vanda czene Apr 7
Oh, Monotony ominous harmony
Your Ruthless philosophy,
Leaves no room for mutiny

Monotony. What are you?
A mystery. A missing mystery.
I’m missing this mystery, my missing mystery.

Monotony, who are you?
Are you a mister?
A mysterious mister, a masked mysterious mister?
Maybe our masked mysterious mister’s mistress.
A messy mistress, she mixes up her master’s mantle with her miniskirts.

Let me say he’s

Now she’s wearing half a mantle
To cover all down to her ankles
While her husband’s scornful grumble
Can be heard from overseas

Let me say he’s

Our mysterious mister’s mask
Masks the floor like masking tape
In their struggle to exchange
The garments they misplaced

Mask on the floor
Skirt bares chest
On with mantle
Thighs slide into

What is your history?
I can’t solve your mystery,
Meant to be spoken word poetry, so go on and scream it out loud.
So, here's the cache:
Make sure
all & any & every
single move you make
you won’t regret

in years or even days
keeping you at 3am
in the bath wide awake

as a preventive
bound tight to this vow, I stay

say what you mean
& mean what you say

Like champange with cocaine,
you'll have been overcame with duende
for this phrase

& it’ll keep your subconscious feeling clean
while you continue to slay away
at just your normal hygiene for today
or maybe a few disarrayed prey
it'll even help trick it when you actually are totally aware
you’re instigating & quite quietly steering
some rather nasty foul play

but besides the fact the move’s today
and still, I attempt to cajole
and I’m now regretting not only an action
but a whole section
an entire chunk of my life spun out and
became some mangled & fucked-up black hole

& the worst part is, its long past,
I mean it's looooong since slipped outta my control
& it's long past me being the one looked to for decisions
& its long past when I sorta lost
all & any & every
bit of possibly existing trust

& long past, I just now noticed it all
mid-through one of countless attempts to self-console

because when I went crazy, everyone still called me Superman

Because when Superman bumps his head,
who’s gonna get past the
Super in Superman
and fuckin pick him up and put him back on solid ground?

Because that’d really suck if Superman wound up dead
Because no one thought the dude that shut down the Ku Klux Klan
Could be uncrowned &
end up all bled out & drowned
i hope you mean it.
Mary Mar 24
You're a wolf in sheep's clothing
You're a snake in the grass
You're a piece of bubblegum stuck to the bottom of my shoe that I can't seem to get rid of.
Wait, that's not an idiom.
But I can't find the words to describe you
No word in the English language, no sequence of words, of phrases, of syllables could accurately describe you
But I'll try.
Flea ridden dog.
Two end pieces of a moldy loaf of bread.
A clock that I keep looking at that never seems to change.
An outfit that is two different shades of black.
A baby that reaches for someone else when I try to hold him.
You're anger, deceit, lies.
What was it that you told me when we said goodbye?
We've cried enough.
Because my heart is a well that will never be filled, and yours is not even a bucket.
Your pail promised me a future, a ring.
A lifetime of firsts.
And I believed you.
I wonder if being as shallow as a puddle made it easier.
Maybe I can't blame you, because with a heart as flimsy as a piece of paper, it must be so easy to tear.
All I can wonder is if you sent us the same goodnight message.
The girl with the empty eyes
Is really just shattered inside
She’ll sew together her broken heart
But it no matter how hard she tries it will just fall apart
She’ll glue the pieces of her soul
But she can never make it whole
Bullied and accused
For defying your fucked up and broken views
She’s dying
And she’s crying
And she’s lying
Cause she tells us she’s fine
But she’s not
Cause she’s dying

The boy with the sad smile
Feels like he’s in exile
His dad left long ago
And his mom is never home
He cries himself to sleep at night
Because he’s tired of this endless fight
You tell him to drown his demons
And to arm himself with weapons
But his limbs are so damn tired
And he’s all to uninspired
To continue in this life

These two
And too many more
Have to fight
A broken fight
Have to live
A broken life
And your best advice
Is to sew on a smile
Because psychology says that that’s worth their while

