Writing to share
anonymously being
heard and read
Nothing more, please
      
No incense with plumes
for me, I share something
of all of us, I offer
mirror images of life

They are pieces
of my existence, not of me
At most, a single thought
comes from me

There was once a time
when men were championed for being sent off to war
celebrated
for having gone to battle

Should they have survived,
they would come home to their people,
drinking wine and parading about their accomplishments
while everyone gathered to listen to their tales

Yet, today, men are actively discouraged from sharing their battles

and I know,
a breakup,
or a depressive episode,
or even just a bad day
are not on the level of grandeur as a bloodied fight to the death

but even the small victories were once reason for banners to be hung
and the small losses; a reason for mourning

so, please, share your battles, whether they were a win or a loss,
because you never know
which fight will be the one to consume you

There was a time I knew sadness,
There was a time I knew pain.
There was a time I knew sorrow,
There was a time I knew shame.

And then I saw her;
Not like a dream, not like a hope,
But real, alive,
A spark in a world that had forgotten how to burn.

She didn’t speak the same language as my grief,
Her words were light,
But they landed heavy,
Like rain on a parched land.

She smiled, and for the first time in years,
I didn’t feel broken.
I didn’t feel like a collection of wounds
Held together by fragile skin.

She held my hand once,
And the touch was like a promise,
A promise that maybe the weight I carried
Wasn't mine to bear alone.

She took my sadness,
Took my pain,
Took my sorrow,
Took my shame,
And replaced them with warmth
I didn’t think I could feel.

But then one day,
I looked into her eyes.

And in that moment,
I saw it—
All the things she had taken from me,
All the things she had quietly held,
Lived there, in the depths of her gaze.

And for a single moment...

There was a time I saw sadness,
There was a time I saw pain.
There was a time I saw sorrow,
There was a time I saw shame.

It isn’t Paris but it is.

As the light washes
over late afternoon
walls full of us and
other people’s lives.

As the music charms
our old bones we can
add context to our list
of rolodex happenings.

As the shadows hint at
mystery beneath every
shining moment we can
justifiably glint and smile.

It isn’t Paris…but it is.



Tony Noon

what's the most important thing you've learned In life

Sharing your pain is the cure for a great deal of pain
Scars that turn into melodies; wounds into stories
Gaping holes into beautiful forests, and broken hands
Into hearts that cradle your soul

Sharing your pain and watching others perceive it
Is the balm to a lot of misery, a promise that
No matter what, you’re not alone
And there are people wandering those forests with you
Holding your heart in their careful hands

Your phone is my Camera on buses, in stores, on the streets,
Every step tracked, no place to retreat from you all.
Our privacy given away to tech, no fight no question
yet you like the fool you are push my video camera from  your space
telling me I have no right to film you face to face.
You sold our souls for the convenience of now,
But what’s left of us? Where’d we go, and how?

We Serfs in polos, the white-collar star bucks ******,
Spoiled and arrogant, we’ve all been scammed.
Cell phones killed the magic its gone, the mystery slain,
All answers in pixels, no room for your tiny underused brain.

Spoiled, pampered, entitled, and mentally neutered by the over-processed, corporate-approved content that’s spoon-fed through algorithms, YouTube, and Facebook clones of clowns social media vampires soulless and genderless. They’re stuck in an adult-sized version of what should have been childhood  Disney lessons, but all those lessons are blurred and neutered into sheeple mediocrity. Coddled, wrapped in mommies ouch free band aides and tear free shampoo. Constantly bought and sold and always told their feelings are the center of the universe, and now they’re the ones mindlessly chanting “Team One Direction” and “Big Time Rush Forever.”  The same kids who were never " bullied", never pushed to confront anything challenging, or forced to step outside their comfort zones. Phone out , click take that ***** picture, then run and tell and post all the " bad men " from a one sided fairy tale mirror. Everything curated, everything moderated, safe from the harshness of life, only to grow into adults who are still trapped in the glow of their ‘safe spaces,’ feeding on pre-packaged, consumer-friendly fluff. Making office life unbearable for real men and even worse voting and making laws. Still can't sleep without a night light. As the prison door slams again, another unwanted pregnancy.

All our faces are known, in an instant, they’re there,
A snapshot, a database, no secrets to spare.
The world’s all exposed, no corner too dark,
We film every moment, every spark.
In an instant you have my address, my job
and all the rest. Stalker fantasy
psychotic and legal and plain to see.

A Karen’s outburst, a cop gone wrong,
We post it, we share it, we sing it in song.
No mystery left, no quiet refrain,
Just constant noise, the endless campaign.

We’re all content now, our worth measured in likes,
Trapped in the web, shackled by swipes.

Participation trophies, and the sanitized comfort of never feeling a real blow. The ones who grew up on Disney-fied lessons, where nothing’s too hard, nothing’s too real—just bright, happy images, perfect for minds that were never asked to do anything for themselves. Diary of A Wimpy kid poster children. Glamorized and loving it. Bedazzled soccer mom minivan Blaring Brittany.

The same people who never learned to think for themselves  now telling you what to think and giving YOU the life time ban. Because the world around them was designed to stop them from ever having to try  to cry or question why. When everything’s curated by the Google and Chat GPT A.I., when the world fits into a neat little echo chamber of controlled opinions, there’s no room for independent thought, no need to fight for your identity. Who are you anyway ? It doesn't matter.  Go do your project in a group as A group.

No wonder they’re  all so eager  to cry and tattle like the sissies they are all overweight  tools, easily satisfied with plastic idols, mindless likes, and a world that offers everything delivered to their doors on an Amazon Jeff Bezos ***** rocket  silver platter. It’s the loudest, most vapid echo of a  monetary , greed society that’s already prostituted  itself. Toddlers in Tiaras . Cash me outside.
Her mer gerd.

From " Friends " to Highschool Musical.
Trump truly is what you deserve.

For an hour I visited,
A guest to the house,
Of a poet's 'palace.'

For an hour I was there,
It took me all that time,
Just to post once.

For an hour I visited,
A weary world,
Of 'The best poets you've ever met.'

For an hour,
And I'll never go again.