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Emmanuella Jan 23
"Hello, little Little shoulder,
Haven't you cried a bucket of tears over the years?
Or was it?
Was it all just yesterday?"
Because it very well could be.

~~A little melancholy question for her shoulder~~
Tommy Randell Jan 18
When you get to the bottom of this letter
You will see the world anew, then perhaps know me better.
When you have listened, given thought to what I'm saying,
You will understand I hope my reputation for hating.

When I was a boy they let the world abuse me,
Instead of learning love I daily learned to hide my bruises,
On a permanent basis soaking up their hatred
To become this broken doll no one wants to play with.

Acting out a role in a life of empty stages,
I used Love to justify non-existent rages.
I treated the innocent the way the guilty treated me,
I employed Love as the camouflage for cruelty.

I learned. Now, I am Passive aggressive and a democracy of one,
Sometimes a dictator and no Mother's Son.
I've known no Father's discipline and no Father's love.
When i push people away I make sure I draw blood.

What my goals are doesn't matter,
I can get under anyone's skin with a little Poet's patter.
I can feign humour, show remorse, charm birds off the trees -
I like you all better down on your knees.

I stand tall on my own, my sights set on the prize,
My best weapon ever... the child in my eyes.
And, I am telling you now it is too late to stop me...
Every word is a blade and the concealed weapon is Poetry.
I love to tell stories and make drama in my writing, why shouldn't I create them in my poetry?
I make myself so happy for no reason then stick my own back,
melancholic acts of treason, cut and measure my own lesions;
a line between pleasure and pleasing.
Not an pessimist nor a type of optimist but a realist who has mastered the execution of delusion and illusion.
Oxymoronic, Guess I'm just human;

Apparently the semblance of a god,
so making something from nothing isn't odd,
but I was given everything from a soul to my bones, hair to my toes;
Even to me who stays in this, sinew and ivory, home the reason is unknown but I know the weight of this form has its toll.

Ties made are rarly cut
more than the material is used,
bonds spirt imbued,
that which feeds hate and love.
My soul is the ocean my form the soil my mind the heavens so it's wisdom guides the toil.
What I put on to my body will seep to the sea, be it poisons or ointments that is to be seen, my wish for foresight seems obscene,
a noxious tint colors the scene
Ah this is but a show, how else can I explain the tragedies sown.

Who wrote this play?
No
Who paid its commission,
who conscripted us to suffer, no need for permission, no fine print played off as a simple omission?
Actors with no access to backstage
so it is do or die,
freedom in a cage,
the 4th wall blocks our eyes.
we get no reactions for our performance
no real feedback,
so we face our troupe like opponents, for no real reason.
Whilst some seem to flourish in a limelight others perish in darkness
some disappear through trap doors others fly with out harness.

seasoned thespians sometimes show us a way; how to perform our parts, from when they entered the play.
We are told there is a script, so I would say some have forgotten thier lines
but honestly the script has never passed these eyes,
all I know is that somes voices are drowned out by the soundtracks of anxiety and sadness;
The polyrhythms of fear and deafening sound of loneliness and madness
How could the director have this?

That's the purpose of a tragedy; make the watcher feel like they are living lavishly.

Wanted a reason why I find it so tragic.

In the words of Life 'There, you have it.'
Slam tracscribed. I've been reading some tragedies and re-realized that fact can be truly worse than fiction
Ninté Null Sep 2018
a simple mind
a lover not cruel, yet unkind
a heart that beats in digits
in binary, to a love lost to time

what will I be
tomorrow, next moment
tell me, if you know
dear shadow, what am I

Ninté
© All Rights Reserved
2018
Quotedbykayla Aug 2018
when did it become so painful

why did it get to a point of it being so hurtful?

the search to find a trusted one goes dead,

with the battle to have one to speak to,

emotions are trapped inside my head.

for the love we gave was yet so sweet,

but pure,

we still couldn't find the medication to cure.

then blood became sweeter than tears,

when we dragged our blades,we overcame each fear.

it flowed like the rivers,

so fast you feel the shivers.

the life in our veins

disappeared one by one-after each pain.

we became one and diverse,

when we sharpen each pen

and write a new verse.

a promise of security,

yet still take away my purity.

they told her to remain silent,

but how can she- when they still stay so violent

what did you expect love,

for them to treat us with respect?
Gary Brocks Aug 2018
Picture a late afternoon
iridescent honey-yellow:

The glance she knows is seen
her cool hand placed in yours
your stripped shirt she rips,
her mouthing, “You’re it!”, hiding,
revealing herself stripped,
her finger tipped shh,
the brush of *******,
surrender and assent.

