Seema 1d

My knee weakens at the sight
A massacre of the innocent
Parts of their body littered
As few were mercilessly beaten

The explosion seemed a drill
In a located farming area
Where people go and fill,
Water, pulled by a cart carrier

Where children, usually play
While mothers do their work
Making crooked dolls with clay
In garbbish language, they talk

Sadden, broken wailing mothers
Call onto their childs name
A horrific sight, winked at them
Humanity, what a shocking shame

Cradles gone, blood smeared
A mourning torture grimmed
Giggles gone, people feared
Ears deafened with screams

A peacful, happy settlement
Now a testing bound ground
Cruelty of these man monsters
Polluted their calm surround

Ghosts and devils are a myth
When in vision we see men
Horrendous stoned figures
I wander, what they have learnt

Puppets of the money skimmers
Twinted toys of military goons
People killed everyday
See, how they break their rules

Peace is fading drastically
Where civilians relay on their leaders
Fools, they've been made
They are their testing feeders

Rest in peace, O' beautiful souls
Thou it was not your call
I hope these money made figures,
Push themselves and fall!


©sim

Sam 1d

I didn't know your name
At least... not until that day
That day you passed away
We weren't close in age
You were a freshman at a different high school
I was a rebel, getting my license at 18
I guess that's not important
This is your story, not mine
And it ended too soon
That pick-up just couldn't stop though
I wish there was a miracle
Maybe just a nudge
You'd fall off your bike and scrape your knees at the worst
I didn't know your name, but I tied a rose to that stop sign

Written as a memorial to a girl I never knew. She was hit by a pick-up while biking to school. I was pretty messed up about it when it happened, and still think of her on occasion.

To Selene:
Rare a night, her gentle grace is not seen;
Live long torches, shamed, by her beauty’s gleam!
The Queen of night, my heart, she reigns supreme.
Floating high in deep, black lakes of my dreams,
Softly she gazes down past thick and thin;
Distant is her love as we skin to skin;
Fooled, my fervent stretch is never within,
Her affection for me, I’ll never win.
My heart, her misfortune can only reap
This last choice—wound us both more than my weep!
For her sympathy, my eternal sleep!
Now like me, may her woe forever keep.
By day miss her and dream of her by noon
Forever, rest in heart, my dear honey, moon

The sad love between Endymion and Selene
Sets the stage for this sonnet like poem's scene

The Art of Subconscious Illusion is an elusive tendency towards the averse,
             or rather,
the act of lying to oneself

        Oft times you’ll find yourself wondering how...
             …how you lost her…how you lost love…

                            how you lost yourself

         Your mind a jumble of
               spiral static,
         coils of confusion, twisting malevolently,

                             failing and falling,
                   flawed and faulty,
          feeble and fading,

you slowly begin to yearn for a second chance,
        wish that you had performed more charmingly in the blistering tragedy of feelings lost...

but there are few second chances in the misfortunes of life.
      the damage is done, and now you must live with the consequences
       of a dying will to persist in this journey,
                              the ups
                                                the downs
                                the laughter
                                                        ­ the pain
after endless days of convincing yourself you’re not to blame you finally see it for what it is...
                    You made the choice
     you made your bed, and now you must lie in it…

and as you slowly make your way towards the reclining slope of the soft satin covers you’ll begin to see….

it was not a bed your actions relayed....
                                                     ­               but a coffin

I've been so curious
about people who burn down their home's,
and drive their families off of mountain sides.
The ones who take their live's, pack up everything and leave
behind the ones they cannot imagine living without.
The people who cause their own hurt.
The lucky ones who gamble everything away.
The ones who let their live's tumble down and blow away.

I've stood in front of this mirror and watched myself bleed enough times to know what a good thing is.

I still light the match and burn it all to the ground,
cross over the barrier fast enough to free fall,
break your heart time and time again,
leave you behind when I know
you're the only thing stopping everything from completely unraveling.
I put you down like a bet,
and lose you every time.

I kill us,
over and over and over, again.
It's no wonder why I hurt so badly in the middle of the night,
and can't trust myself with my own heart.
I do this to myself,
these are self-inflicted tragedies.

An be mine lone soul hollow, none to give
Wherefore choose life, vain and forlorn, why live
So Sins consume that which himself canst not forgive?
The poisoned remedy for pain, only death carries with
Talk of beauty, of roses, of love and everything fair
And you talk of mutiny, of poses and a deceit I canst not bare
O’ Happiness, the biggest lie beyond compare
From which to seek, lies rooted every tragedy’s despair
The search of truths is a combination of lies to find
Lies of our own choosing those gentle on the mind
To our perspective deceit and commodity bind
For our freedom, to live in a world a bit more kind.

A bit of inspiration from old shakespearean things,
Laugh and live,

Moments are melancholy
Because, lives have been lost
People are in a state of bewilderment
Dithered, confused, and distraught
Nothing but a chaotic scene
Filled with lots of bitterness
With tragic events in London and Colombia
Many people are sullen and filled with emptiness

Chris Neilson Jun 16

England's a difficult abode this year
homegrown terrorism, fire and fear
politicians, brexit, labour and tories
half truths, tall tales and fairy stories

England's green and pleasant land
is built on ever shifting sand
wobbly and limp not strong and stable
but working class poor still willing and able

England's past is biting it's future
needing surgery not just a suture
hindsight revealing error after mistake
more bad news our stomach's can't take

England's haven no longer seems safe
it's standing in Europe beginning to chafe
Marc Bolan urged us to ride a white swan
maybe best to keep calm and carry on

What a shit year in England this has been so far for disaster and tragedy on a huge scale. Our hospitals are filling weekly with critically injured people and families suffering a massive loss of life on this part of this small island.
Paul Butters Jun 16

Who needs terrorists?
They are redundant
When over 60 poor people
Can perish
In a raging inferno
Caused by their own council.

For years the resident action group
Were poo pooed by the authorities
With, “Don’t worry your pretty heads!”
When they warned about fire safety regulations
Being ignored
Just like them.

No sprinklers and only one fire escape
In a twenty four storey building.
Only last year the tower was refurbished
With cheap plastic cladding that’s
Banned in the USA.

Our prime minister has been accused
Of failing to show humanity
By only visiting the Emergency Services
To avoid the angry public.

All this has happened
Not in some God forsaken third world country
But in the fifth or sixth richest economy
In the world.

For sure, that all engulfing tower-fire
Has made the blood of the people
Boil.
Let’s hope this volcano does not erupt
Like the one that caused
The London Riots of 2011.
Let’s hope our administration
At all its levels
Learns something from this:
To Care for its People.

Paul Butters

My sympathies are with all those affected by this.
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