They're stronger than you
Whether you like it or not
And unless you can understand
The constant fear
And reprimand
Of their life
You won't stop
And soon you’ll find
Their blood
Is on your hands too

And you’ll realise
This demand
Of societies homeland
Turns peoples life to a swampland
Of bland perfection

And to those
Who can't check the boxes of these messed up questions
Remember that your life
Is not for their inspection
It’s to teach others lessons
It’s to make an impression
It’s to find your purpose
And know that no matter what you are worth it
This life is worth it

And If you forget all of this yet
At least remember this noise
My voice
Telling you
To stay alive
To open your eyes
To recognize that when the day is done
You are the one that has won

I know You’re put in a ring
And you’re demons are who you’re fighting
But you have to know
That even though
The bets are placed
And the odds are low
You can still put on a show

You are stronger
Than you believe
And I know you can fight
Or at least fight alongside me
Because you are not alone
We are not alone

We are together
Stronger than our foes
And we can win
In this broken world
We can win this broken fight.
Meant to be read as a slam poem.
H Phone Mar 18
I wish I was strong
I wish I was strong enough to get out from under the comfort of my sheets
Or the warm water washing over my body in the shower
I wish I was strong enough to open my books,
Instead of listening to the same five songs again
I wish I was strong enough to get over a loss,
Be it a failed exam or a boss I can’t beat in a video game
I wish I was strong enough to help my friends
Because that's the person I strive to be
I wish I was strong enough to keep that job

I wish I was strong enough to like my own works
But it’s hard to when they look like this
No rhyme scheme or metaphors
Only thing this poem has got going for itself is that repeating stanza
Real clever or whatever
You call it slam poetry
But you might as well call it sham poetry
Slam poetry
Because you need to be slammed drunk to enjoy your poems
And don’t even pretend like you didn’t notice
How no one seems to give a shit about this
This series of ‘works’ that you’ve been putting out
Where all you do is fucking swear and shout
At yourself
Fucking hell

I bet your last line would have been
“I wish I was strong enough to love myself.”
Boo fucking hoo
Too fucking bad
Because you’ll only love me the moment you realize
That what I say is true
I’m not gonna say that I’m only rude
Because I love you
I hate your guts too
much for something so…
You’re a bit of a sentimental, right, boo?
If sentimental meant pushover

Sorry, didn’t mean to scare
Oh wait, no, I don’t really care
Because even you’re aware
How you’ve locked yourself in an echo room
And the moment someone tries to break through…
“Don’t worry, I can take it.”
And then you write something edgy like this
You can’t take advice for shit
Because that’s your fucking deal
You’ve got tonnes of people giving you the advice that you need to heal
And you ignore every single one of them
Acquaintances, friends, family
And what about me?

But It’s pointless anyway
You’re on auto-pilot already
Just cut the act and write your cringy addendum poem
We’re done here
reilly Mar 15
when I was 14 I was force fed contraception and never got a taste of an apology
when I was 14 the phrase "I'm not ready" wasn't a clear enough interpretation of "no"
so instead of presenting my case in front of a judge, I presented my virginity in front of a 17 year old boy.
when I was 14 I didn't know I was being raped until a week and a half later when it happened again.
and even through my broken sobs and nightmares, my own father didn't believe me for over a year.
when I was 15, I was diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder because the distinction between love and tear stained pillow cases was nearly non existent.
when I was 15, I made the decision to drown the flashbacks in a sea of painkillers, and in what followed I met thirteen other beautiful girls who shared the same story I did.
when I was 16 I realized something had to be done.

for two years I hid a badge labeled 'rape victim' under long sleeves and red eyes because I was too ashamed of what I let happened to myself to get help.
I was told I made a false accusation, when in reality the only fallacy is in our justice system.

