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Swan Songs Feb 2021
I’ve got some money and a swag and a gun – and my lover
My lover and I are on the run
We changed our hair, our clothes, our names, we’re undiscovered
But she cannot escape the things I’ve done

Oh, my Daisy Dunne

I’m thinking to myself, “I think I love her”
But not half as much as I’m scared I’ll lose control
So I hold that naïve girl and tell her I love her
Out of fear she might forsake my aching soul

‘Cause I can’t bear the thought of hanging from the rope all on my own
I’m trying to take her to Heaven with me but I’ll burn in Hell alone
Me and Daisy Dunne will run into the angry setting sun
But we cannot outrun the things I’ve done

We’re hiding out in a shack by the sea with my little brother
At half my age he’s twice the man I’ll be
But I see the way he looks at my lover
And I killed the last man who tried to take her from me

I shot him dead and then we fled, but his eyes still stare at me
Now my lover screams from in her dreams while I lie awake listening
Me and Daisy Dunne are one, until the judgement of kingdom come
Until they hang me from my neck for what I’ve done

Oh, my days are done

Please, will someone spare the truth from my poor mother?
Don’t you tell her what befell her eldest son
You can tell her all about my lovely lover
But do not let Mum know the man that I’ve become
I just wish she could have met my Daisy Dunne

One fateful night I caught Daisy’s eye, she was giving me a silent plea
Then I saw some light and I decided it was time for me to set her free
But my Daisy Dunne she took my gun and killed a man who was chasing me
And now she’s standing beside me here at the gallows tree

(As they lower the hood over evil and good, the last things we will see
Are my longing stare and her accusing glare, and it suddenly occurs to me
I have no way of knowing where it is I’m going, but I have the distinct feeling:
Whatever is next, my Daisy will not be there with me
And I could have used my last words to tell her that I’m sorry)
Ahmad Attr Feb 2021
Little boy wake up from your dreams
Your woollen world is not what it seems
Your paper dolls are going to come after you
the monsters are taking forms
from the crayon paintings you drew

Little boy wake up from your dreams
Your crochet clothes are going to rip at the seams
Your plastic toys are to going be forgotten
The ribboned curtains will unveil
A colourless world oh so rotten

And when you go to sleep make sure
To shut your windows and you flowery door
Cover your ears with your hands firmly
Don’t listen to the sound in evil tone
‘’little boy stop playing with your xylophone’’

take off your navy sweater
Put on the armor and make your way
To the world of terror
Infiltrate the ****** castle
Save your distressed damsel

Little boy wake up from your dreams
Your times of boyhood have reached their extremes
You won’t sleep under starry ceilings no more
Be prepared for the world that is calling you
Filled with people whose glass hearts can’t be mend with glue

Be a man, right to the bones
Little boy, stop playing with your xylophone
The colorful splendor of childhood slowly dissolving into mundane adult life
Ahmad Attr Dec 2020
To rule is in your name
To be rude is how you gain the fame
Extinguishing the flame, that’s not your game
Belittle everyone around you; the property you claim

People like you can be so mean sometimes
To people like us
We can be the victims of your crimes
To your adrenaline rush
For kind ones are weak,
Their future is bleak
But for you it’s a winning streak
People like you can be so mean
To get the crown you seek

For strong ones are those
Who are cold
Their future: silver and gold
To love back is getting old
You can’t even read between the lines
What’s wrong, what’s right
People like you can be so mean sometimes
For kind ones are weak, and strong ones are cold
cypress Nov 2020
to come virile & unhinged

