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MysticRiddleton Aug 2018
Even if statistics
would find ballistics
Beneath the bed
Of all colored head

A lovely red
would show no mercy
Beyond the thread
Of seamless heresy.
How I hate the concept of stereotyping especially when it degrades kind individuals.
Zen Dog May 2018
He rolls up smiling in his finely detailed luxury convertible with the executive package. He checks his watch frequently as he has many things to do, but he also likes to look at it. He likes to look at other people looking at it too. Nothing but the finest for him. From his italian leather belt to his perfectly creased tailor fit khaki slacks. He has his dress shirt tucked in and power jacket on to show that he's all business, but no tie.. Never a tie, because the lack of one keeps him hip and real and young. He's living the life, he thinks to himself, a forty-four year old bachelor, all the money in the world, and a full head of hair.
He didn't hold the door for the lady walking behind him as he entered the store and she was left scrambling to catch the handle. He suddenly seemed awfully alone in the world he created. So much so that he doesn't even notice the rest of us. Then he exchanged some demeaning words with the cashier for taking too long when counting change and I realized he wasn't happy either.  He glanced at me as he left and as our eyes met I wondered what my face said to him... If anything at all.
Got Guanxi Jan 2016
feminist

Cut your hair Samson,
beautiful locks.

Wear shirts and chinos,
no matter the costs.

Stereotype my essence,
and call me a man.

Say what you want to,
but not what you can’t.

Pretend I despise you,
when I respect what you say.

I’ll pretend I respect you,
when it doesn’t make sense.

I see you as equal
whilst you condemn me as evil,

or you overlook others,
that I hold close as brothers.

The funny things is,
you’re just as bad,
lad.

Trying to blame other people,
for the substance you lack.

You’re the worst contradiction,
of my opposite form.

Without the ***** of women,
and the allure of the man,

we couldn’t exist,
we go hand in hand.
Sunshine Girl Jan 2016
Flowerbeds. Treasure.
These heaps of soil on the ground can mean life, have value.
They hold secrets, treasures, can be the calling for an adventurous man or the vocation of the neighborly woman with the green thumb.
But when you read the title, you thought of graves, didn't you?

That's how twisted and sadistic, how pessimistic and dull our world has become. We don't see the possibilities of beauty that bloom in secret behind the thick fog our words create. We don't have the capacity to understand how something like a grave- which, in our culture means death and insurmountable amounts of weeping- could mean anything but sorrow.

But just take the time to look closer.

On top of graves, flowers bloom for their inhabitants, guarding the treasure that lays just under the thin crust of soil below. They represent the life that was lived laughing, loving, and learning over the years. The blossoms show the value seen in this particular person by others, who smile when they remember the friend who still lives on in their thoughts.

Now, I'm not telling you to laugh and be joyful at a funeral. But consider the amount of hope brought by those stalks swaying in the breeze, the happiness recollected by the thin delicacy of the petals...

Look at those mounds of dirt. And rejoice.
Our society seems to like to stereotype everything, and now those stereotypes stain our words.
Viseract Dec 2015
Saddened and alone
I'm supposed to be having fun
But the truth is,
I'll be glad when it's over and done

Yeah, call me a stereotypical teenager
I just wanna text my friends and stare at a screen
But you wouldn't know how I feel- no-one does
Or how, without my connections, my heart tears and bleeds

Is it so bad to want your friends, to talk to them?
Surely this means that they mean something
I think it means we have people we would endure the world for:
Survive, or die trying, true friendship couldn't mean much more
let me know your thoughts on this one- I'm curious
William Crowe II May 2014
If you want to be a poet,
just pretend to be depressed.

Drink alcohol, cut yourself, &
pop pills.

Listen to angry music &
wear black every day.

If you dare to smile we will
cut you from the canon!

To be a poet is to be a disciple,
a saddened & sickened disciple.

If you aren't angsty & angry
you cannot be a poet.

Poetry is about sadness
& hate & anger.

Poetry is a way for teenagers
to hate their parents
& get away with it.

Alas, I cannot be a poet;
I believe in Heaven, you see,
or something like it
& enjoy life
immensely.
Yes, this is completely scathing

— The End —