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Connor C Blake Sep 2014
I’m a thief.

A criminal mastermind vying for all the affections of dead poets and living sociopaths

Watching flesh fall off of my fingertips and flutter to the floor.
Sewing on new skin like armor until a foreign face meets my eyes and smiles back

I’m in a perpetual state of identity crisis. I’m here and I’m there and I’ve be down while looking up and vice versa so many times
And so now my sense of direction has long rotted away and I’m left on my hands and knees sorting through the scattered remnants of me

And through it all, the rise and fall of an infinite wave whose name can be cleverly modeled on the back of a pill bottle, I still look down to the faded ink of a long-lost letter
It reads; “I swear I can be better”

And just when I look up to the moon for a cue on the tide’s change,
an anchor pulls me away and prepares my flooded lungs for another sorrow soaked day
So I guess I’ll stay

See, even now, schizophrenia might be preferable because at least then I could give the voices in my head a name and shed some of this blame on someone else

The only thing I really have left is my name

And even that is melting out through cracks in my closed fist because I held it too tightly against my burning heart 
Somewhere inside I always knew it belonged to someone else from the start

But I stole it.
The plagiarist is somebody
who loves the high regard.
Talent less and lazy and
lack a sense of working hard.

Its easier to copy,
take credit for another's trade
because they lack accomplishment,
it makes them feel afraid.

Afraid, because of inadequacy
in what they do or say
they want the credit of their peers
without a price too pay.

Incompetent and shallow
might cause these beasts to steal.
They like to boast of mastery
but of course this is not real

Shameful in their thievery
could never achieve the work they stole
but perhaps when they're pretending
this helps to make them feel whole.

This should not make them happy.
This should not make them glad.
In fact it should reiterate
that they are really, very sad!
14th September 2014
Asleep in my bed dreaming of you
With every breath that I breathe
I prove this is true

Snoring so loudly I didn't hear
The shatter of glass somewhere near
He came through my window
With one swift kick
Or maybe it was a soft click

Waking with fright
On the calmest of nights
He makes his way to the bed
And places a gun on my head

He orders me to stand
And binds both my hands
"Get down on your knees!"
I hear him decree

He asks where my valuables are
And I answer
"Sir, my only treasure was lost to cancer"

"Shut up!" He says
"I know you've got money!
You must take me for a fool.
Do you think this is funny?"

"No this isn't funny", I reply
"But the truth is I'm a very broke guy
I lost my wife, she was my soul.
Ever since that day
I've never felt whole"

"See, we used all our money
To pay for her care
She went in for treatments
That got us nowhere"

I'm kneeling here now
Seeing no purpose in another day
I wish he'd pull the trigger
I don't want to stay

When he realizes I have nothing
He hits me with the gun
I hear him remark
"Well, boy, it's been fun"

His finger clenches the trigger
I await my fate with glee
Be patient my darling
Your face I'll soon see

I hear the shot before I feel the sting
In that moment I don't feel a thing
Then a thousand volcanoes
Erupt in my brain

Seeing it in the third person now
I look down upon the scene
But what does it all mean?

I see my own head exploding
Covering a picture of us on the wall
In my brain goo
You were always on my mind
Now my mind is on you
I wrote this after watching the dead poets society
Ben Balserak Sep 2014
I once knew a watch-thief
Who stole for his own
He wasted the time that he
Stole on the road
But this gypsy boy finds
A young girl one day
With a garland of flowers
And a red satin waist

She came from the highway
That led to the city
Her garments conveyed
She was wealthy and pretty
The gypsy boy wore
Some old slacks and no shirt
And he would not have seen her,
But she introduced herself first

Before hellos were said
Or greetings exchanged
Years later he said
He could feel something change
As she told him of ease
That she left behind
He fell to his knees
And praised God’s good design

If love is a lifetime,
Then lend me your hand.
The sparrows are witness
That my promise stands
And now our gypsy wagon
Is off down the road
And we’ll never stop moving
Cause this is our home.

This small band of gypsies,
Now larger by one
Trundle the pathways
and roads they call home
The watch-thief reclines
with his girl in his arms
they fall quickly in love
‘Neath the light of the stars.

But if hindsight goes further
And time teaches true
There was blood in the water,
If only he knew.
She came down to his level
But took it too far
She went too far in revel
And slowly, she broke the boy’s heart.

The gypsy boy stood,
Still stock still in his shock
He ducked under the hood
Of his caravan-rock
He walked back to the city
She’d said she was from
He put it in a bag
And he drank in the slums.

If love is a lifetime,
Then when will you come?
The sparrows, our witness,
flew too close to the sun
And now my gypsy wagon
Is off down the road
And now I’ve nowhere to go
because you were my home.
Ann M Johnson Sep 2014
Poem Thief beware we are watching you.
You may steal our words, but you will not steal our resolve
There is another thing that you can not steal which is our Love and support for each other
You may think that you are invisible but you are not
Many eyes are watching you
What you think you do in silence could come to light in public someday
Just as good deeds become known, woe to the one doing bad deeds, someday they have to pay a very high price
I hope that if you read this, you will be nice and give proper credit to the Author's of the poems you stole
I also feel I should warn you that with every poem you steal, you might be losing a piece of your soul
It has come to my attention that someone has been stealing Poems of my friends on Hello Poetry and claiming them as their own and posting them on another site.
the Sandman Aug 2014
Time dons His thief's mask.
While we count days and hours,
He steals my stopwatch.
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