contributes wild demands for control

rather an engagement of exact equality may cultivate an intuitive culture
Luke West Aug 2020
Irony of the Clouds
The irony of the clouds, the backwards image of the sky
Happy, white, and full, they fill until they die
Then it rains, and cold cold wet rain hits everything, everyone, and the sky is grey.
Even the clouds let out, have an outlet
People see them as happy, and see other clouds as sad
The irony of the clouds, the same one grows and cries, the same full white cloud, it turns grey, and lets out the things it can’t hold for it’s life.
Oh the shock if they learnt that the clouds hit their brim,
When they realize how ugly pretty little clouds can get
When clouds let lighting out, when clouds aren’t white
When clouds cry and when they shock
When they dissipate and disappear
Some big and some little, some thin and some thick
They all fill and they all let out, and if they don’t, they grow and grow until they can’t grow anymore,
Then they seperate, lost among the clouds, among those that they can’t tell themselves apart from.
Why don’t we let the little cloud weep, so that it can grow white once again?
Perhaps I will never know, but maybe for once, the little cloud can cry, and not be all alone.
Freeform poetry, written about the cultural pressure to keep things in. I write as an outlet, so too bad if you don’t like it, but constructive criticism is helpful!
Kyle Reeves May 2020
my daughter is almost 5
and my son is nearly 2
I could simply say they're one and four
but when the number's higher it sounds a little better
they're less babies and more childlike
you know, bigger and more wise
I'm more wise

my daughter is almost five
and my son is nearly two
they're in our yard with twig berrets
and mud stained smiles posing for a postcard to make the hose drinking generation proud.
he straddles the ground, chest bare like he's Tarzan and howls at the blue sky
challenging the sun

I look at him like he's made of stone
she's a daisy pedal I crush in my hand and compress into a diamond
the toxins dripping from the curling edges of my lips burn the dirt from her face
the shine of the light washes out the blood on my knuckles.
a ring on my finger and my hands look clean

my daughter is almost five
and my son is nearly two
their muddy fingers comb their feral hair
and their green feet clip the grass till they find jagged rocks
they weep over skinned kneecaps and with one arm I pull her close
with the other I slug his shoulder, "buck up kiddo, you'll be alright"
I hold a stone in each hand, and call one a precious gem while I build my house out of the other

my skin has washed against those stones since they were none and none
built into the houses of a thousand graveyards I've watched daisies pile over golden sarcophaguses
watched them wilt at the bottom of alters built on stone
I won't carve epitaphs into these hearts I hold

my daughter is almost five
and my son is nearly two
we drag fallen branches to our firepit and dance to music next to the flames
like weightless stone his strength surges to his tippytoes
she powders his nose with ash and pretends she's a cheetah
her game isn't to **** she just wants to chase
princes have their feet welded to pedestals and the sport's no fun for her

my children aren't rocks, they're stardust
I won't make kings or queens I've no providence  over their future
so I'll **** the venom from the sky and watch them walk back to the stars
I may not be a champion but I'll be their father
Future generations deserve the best from our histories, not toxic artifacts
Sh Dec 2019
I live to defy what you taught me.

"Girls are weak"

I received the message. I rejected it.

With my chubby arms, the arms of a child, I picked up the table, twice my size, and carried it across the





wherever it needed to go.

I basked in adult adoration of my strength. My sharp look scorching all who dared to offer assistance.

Kindness or a sense of superiority- motive be dammed.

I've grown up with the world as my witness.

I've learned to never ask for help.

"Girls are emotional"

Emotions are a weakness, for you think of girls as weak.

I must not be weak, for the world is watching.

And so, I've locked in the drawer of my mind every troubling thoughts, every emotion.

They are still there, unreachable. Rotting.

I grew up to be numb.

I grew up to be a hypocrite.

I would preach about the health benefits of crying. I would be horrified to listen to myself.

Forbidden to even share my passions by my own brain.

I'm fine-

I'm a mess-

at the same breath.

One is the lashing out of self defense,

The other is a painful admittance.

One is happily uttered when they catch my face,

The other is shamed and condemned.

I've grown up strong in every toxic sense of the word.

In my pursuit to defy what you dictated for me, I live my life as you dictated for yourself.

If the facade will ever go, it will not shatter nor dissappear.

