stacked
with at least 20 crab legs.
His other hand carried a cereal-sized bowl of butter.
The apparent jeers of shame from my fellow wretches,
whose bellies would go empty for another half hour
didn’t affect this guy’s silent march,
his corporate attitude to loot, to conquer.

I stepped out of line in the guy’s path.
‘What the are you doing?’ I said.
‘It’s a free country.’
He tried to squeeze around me, pressing his hip
against the orange chicken buffet station.
I moved to block him again.
‘Free for you, but no one else, huh?’
‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘Just move.’

His empirical entitlement inspired me to perform
a little Christmas justice.
With both hands, I lunged for the man’s plate
and wrapped both hands around all but four crab legs.
‘What the hell, buddy?’ he shouted.
The guy had become a moneychanger in our temple.
‘Do something,’ I said.
A woman in line looked at me, her eyes wide, startled.
I handed her a crab leg.
The coward ran his mouth in an emasculated mumble,
but skulked back to his table.
I then walked down the line,
handing each of my fellow diners a single crab leg.
Old men formed expressions of confusion,
Young mothers and fathers laughed.
Children pointed their single crab legs to the ceiling
in a show of solidarity to the cause,
victory against a great evil.

A short Asian man approached me in line.
‘You must leave,’ he said in broken English.
‘But I paid for the buffet.’
‘No troublemakers. You go.’

I’d become a scourge to the Roman power structure,
an immoral bandit of Nazareth.
Being bad never felt so good.
After all, one can remove the boy from madness,
but without intense psychiatric treatment,
one rarely removes madness from the boy.
Ana wasn’t happy that we missed our annual feast.
I drove us home quietly content.
Another Christmas celebrated.
To be included in my next collection, **** River Sins.
Dylan Lane May 2015
You
Are not a man.
You are not worth
My mercy
Or my words how dare you
Touch him
With your hands filthy
Threaten to beat the **** out of
My lover?
If he doesn’t give you his cell phone you
*******
Or else he could give you
A ten minute *******
And escape with his life
And his bones intact
But not with his dignity
Not without ***** rising in his mouth and pain shooting through his body and reaching deep into the cracks that I have slowly been helping him heal
You are
Not worth my mercy
Or my words and
If I had my way you
Would be
Sitting pretty under my knife
If I had my way I would have my
Sadistic revenge.
Your bones
Are going to look so good
As earrings.
kaylene- mary May 2015
He died on the bathroom floor
The tiles cracked beneath him
Split the earth right down to the core
Poison slipped from under his skin
And drained his body of blood
He lay there like a bag of blistered bones
Smothered by a world I knew as mine
With my name scarred to his hips
I tore the flesh from my spine
Warmed him with breath
Wrapped him up in suppression and regret
Clawed through my veins and held him down to rest
But his blood still leaks from purple lips
Dissolving through my chest like arsenic kisses and acid trips
He has a tongue made of razors and it's lapping up my sweat
Sometimes I think it's just my guilt tugging at my throat
Other days I know it's him -
Spitting out the currents in an ocean for the blind
An eye for an eye, and he'll finally have me confined
KarmaPolice May 2015
Chapter 1
?

Most children my age, have a place called home, ?
Parents or siblings, they are never alone,
Have their own room, with clothes on their back, ?
Food on their plate, piled in a stack, ?

Well educated, a wealth of close friends, ?
But for me?. It is hard to pretend, ??
Eating scraps off the floor, no water or food,
A derelict home, no light in the fuse, ?

No brothers or sisters, not a friend in sight,
Forgotten by the world, I lay here tonight.
Dishevelled clothes, trainers hang of my feet,
Winter descends, snow following sleet, ?

Tiles missing, the wind sets a chill, ?
Huddled in the corner, I await her still. ??
She walks the street, hour after hour,
Collecting the funds, for an ****** flower,

I can sit here all night, yet she will fail to return, ?
I'm second to addiction, I have soon come to learn, ??
Pain in my stomach, freezing I stare, ?
The door creaking, but no one is there,

Sirens in the distance, I wish they'd find me,
Too weak to get up, too dark to see, ??
Twenty four hours, I lay here alone,
Shivering in cloth, through to the bone,

Tears fading, they serve no use, ?
They cannot save me, from years of abuse.
Commotion outside, unable to shout, ?
Too ill for fear, impending blackout, ?

Door kicked in, they rush in and see, ?
The fear grips the room, as they find me. ??
In the hospital, I awake alone, ?
No mother beside me, I should've known, ?

A woman attended, called me by name, ?
I knew that my life, would never be the same.
Part one, feedback welcome.
Justin G May 2015
No rest
for a lost boy
he knows no bounds

A journey he embarks
What he seeks
is yet found

A premature hatred
Like ******
He pukes
pain
from stomach

For weeks
he is weak
For days
he is dazed

Eyes vengefully blazed
bullets flew
grenades blew
Such beautiful lies

Unhappiest
of times
No disguising it
This child has lost

A dreadful crime
He executed
right along with his
mind
Another series of 10w stanzas
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