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The sky is falling
The people are hiding
The jackboots are on their way
A mother is calling
A child is crying
Uncertain they'll live through the day
The tanks, they are treading
Across sovereign borders
Some soldiers are dreading
Their inhumane orders
Though they have an advantage
This war can't be won
And that "collateral damage"
Is somebody's son
The victims of war
Are the poor and the sick
Slaughtered like cattle
For the wealthy and rich
Life's a Beach Jan 2016
I was more than this

More than the sieved shelled
husk in a hallway
Waiting for relatives to
scavenge fragmented
memories

More than the salted sinner
deserving of slaughter
Further than the fear in
my shivers as I stared down
a bullet; and lost.

More than just a media martyr
A way to sell papers
A symbol of massacre
Emotional wankery; societies comfort

That isn't me

I am more than just bravery
I am not merely someone's
More than a parent
More than a child
More than a hero
More than a minute of silence

I was my own.

A scribble;
Hobbies, Quirks, Tics,
Snarks, Anger, Laughter, Tragedy,
Sexuality, Inside Jokes,
Embarassment

I was secrets, that no-one else will
ever know.
I am secrets locked inside a rotting mass
I am forgotten; because I can no longer remember.

A stockpile of emotion,
reduced to a photo,
and the title of 'victim'
'hero'
'martyr'
'missed'

Today I am 2D
Today I 'RIP' Remembered

Tomorrow, I hope to be real
and forgotten

Tomorrow, I hope to have
**lived
Francie Lynch Jan 2016
The mother of the one
Claiming to be God-like
Was executed
By her god-like son
Playing his part
In a pagan tragedy.
Un-fricking-believable! Who kills his mother? In a civilized country, you'd be institutionalized, not honoured. Pure madness. Nothing else describes IS.
Alan S Bailey Jan 2016
I don't know where we went wrong. If you look at a person wrong,
You can wind up in between his sites. The danger a gun presents.
The best thing one can do is kiss themselves goodbye.
Of course, we always find people gunning down innocents.
In the news, in media. Why not increase gun sales? Why not
Spread fear and panic around about terrorists all day?
Sure we aren't the ones here bringing all the death,
Part of the cure, not the disease. Whatever they say!
Part Time Poet Jan 2016
Normal day at the office
New York City, can't complain
I wouldn't imagine anything
Going wrong today

Then we hear it...
Terrorists in the building
They're on the lower floor
Wielding guns, killing everyone

Our office goes on lockdown
We pile into one room
I pray to God they don't find us
No one deserves what's about to come

Door kicked open
Gunmen storm in
Screams and cries shriek out
I guess this is the end

They line us up
We cooperate with their commands
Maybe they won't **** us
If we don't make them mad

Then the nightmare begins
One by one they pull us out
In front of everyone so we can see
Stands straight, points gun, bang, on to the next one

I watch and shutter
As the bodies pile up
These were people I knew
And now their lives are done

I can't bear to watch this any longer
I sneak behind the line and hide
Behind a cabinet so they can't see me
Listening, I hear the worst sounds one can possibly imagine
1, 2, 3, Bang, Scream, Repeat

Then a pause
A muttering of foreign tongue
Footsteps creak against the floor
They're looking for more

One of them comes around the corner
He faces me with gun in hand
I lunge at him, grab the weapon, point
Shoot once, twice, three times
It's not so fun when you're the dead man

I look around the corner
More are coming my way
I send a quick prayer to God
Then jump into the fray

I shoot and I shoot
Fighting for my life
Knowing that I'm not going down
Without a fight

One down, two down, three down, four
Blood spatters the walls, bullets fall to the floor
My gun stops shooting, the cartridge is empty
There's no way to fight now
Need to find another way out

Throw the gun at the window
It cracks but doesn't shatter
"It's worth a shot," I tell myself
Then I flee from my cover

I sprint at full speed
As the bullet **** by
One of two hit me
But I keep fighting to survive

I lower my shoulder
Slam into the window
It shatters, I fall, I'm out
But the ground is quickly coming to meet me

I hit the ground with a smack
Glass raining down around me
People are looking at me and the building
Trying to discover what just happened

I get up slowly, painfully
A puddle of blood where I laid
People ask if I'm okay
But I tell them to run away

I run and I stumble
Away from the building
I'm slowly losing consciousness
Not knowing if I'm going to make it

Down the street I go
Searching vigorously for help
My vision is going out
I guess this is it

I awoke in my bedroom
I'm okay, all is well
Heck of a nightmare
Keep me away from that hell
This was one of those very realistic and vivid dreams where you see everything...I saw the blood, I heard the gun shots and the window shattering, I watched as people feared for their lives.
Beleif Dec 2015
Dire fires threaten dire paintings,
Set by dire men, defending dire idols
Who tied their hands to the crescent moon.

