Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jay M Mar 2019
Through times of pain,
One can only do so much,
When it erupts and all is gone,
The heart takes over,
You are nothing but a puppet,
A slave of the subconscious,
Then you do an extreme deed,
Roses bloom,
Heart beats fast,
Rain pattering lightly,
The moment, sweet and unexpected,
Over in an instant,
Excitement fills the air,
Then it tumbles down upon you,
As all good things,
This, too, had a bitter end.

- Jay M
January 15th, 2019
andTilly Oct 12
so here I am, here I go.
here I put my bottom, base
on this shiny, gleamy surface.
my face gleaming with joy.
sitting, I can’t help but babble
about how every movement moves a bubble,
and how my wetness combines with
the wet and cold from underneath.
how about a nap, I ask?
how about some deserved rest?
it seems like an easy task,
I don’t mind a random pest.
laying down I feel the caress
of the cold and liquid hand.
hugging me down, I am flawless
in my sparkly pose to mend
my sleeping missed. all went
good so far, I’m thinking.
I’ll close my eyes for a wee bit.
after sundown I get up.
to sit some more, wet in my lap
enjoying my portion of sunshine knit
by those warm golden hands of her -
the almost-sleeping beauty curved.
caress me more while you can,
in the night I’ll entertain my man
the colder, bolder, plumpy gent
who’ll make wet more cold. I can
get ready to meet him, instead
more sitting there, rather than
unnecessary lifting the good-for-nothing clothes.
already having gone through these roads
I’ll lose my covers anyhow.
now ******* to wow
the silver moonlight. after all will be over
he hands me down a four-leafed clover,
laughing how good a joke that always is -
knowing where my ***** sat and sits.
I’ll smile politely and nod
understanding time to cover myself, not
anymore waiting to be in the spotlight.
reaching a new low in such height,
indecisive about what to do, I’ll choose
not to choose. sitting in wet, red,
I don’t lose.
written on a Vienna->Stockholm flight
feeling lost and sold and cold
Pockets Aug 28
We are fish in an aquarium
Swimming all around
We live our lives in circles
Screaming to get out
We all are different colors
We all have different backgrounds
But this tank that we’re trapped in
Makes us all the same now

The manna that rains from heaven
Makes us fight like thieves
Some of us eat our children
Some of us starve in the street
The bigger fish are greedy
They never skip a meal
The little fish band together
And decide who they will ****

One day we will bite the hand that feeds us
When we get fed up with this life
We’re tired of being performers
For the master’s prying eye
We would rather starve than go on living  
this kind of lie
That if we keep on swimming
Then everything will be alright
raquezha Aug 7
Arog palan kaini an pagmati
Kan magtrabaho para sa sadiri
Mamata nin amay
Maayos nin gamit
Malutong pamahawan
Makarigos nin dali-dali
Sasanglian an murusdot na lalawgon
Late ka nanaman
Mayo nanaman kayang sakayan
Diyan sa may kanto

Arog palan kaini an pagmati
Kan mawaraan trabaho
Aro-aldaw ginigibo ko an gabos
Buong púsò kong tinatatao
An kusog asin hawak ko
Mayòng pinapalampas na oras
Aro-aldaw na paulit-ulit
Puon sa pagmata nin amay
Hanggang sa pag-ulî nin banggi

Pero tanò arog kaini?
Mayong nakakaintindi?
Hain na an úgay?
An pagmakulog?
Tanò puro pansadiri?

Mayò na bagang nangyayari
Kamong mga nakatukaw
Halangkawon man an harigi
Daí na nindo nahihiling an kasakitan
Kan mga uripon sa palibot nindo

Arog palan kaini an pagmati
Kan dai magkakan nin sarong aldaw,
Duwang aldaw asin sa ika-tulong aldáw
Daí ko na aram kun ano an totoo
Kun nabubuhay an tao para magtrabaho
O nagtatrabaho an tao para mabuhay
1. Urípon; servant, slave (in historical reference)
We all want it
But we haven't got any
Having it makes you free
Or else you're a slave to society

If you have some
You can go around the world
If you have a lot
The world goes around you

What good are you,
O'penniless pauper
In a society full of money
And devoid of love
How pleasant is to have money heigh **!
              -- Arthur Hugh Clough
kiran goswami May 25
They tell me to stick to my roots
because roots lead up to shoots.
They tell me to stick to my origin
unaware of how it acts as a prison,
My roots are Draupadi's hair that was twisted and lugged,
my roots are Panchali's saree that was tugged.
My roots are Sita's wrist Ravana wrested,
my roots are where Ahalya's chastity rested.
My roots are parasites that eat up its own herb and ****,
my roots are rat snakes that eat up its own tissue and meat.
My roots are flames of fire that created and watered the plant of Sati,
my roots are pools of blood and long ropes that drowned and hanged LaxmiBai and Moolmati.
My roots are the dish misogyny flavoured with patriarchy,
my roots are naked streams of Ganga washing off their lynching and anarchy.
My roots are all the poison Shiva drank during the churning of the sea,
my roots are Dhritrashtra's aspirations and ambiguity.
My roots are its own herbivore,
my roots are the lava that burns its own floor.
And my roots are my flesh and bone,
so I am stitched to my roots altogether, all alone.
So as I cut my own roots, my roots chop me,
hence I stick to my roots while my roots remain free.
The perfect little life
Glowing Skin
Rad Car
Shiny Teeth
Forever Happy Life!
Is it real or just fantasy?
Is it true or you just showing off?

The flawless talents you claim to have
In your virtual reality
Rising from social media industry
You sure you're nothing but a slave?
Slave to self created lies and misery...

With all this artificial manufacturing
Even the modern music sounds so boring.
The love for auto-tuned vocals and beats
I find it full of ****!
Nothing comes natural
Nothing's raw anymore
Cause everyone seems to forget
Mistakes make the better tune
Not just in music but in life too.

Everything needs to be comfortable
Everything needs to be fast
All of us have become so impatient
This obscure routine seems reliable
Bound to the super computer in our palms
Rotating through 3 apps whole day
All we do is rage and moan.

My perfect little dream
Collapsing in front of my eyes
and refusing to do anything
but become a digital world zombie...
You Us Me-Zombies
Asominate May 2
Who needs emotions when there are people to please?
Who needs doctors when you’re the source of the disease?
Who needs human functions to live when you’re deceased?
Who needs love when it’s certain you deserve to bleed?
Who needs?
Afterall, who needs? Certainly not I!
Ylzm Apr 21
My life's in your hands
You believe what you will
choosing freedom and riches
Your hands not mine to wash

My life's in your hands
Born as servant, sold as slave
Gifted prisoner, unseen, unknown
My life not mine to choose
Next page