Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Man Nov 2023
I am not some peaceable ***-smoking hippy,
Or a hard-core punk inclined to rage away.
Similarly not a broker, with no share of a real trade
Or a developer of putrid estates
Different from some disaffected political nutcase
Radical revolutionary, only in the way
That I still have hopes for change
Monet Echo Aug 2020
Some people long to be famous
To stand out in the crowd
They long for money and riches
To spend their lives in the clouds

Some people want only comfort
To live their lives in peace
Steady income, cozy house...
That life is not for me.

I want my story to be radical
To scream with the unexpected
Though every page may be a struggle
The end has already been written and perfected

I want my song to be revolutionary
The voice of Love in action
Every lyric will take the broken
And fill them with fiery passion

I want every conversation
To be filled with infallible truth
So that people leave encouraged, uplifted
All anxiety, for the moment, soothed

I want to live a life of faith
Eyes closed, hands held high
It'll be hard at first, I may start out low
But I know I'll end with God on High

Some people long to be famous
To stand out in the crowd
But while they sleep in the clouds
I'll be wide awake on solid ground

I don't need popularity
Or everyday life persistence
I want an unexplainable life
I need to make a
Everyone wants to be a revolutionary,
a hero, a martyr, or more.
Empty minds seeking an empty prize,
of fame and boundless glory.

Everyone wants to be a wiseman,
without searching for the wisdom.
Everyone wants to break free,
from their phony societal prison.

Everyone wants to be loaded,
without having to earn the dough.
A tax or two will surely do,
those ***** capitalists will eat crow!

Everyone wants to change the world,
without having to change themselves.
Everyone wants everything,
except to be ourselves.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
Travis Wilson Dec 2019
With old Henry Knox we marched past river and rocks.
Twas 75 and Redcoats had to die.
So over them mountains came my Cannon and I.
The winter set my body to freeze and the cord cut through flesh with ease
As we marched on to Boston.
The rope burns my hands and the ice bites my feet
Frost bit feet and rope burned hand
But when we win, hell, will it be grand.
Them Redcoats thought no threat would e'er come nigh.
But look up high 'cause here come I. With cannon to make the Redcoat die.
With my frost bit feet and my rope burned hand.
And when we take to Boston, hell, but it will be grand.
EmperorOfMine Aug 2019
I'm happily wandering into a new reflection,
The conception that I might feel succession.
Temptations will come, and potentially regression,
but it'll never sting like my previous impression.

As blunt as a bat, as hollow as a vase,
As cold as the dark, as complex as a face,
It comes and it goes, sometimes it reappears,
The dance in my mind, the past, memories trailed with tears.

A leveling adventure, a hike through the jungle,
It's captivating, for sure, all is falling through a funnel,
Grip out at the light, seizing every opportunity,
I may fall, I might, but if I get back up...

This reflection can be revolutionary.
Safira Azizah Nov 2018
there are million of words
left unsaid inside this gut.
similar to every volcanoes,
there will be
for this gut(ter) to blow up,
burst of processed thoughts
that kept inside for yearlong.
whether you like it or not,
give a **** or not,
ain't no **** were given

'cause it's about the time.
When it rains it pours
and we all know what that means, or do we?

It wasn't raining when
Noah built the ark. How revolutionary is that?

Logic will get you from point
A to point B, but imagination can take you anywhere.
How revolutionary is that?

Neither the sun or death can be looked at steadily,
and still dying is an art like everything else.
How evolutionary.
Robin MacCuish Feb 2018
You may call me a Snowflake,
        But I will not melt.
You may call me a Snowflake,
        But we will blanket the ground
You may call me a Snowflake
        But my fist will remain
        In the air, emboldened
        And Inflamed
You may call me a Snowflake,
But my chapped lips will Breathe
Warm Winter air
You may call me a Snowflake,
     But remember
             you are nothing but an old tin can
     Rusting away in the cold of
             Our Snowflake sand
             for we are everywhere you will stand
You may call me a Snowflake,
Cause I will be back again
        And again and again
        Waiting here on the ground
        For you to come join me
        under this blanket
And be a friend.
Next page