She'll rise with a rustle
of desiccated pines,
needles will fall from her back,
she'll crumple a cigarette pack,
humming a vacant lament,
fingers caressing a fossil flea,
embalmed in a dangling pendant.

Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
180828F

A girl I knew. She said on several occasions, “All my boyfriends remember me”. This was very important to her. Seemingly more important than actually maintaining a relationship with any one of them. Her memories of them were like fossils, like insects preserved in amber in a pendant, that she would rub over after a final *** act with her most recent specimen. Naming her Amber for the way she kept and used her memories (was I to become the flea?), and portraying her actions as a farewell soliloquy in mime seemed like emotionally truthful fun.
Quotedbykayla Aug 2018
She cleaves onto her like a blunt razor-
stroked onto the mustache of a young man.
If only she was omniscient enough into resisting
the beguiling beauty within and beyond the tangible.
She constantly craves composition within thine peoples,
yet they make augured gore holes into her oesophagus.

Lesser does she know to refrain from it,
yet more she knows to stay.
More does she know their separated fortune,
lesser she chooses to be borne in hand.
Her notion is of higher standards,
yet still the lowest.

Scarf up thine eyes;
Plug up thou ears;
Tape up thine mouths;
Nevertheless chop off thy tongue
Yan F Jun 2018
i'm sorry
if i was
never able
to tell you
'fix yourself'
before
you totally
blocked me out
(or blocked me away?)
i was too busy
fixing the things
you broke----
like your own trust
oh
and i did trust you too
fyi
just saying
and our
well
"relationship"
if you could still
call it that
which by the way
you said
'ayokong mawala ka kuya'
that will lose it's value
if i translate it to english
because for some
unknown(lol) reason
i still treaure those
words
(broken promises are just words right?)

and umm right now
i'm sorry if
i couldn't reply
so quickly
that you're asking
for help----
i'm too busy writing this
which by the way
you should really read
when i publish it
probably when i've moved on
and umm
i can laugh about it already
but really, at the moment
all i can think about
is how
i wasn't even able
to tell you
'fix yourself'
before you broke me completely
because i was too busy
hurting
by myself
and apparently hurting in your behalf
since apparently you're 'too cool' to cry for me.
don't worry, after i write this
i'll probably
not say those two words again...
and i'll probably
fall head over heels for you again...
bah if i ever let you read this
that means i've either succeeded or quit?
but for now
i will try to fix you
fill in the blanks
umm septemer 2017---- finally got to publish this
please laugh
just laugh
laugh!

and umm btw, to avoid any sequels nope i quit mkay? done, g'night.
Cam May 2018
Every year is the same,
same people,
same places,
same time,
same faces.
They bring me their labeled tickets,
the same **** tan-colored, black-inked tickets.
Bent and smudged as if it went through their wash.
No time for conversation,
not even small talk,
only the same old.... hello.
They sit, they smile, they leave.
They sit,
on that same old boring brown box,
"Feet placed where the red exes are please."
You think they'd already know that by now.
They smile,
tilting their head to the right,
their eyes looking directly at the lens,
looking as if they were hypnotized.
They leave,  
the camera flashes bringing them back to realization,
they release their breath,  
"Goodbye!" They say,
"Have a nice day!" They say.
Who I wanted to be is who I am not today,
who I wanted to be is not where society has placed me,
who I wanted to be is what society calls a joke,
who I wanted to be is free.
A photographer.
Not here working for life touch taking pictures of the same bland faces,
I imagined myself... flying,
Like a bird traveling around the world,
Capturing every moment I see,
Where the natural light glistens across the landscape,
where i can direct the poses of my subject.
But instead,
i'm stuck here taking pictures for life touch
of the same people,
at the same places,
of the same faces.
this is my first time posting a poem.
i do not work for life touch.
a soliloquy is an act of speaking one's thoughts aloud when by oneself or regardless of any hearers, especially by a character in a play.
(so im acting as if i were working for life-touch but i really wanted to be my own free photographer).
-cam
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