rape is not always a white t shirt with specks of blood in the back of an alley or a drunk uncle with a wandering eye. rape is not always screaming at the top of your lungs and fighting for your life with a knife to the neck. it is not always textbook, but that doesn't mean it shouldn't be taken seriously.
Victoria Mar 14
He was like rain
That washed away every bit of doubt in my mind
He was like sun
That warmed my lips every time we kissed
He was like snow
That you get every winter so you didn't have to go to school
He was like happiness
That spread through my blood stream like a virus
He was like sadness
That I couldn't get rid of because he wasn't with me
He was like lust
That captivated me every time he touched my body
He was like obsession
That whittled away at my thoughts
He was like jealousy
That made me hold his hand a little tighter if his eyes wandered
He was like smiling    
That you practiced everyday so people can't ask if you're okay
He was like hate
That you would choke down because you have company
He was like war
That you tried to win every battle but he had the upper hand
He was like fire
That you need to stay warm but if you got to close he would burn you
He was like love
That you wanted to fight for but at the end of the day
wasn't worth it
The gusts of wind rustle through his dark hair as he rides his broomstick
In the search of the golden snitch – In the search of the ferrety golden snitch.
And in his mind whizzes past an image – at lightning speed, very swiftly,
As his expert eyes go after the small shiny metallic ball.

The Nimbus 2000 he once owned has now been replaced with another
In the attempt to make him quicker – In the attempt to make him quicker.
His eyes look like his mother Lily’s – His father James was a Seeker,
This is an analogy of a natural case of heredity in Harry.

The old broomstick Nimbus 2000 he owned was broken into pieces
In his third year at the school of magic – In his third year at Hogwarts.
Dementors attacked him – in the Quidditch pitch during a match,
And he fell several feet below from air before Dumbledore saved him.
My HP Poem #155 For My Childhood Phantasm Harry Potter
Potter Fans Know What I Mean, We Thought Him To Be Real - At Least For That Short Span Of Time!
© Atul Kaushal
Kammy Mar 1
"Grey, I wish I was you!
You're so happy!
You never give up!
You never struggle!
How do you do it?"
Daily, I get told this.
Always saying thank you,
as if my vocabulary bit my tongue,
spitting something else out,
someone else into my place.
My throat burns with screams
I can not release,
as if my own carbon dioxide suffocated my thoughts,
leaving a waste of capacity within the room.
This paint consumes my face,
concealing any trace of reaction
that I want to give.
That I need to detoxicate from my chemical unbalance.
I want to speak
but the flood of anxiety
grasping at my air,
makes me too terrified to be heard.
If I was heard
no one would believe it was me.
They would all look around,
and say nothing,
worshiping the silence I yet to give.
The consequences hide behind the lines,
that my mind can't bend.
The ventilation of my corrupted system
backslides into error,
shutting down the coordination
of my world to come.
Turning my everything
against the collapsing forgotten,
that I didn't raffle for.
I didn't sign up for this
scenery that rotates my sights to the
desperate calling
of a separating cell.
"You look so different, Grey. Have you lost weight?"
Oh, thank you for confusing
my sorrow
as cackling ossein
that lost all their symbolism
as a whole.
Why satisfy the ocean
if the waves tug between
the used and abused.
How did my appearance affect the way
vitality takes place
between the lines
of an open book
that I elope
with the desperation
of being found,
Being saved.
“Why do you sleep so long,
even though you went to bed at 7:30?”
I don’t sleep for the sake of depletion from the world.
Sleep calls from the numbness attached to my dangling limbs,
the rumination of death,
but somehow,
still isn’t convinced.
Why bother to contrast me
to the markings of the sun,
if only to be controlled by the skin.
"Sweetheart, why are you so quiet? You're never quiet."
This was meant as a slam poem, by the way!!
Written around November 2017.
Victoria Feb 21
I couldn't find a song
The music didn't fit
No lyrics could describe
The wall the we hit
The pain
Our lies
You leaving so abruptly
Looking back at it now
It all sounds so funny
You learn to forgive
But its hard to forget
We'll always have a connection
That we can never unlive
So you showed me in songs
Just how you feel
I'll tell you in word
So you know that its real
We had a good run
We loved
And we lost
I forgive you for alot
As long as you forgive me
For calling the cops
There will always be a place
Right in my heart
And I hope every night
You don't fall apart
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