War broke out in the studio,
Getting further from the truth.

Blazing through the skies above,
From deserted continents,
They cook the dove.

"Down with the towers,
Blow the roof!
Down with the active streets,
And those with minds aloof!"

Yet in the battle halls,
A canvas there for eyes in awe,
While behind the towers fall,
The pen is drawn,
The pennons bawl.

Yet echoing through the city streets,
The innocent fall to the ground,
As fires set upon the town!
The pennons show a winning streak,
By force while their emotions leak.

"Down with the warlords,
Let us draw!
Down with the active planes,
And deadly bombs!"

Between the clash of different laws,
From above,
A single sheet sinks down unharmed.
Flowing through the blackened fog,
Gracefully, it mocks the sacred hog.

"I know this guy who sought divine,
And was believed to speak His lines.
He lost this truth by middle-life,
But through his lies he claimed a wife.

"Don't let him gaze upon your children,
Fight his old-age desperation.
Spill the ink to blind his vision,
Tie his hands to the crescent moon."

Battle cries and splitting shots were silenced,
Even spitting fires ceased to whisper.
As the graceful insults fell aground,
Laughter struck the once conflicting crowd!
Part II of "Pennons of Madness."
Michael Ryan Dec 2015
Meeting the wonderful
people who will sparkle in the night
are the guiding lights
to blossom in the world--
even as despair tries
to take place in our minds.

Shootings will gander
the cross hairs of our media
causing freight to spread,
even in those we
call our friends.

Bombings will spark
national outcry
in between each sentence--
people will begin
to speak hatred.

Terror will be uprising
creeping into homes
pushing out demands,
to replace our happiness
with their fear.

Against this
I speak for you
one human to another
do not give in
even in desperate times
there are amazing people--
please sparkle
because I know you can.
Do not let fear take over.  There is always a guiding light, something of positivity  to look towards.  Be the good.
Beleif Dec 2015
Across the ocean's dome,
Controlled by piercing shouts without a doubt;
On an altar in the distance:
An open book with censored words!
Tear a page,
Observe the rage.
Not what any freedom fighter would.

In a rowboat in the open,
Draw the source of their devotion.
Pencil sketch the jagged beard,
And stretch the nose a thousand years.

What a time to strike some fear!

The terrorists will echo with madness,
The pen is your sword.
The innocent will run to the forests,
And the artists make war.

Across the desert homes,
Contained by giant seas to some degree;
In a planetary orbit:
A crying team with crooked teeth!
See the page,
The winds enrage.
Not what any freedom lover should.

Bullets charge at the comedian's door,
Burning down all the carpenter's lore.
Sculptors mourne over severed stones,
The innocent turn, yearn, learn...

The invasions form, warn, and burn.

As the terrorists echo with madness,
Hold the pen as your sword.
As the innocent run to the forests,
Let the artists make war.

Throw the drawings ashore!
Prelude of "Pennons of Madness."
Sean Hunt Dec 2015
Inana Shlash

How I wish I knew you
I would have melted
And oozed into
Your shoes
lingering many hours
Before you finally
Took a shower

I would have been a blanket
Embracing your back
Nuzzling against the nape
Of your neck
Until you wandered away
To a cool breeze
On the deck

If the gods would have
Smiled on me
I could have been
A billion water droplets
Easing into the hundreds
Of thousands of pores
In your silken skin

Alas
Our missile
Blew you away
And I don't know what to say

 Sean Hunt  
Windermere, December 6 2015
(Her picture can be seen here)
https://www.facebook.com/sean.hunt.3720
Sean Hunt Dec 2015
The World Will Be Burned

Over eight hundred thousand
Pounds per missile, Mate
British Sterling Money
NOT Imperial Weight!
I could cry.
Many Muslims too
Have teary eyes
Those who loved her smile
Those who bathed
In the radience
Of her beauty
Will remember the missile
And her smile
The missile
And her smile
The missile
And her smile
For a while
And then
When they have been brought
To the boiling point
The world
Once again
Will be burned

Sean Hunt  
Windermere, December 6, 2015
This exquisitely beautiful woman was killed by a missile:  her picture is on my Facebook page:  https://www.facebook.com/sean.hunt.3720
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