jewel Sep 11

Recently I've noticed, that the world's skin deep. We've stopped looking past our features, and started scanning from head to feet. Closed minds don't matter, when your legs are open wide. Just like a personality is worthless, when you only want physically inside. We say we want to find love, but only indulge ourselves in lust. Just  to wind up brokenhearted, and wondering who we can trust.

This is just a short poem I wrote when I was dealing with some fake people.

We are the
Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah.
We have no ideology.
We have no theology.
We have no political convictions.
We take beautiful selfies
So people will see
How sexy we are.
We are the prostitutes' prostitutes.
Our lives are
A walking advertisement.
Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah.

This poem was influence by the recording, "Woman at the Edge of the World" by Eliza Soares from Brazil.

He’s a refugee of sorts
From society’s glitter gutter.
His nouveau riche attitude
Show in every word he utters.
That is where he’s from.
He’s nothing but glitter litter.
If he doesn’t get what he wants
He’s bitchy, obnoxious and bitter.

He’s a legendary narcissist.
And prostitutes adore him.
He likes his body to be fat
But keeps his morals slim.

His daddy bought him toys
Of the fanciest richest kind.
Dad didn’t care what it did to him.
He must have been blind.
He ruined the boy with money
Buying his way through college
So that when the boy left there
He had style and little knowledge.

Daddy gave him a nice fortune
To start off his spoiled whelp.
Son was never really good at much
But having a few million helped.
The kid liked glitz and glamour
And especially glittery women.
One after the other he used them
And never really got smitten.

He’s a legendary narcissist.
And prostitutes adore him.
He likes his body to be fat
But keeps his morals slim.

Now a few children later
They have become a bother.
They keep needing things
Like money from their rich father.
He wonders where they got
That sickening greedy habit.
He’s fears if they can get
His gold they'll surely grab it.

He’s a legendary narcissist.
And prostitutes adore him.
He likes his body to be fat
But keeps his morals slim.

Alissa Rogers Mar 2013

And yet again, I care too much.
It burdens my shoulders
and suffocates me everyday.
Thoughts of everyone, everything,
efforts to remember,
it has consumed me
as would a storm.
To think that they-even you,
never wanted me,
it was always her.
Compare us
and I will always come up short.
And? I shouldn't even care.
It is dangerously shallow water to swim in;
but I cannot yet let it go:
I wish terribly to be
just one person's first choice.

Here's where the sip
drips slowly down my chin

she elaborates on the fragments
some self proclaimed
between her own bitter desires
to distinguish any fire
while she sits like cinders
singing the same praise
he once made

alone in the corner
headset tangled
her mania ignites
it's a spark
where she once knelt in
parking lots
throwing trash over fences
she stands taller
her embodiment of life

you sing to her like she's shallow
she cascaded down mountain sides
before she bent to you
sang behind the musty moments
of lover's eyes
broke bones
to mold the same life

you claim is your rightful
and true

she doesn't even beg
if only you knew.

Wejdan Sep 3

I still remember when you told me to stay away, because your way is full of thorns.
I kept playing your words in my head, like a holy-verses.
I refused to ratify it, now I believed.
you are in your grave and the way to you is full of thorns; But that is nothing comparing to my road, stinging thorns, my body tearing blood painfully.
I miss you!
and the road to you isn't long,
Dig my grave next to you, in the midnight, I am jogging my way to you.

Stuck in the moment of here and now
The writers hand becomes clouded by self doubt
He turns on his music for his mind to allow
The power of his words to crash about

A waterfall of his life flows from his wrist
Explosions of emotion fill up the page
Every new story a different experience
Showing why he stays in waters so shallow

Self love finds the sun to scare
Those doubtful clouds of grey
Bringing him strength to write
A heart aching pain away

Had some bad writers block and threw on some tunes to clear my mind
Brent Kincaid Aug 23

How are things at the country club?
Was the glitter group too much?
Was that hot young rock star there?
Did you try to get in touch?
Did you catch the ear of
That famous new playwright?
Did the paparazzi catch your act?
Did you do your thing tonight?

Who got mad and who got drunk?
Give me all the dirt.
Who got pissed and struck a blow
And, oh yes, who got hurt?
You see now I understand;
I’m your after dinner lover.
When you’re going somewhere publicly
You find yourself another.

And I guess that’s just not good enough
To keep me satisfied.
To be the after dinner rose
You tried so hard to hide.
So call up Central Casting
And find yourself another.
For I am not content to be
Your after dinner lover.

CERCA 1972 After one of Bobby Allan's dreadful soirees.
Viany Aug 16

You cannot stay in the shallow ends..
when you're trying to discover the depth of me

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