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Mohamed Nasir Aug 2018
upon a branch a pair of doves sit
and doesn't bend the branch a bit

it doesn't for being light and easy
no cares weighted responsibility

be weighted by gravity pins us tie
to earth for we're not meant to fly

as human wears heavy the crown
of  ******* of  the appointed one

crooing on a branch the lovers sit
the branch they sit don't hurt a bit.
Tijana Jul 2018
I was preapered to fight all my life, but against who? Brave beast like soldiers that are match to no one or just plain cowards?Why would I waste my time on these humorous synonyms, that cant even survive a day without aplause and their ego stroke.

Its funny, its humorous but its the harsh truth,I think you would die of laughter if I told you that they arent just your neighbours, but the rulers of this world. Brittle as nails, efficent in their work as snails, Its not even enough to call them natures biggest fails.

We laugh at our own despair, but it's funny how some things never change, we are all slaves without any chains.These charlatans found a way one day, to control us without any brute force, but by their brain.And here we are today, some are on the streets begging for bread,some live their lives by a comercial tread.
talaina sorensen Jun 2018
Beggers cant be Choosers,
Winners won't be Losers,
Early birds can't be Snoozers,
Dont'ers won't be Do'ers,
More or Less but jus not Fewer,
**** is ****.. It won't get Cuter..
If it's Old, it ain't getting Newer,
Roses are red &
Violets are Blue'er,
If you give them an Inch..they will take the whole Ruler
This world is Cold
And just getting Crueler .
damage has always been your forte -
an expertise,
your recalcitrant venom.
you annihilate
before they could burn you
and your fortress is painted
in a deep, metallic rouge.

you wear the word 'vicious'
like a crown;
loyal weapon tucked neatly in the
taverns of your mouth.
you are adroit with words, after all.
such a fine weapon,
such a clean cut.

realms bow down, subjects to terror.
sweet vilification's best served
in your court.
not one soul would dare to beard
the lion,
no single breath,
shall make your empire topple.

the caucus adjourns; your grip is slipping
you may be the head,
but we
are
the
body.

your realm will rot
from the inside.
(we) often fail to look deep within us to find the problem. (we) combat the diseases and threats, yet are oblivious to the poison in our veins - killing us from within.

then there's the other explanation. but you'll just have to read the title. ;)
Akshat Agarwal Mar 2018
Dumb Streets stroll along with brains of blitz
to an evening ritual of bathing with blood
where young smiles melt away and tears dry out,
guilty die and so do the ones who dare to doubt,
audience calls it the crowned fool’s supper
but our fool names it ‘Blooming of the Juniper’.

Dumb Streets poke their pride with ***** knives,
scoop their brains out for the queen of beehives
and surrender their soul for a single penny
which leads them to a war-zone surrounded by jinni.
The poor souls mustn’t retreat to the fool,
who’d treat them as his supper or a war-tool.

Dumb Streets fed-up, riot with sullen spirits,
they burn bridges and **** the fool’s puppets.
The supper gets heavy as the days go by,
our fool feasts on rioters who’ve sworn to die.
Soon the puppets disappear into thin air
and leave the palace for rioters to spare.

Dumb streets have our fool as their supper,
sink their shelters with wine and clutter,
but fail to notice uprising of another fool
who’d played leader of fish in the pool.
Shower mercy O! wise Fool upon your streets,
preach the dumb, who wonder what he eats.
Known, Unknown,
Poetry Family.
I am sitting here
with what looks like
clean knife wounds
down in my gut.

Five of them,
voluntarily
signed up for.

Created by
a master surgeon.

She understood,
better than I did,
this knife fight
that I was having
with my karma.

Yes indeedy,
the time of allowing myself to be
stepped on, whilst the stockpile, that became a
rock pile, of manifest frustration in my gut increased,
well, that time is over, and completely done with.
Good riddance to bad *******, sez I!!

One more lil' ole gall bladder bites the dust, and
even though there is this funny feeling of something
kind of missing, way down there in the middle of me,
it's just a phantom shadow, and I really don't need it any more.

We are, as Shelley said: "The unacknowledged legislators
of the world." - Yes, folks, my brother and sister poets. Us.
All of us.

The poets.

The word warriors.

The ones who wield words every day,
even when we are not writing
on the outside,
we are all
writing
on the inside.