If I will dictate my own life for myself, it will take as long as the rebuilding of the world.
This is a poem about the affects of sexism and toxic masculinity on young afab people.
Lainey Nov 2019
Man, be YOU.
That’s enough.
All the ******* about being tough
Manning up
It’s a bluff because the myth of the “real man”
Doesn’t measure up.
He’s a puppet.
Poison in his veins. He’s a slave to his role in the game.

Let’s face the truth.
The dross that’s aimed at youth, toughen up! The boy needs a hand that’s rough. That’s. girl.  stuff.
What do we get if we can’t let him BE?
Toxic Masculinity.
That’s enough!
Man, be YOU.
For international mens day 2019
Tell me about the Ace of Wands!
Tell me about the Ace of Wands!

This has been poorly imagined I admit:
The sunny penthouse
Open to the breeze
which presses and sways
through the sliding glass doors

Upturned champagne bottles
set in buckets of melting ice
A crystalline view of the Pacific
Or dusky Vegas lights

Strewn silken sheets
A **** carpet you can grab on to
The myriad of variations under a rising Moon

Yet Leather and Ecstasy are no where to be seen.
And though I wasn’t thinking of Sardinia
or of the Amalfi
That is a great idea

1. a spell of rough, energetic play.
2. a farce.

(An earth-sign cusp is slow no matter how much air)
creeping into my mind’s eye
(Thank you Time)
was my dodging of the slow-moving bullet
Alas, the lumpy bed in Hollywood awaits
with serviceable sheets
Encased in variations on a theme of
brown everything
A soul death in faux wood paneling
Someone else’s earring on a
grubby carpet floor
that offers you
burns for your back that won’t heal so fast
if that’s what you want
There’s the opening of the door
on the purring refrigerator
to look at cold nothing
And think nothing
Cystitis is on its way
And yes,
Too much dust

Don’t get me wrong
I have no real issues with dust
I have stood
Alone in the semi darkness before
In such a living room
Staring at this luminous particulate
On album covers
and in the glare of backlit windows
Floating in a beam from
a ceramic thrift store table-lamp

I was on my way to find the bathroom
Where a pair of pink ******* lay
in wait for

Bachelor dust
Is old
I can write my name with my finger
in that which rests
upon the turntable’s hinged cover
In case you don’t remember
What they call me

As I’ve said
I’ve got nothing against it
Ask the dust
Go ahead
Ask it
Resting quite comfortably
on the bookshelves
If there are bookshelves
As if it had
something to do.
I ask it why?

my invading molecules subdivide
and grow more comfortable

Why do I smell the stench of
chaste virgins and ***?
The intoxicating odor of foxed letters from an epistolary exchange regarding:
One Fair Maiden and the Devilish Pursuits to  Compromise Her Virtue?
The Opinions and Observations of Fallen Fruit
Here: The woman and her only true
And Here: The sticky absconder who smells of fish.
They meet.
She blinks.

The dust replies
It’s a simple plan:
The Dear Lady is to be led
by pretty words and unspoken indiscretions
her dowry in the end, useless
She’ll be banished to the counties
To be a governess
or the
Bored companion
of the only living relative who will
Admit her services
Unpaid in silver coins
He is Blind and his Cook has left
and Mean.

She is Ruined.
Perhaps she will escape
to Italy
and die
in the sunshine.

The dust tells me another story
The same century still
This time, a miscreant princeling
surrounded by Trifles
Picking up one bob and then another
Preoccupied by uselessness
Perhaps a strawberry
Perhaps more claret and his mistress’s left breast
Tonight will be the scullery maid
Who will lose more in the end
Than she could ever possibly imagine
Tossed out of the kitchens
to Providence.
God bless Her.

The dust tells me
It’s mercantile, my dear
It’s all transactional
But look at me
I’m here for a time but am easily
Agitated and
Aeolian driven
Ever blossoming fugitive clouds of swirling devils
Interstellar Reflection Nebulae
As you can see
I’m never in one place
So I say keep it movin’.
Grace Oct 2018
who doesn't know
the tears he cries

— The End —