We are, always,
*Writing.
Dedicated to all of you, whom I have missed reading and being with in these months when I wasn't well and wasn't here, and was working too **** hard in the middle of it all - no doubt like many of you!
And to my friend ***, who saw the knife fight
for what it was, and gave it a name.
And lastly, and very much not least, to my awesome surgeon, known amongst her fan club as Dr.Z.
©Elisa Maria Argiro
Andrew T Jul 2016
Control the guns. Or unload on one. Under the hopeless sun. Or control the shooters who stole his future.
Patrol in stupor when the gaping hole is super. Rolling in supras.
Holding and maneuver, round the bend. Good lord, glad I found the pen. But white men found the pen. In there, Black men down and spent. And they're wasting away in the pen. Write a letter to their friends. Either their behind the bars, or drinking in bars, or rhyming these bars. Spit it like I got tobacco juice in my mouth. Another shooting in the south, while I watch from the couch.

Kendrick said we gon be all right. And I'll believe him, when everyone has the same rights. When the white man know wrong from right. But just because you're light in your skin, it doesn't mean you're gone from light. Let this song break fights. Still though, as long as we're nice, you'll still invite us to smoke bongs and pipes.

But when the summer heat scorches the streets and the Porsches, next to the fortress with the smooth grain porches, you will ignore this. Warning shot coming at you, hot enough to light torches. I wake up every day thinking life is gorgeous, but at night I still walk like the tortoise.

No more of this.

Blood spilling on the pavement, now you wonder why I lounge in the basement. They say practice patience. They say keep waiting. They say there's saving. Pop a pill, forget about life, start raving. Po-po after the po, so send Edgar Allen Poe with a raven. Calling us kings, like this Game of Thrones, but this war is ancient. God vs. Satan. Medusa vs. the Maiden. Neo vs. all the agents.

Take hits before I escape to the matrix. Tired of eating fake ****. Make spliffs, out of makeshift wooden ships, that Cuba Gooding Jr. Gripped. Won't take lip, go and save it. Why are they loved and we hated?

Emotion flowing from the mac and the healing potion flowing from the track. Go in the back. Put the slow motion in the stacks, the records from class, tethered in snacks. America's anger is growing in fact, because every one knowing life's back. Shoot the body and throw it in the back. Fiction, or reality? Turn on the television, that has driven your vision to a complacent state of living. And you wonder why we're so forgiving?

But we're never forgetting. This here is armageddon. This is how life be when karma getting to be like, getting to be like, getting to be like fatal. Like Cain did abel. Death, or disabled. Missed the fable, because I kissed the label. Then the bottle, as I went and risked the stable. Now I'm gathering my crew and we're ****** and a holes.

Hear the shot ring from Baton Rouge to Chicago. Thinking about becoming a florist. Foreigner in this land of tourists. Listening to beats from Morris. Joshua hit me up for the chorus. How many black Americans need to die? If it were white people, would you ignore this?
AJ Jul 2016
Granite washed in gray day's light
From fresh yellow hills to shrouded night
The wings of an angel stretch far and high
Atop each, a bird has time to bide.

Greens of white and black and blue
Keep still in the winds which sing so true
Plump summer leaves fall out of air
And tumble onto a fox's silky hair.

A lute strikes hidden melodies
Like hummingbirds sing, mellow and free
In a castle made of washed gray stone
A king yearns for his long-lost home.

Fountains of youth spout looking glasses
Into which priests shout to the masses
Words of love and hypocrisy
That cage sick cherubs who've never once dreamed.

Pillars of stone and lush green patches
And cigarettes lit by inch-long matches
Time bends far and tastes so sweet
For those who plant enough trees to sleep.

A tall green tower climbs over mountains
A prince's curse it gladly renounces
Around it, houses broken and bent
By war-torn rebels who won't repent.

Gardens never seemed so small
When charlatans crowd their purple halls
And somewhere far, an ancient says,
This would never pass unnoticed were I not dead.

Cities of tombs and streets without light
Fall slowly into an unsavory night
Moss grows swiftly on age-old tombs
While sirens sing immortal tunes.
Shaylie Pryer Apr 2016
The screen is our religion,
dreary eyed and mouth wide open we are absorbed into the graphics.
Swirling around us on the the Tv plane are the stories,
“breaking news” we are breaking ourselves,
because the tendrils come shooting out and grasp our brain feeding us poison.
Our soul carers called the democratic love playing dress up,
a wolf in sheep's clothing,
and while they play we are neglected,
bad parenting.

We don't get to play,
we are the ants,
in systematic order, we provide,
the only time we get to play is when we retreat inside our mind.
Then we become the stereotype “ignorance is bliss”
while the world falls to pieces, is it because we voted for this?
Maybe.
We are the ones in control and yet we have no power,
we lounge inside, the clock is ticking by the hour.
The world is broke with each secret kept,
each person pretending that its okay,
while the connected, open minded ones feel powerless and hide away.
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