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George Krokos Apr 19
A wasted effort can be seen to be like a trial run
and the objective would be to learn and have fun.
______
From 'Simple Observations' ongoing writings since the early '90's.
you plan to trap
to take a cut-
a ripening peach
with sugar bait?

you soil yourself
remove all sense
when all you have
you desecrate

her body sees, her body sees

'I'll take it now
she's just the size
to make me big
bend over chick

for she won't see
to mists she'll flee
I'll do a trick
with my joystick'

her inside sees, her inside sees

it's not all past
in spurting spray
a laughing squirt
bull at a gate

to steal a bud
the harshest crime
to rob a child
her life dictate

her body tells, her body tells

for it is seen
and registered
it's catalogued
in Judge's file

the breakage raw
her broken selves
you callous brute
are facing trial

and all can see
as you do now
the lies you told
you *******
Abusers tell one another:
''It's such good luck
she's only 6
for after 8
it's much too late?!"

Of course, it may be a boy, and the abuser may be female. 

Whatever the case, it helps to know their thinking so
we can better protect our kids

©https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/848436017300514805/
M Solav Jan 1
You deserve no pity for it was done in earnest;
Declaring innocence’s a consolation at best;
Like us all through mortality you were put to the test;
Carelessness’ a testimony upon which you now may rest.

Against famine you took the lead by unsheathing the sword,
Spilling blood amidst the pleads without believing the word.
Our tribunal for this affair will have your future sealed;
The trial may not seem fair, but so never were your deeds.
Written in July 2019.


— Copyright © M. Solav —
This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact marsolav@outlook.com for usage requests. Thank you.
Strying Nov 2020
It always seems that the saddest poems,
get the least likes.

As though no one wants to be affiliated
with you when you're in a position
where you want to die.

Instead of giving you a "like"
they avoid it.

Knowing they relate to it,
they isolate you.

And once you are gone,
they are the ones that will remember you.

And yet that poem will be hidden in the "personal journal" files,
so their secrets are not uncovered.

Their murders never put under trial,
and the perpetrators,
never convicted.

This is a happy state,
and it's called,
DENIAL.
Just some thoughts as how a lot of the saddest poems I've seen on here just get ignored or left at 1 or 2 likes...
Dante Rocío Nov 2020
It has been such a Long time since our last incarnation such like reassembly.

We’ve been scrubbing our United States
and leasing places
as scarification and other humans‘ faces
of stories,
to bless or gargle foreign.

We’ve been to the Neptune’s Fountain to find Young Man Hogan’s bench situated within all those loners’ speedy extroversion,
and catch the Saint Petersburg bell that hitchhiked the church there

to make a glimpse of urbanism and the world’s history replaced
by just one journal
and one fella’s pencil
swerving greatly‏.

Still,
the words are still trying,
flexing,
to fit their whole ends
into shoes they should have taken off
already, a long time ago,
and that‘s this somewhere
where we could say:
crossroads decide their fruition.

And it comes to realisation:
faces,
screens,
bruises,
droppings,
chilling entries,
work,
how I remade the word “naked”of one thousand and one nights
under my tiny silky
cloak
-
it has been nothing but a play
for the day when I’ll write,
and the Life,
that will take on my own skin
one way or another.

One paper corner will meet with the other.

Departures are all eventually just fun geese’s bump in another flight of a night.
How does it feel like to be stranded in a space between the exile from being poems and at the same time fulfilling all the tasks, seemingly full creation of functioning daily?
Duties have been and are strenuous, lots of flocks, yet own and desired by my aspirations’ oath, or rather at times disgustingly expected from apart of you too.
Had no space for that.
But now the game is finally on.
Poetry is my constant patron of its choosing of me and that makes us one.
And I cannot or will ever be killed.
So will It.
rachel martin Nov 2020
The weight of the guilt I have
For the things I said about you before you died
Sit on my chest
Press me to death like a Salem witch.
Every time I drink I indulge in my tears
That I have no right to;
All I cared about when you were alive was vengeance for the way
You made me feel,
When I should’ve thanked you for opening my eyes
And I should’ve looked right through you
With open eyes-
And seen that you were dying inside.
I wrote that you were dead to me,
Not intending it quite literally
Not wanting for awhile
I manifested that for you-
I await my witch trial.
Might delete
Jay M Mar 2019
Fear to joy,
Sorrow to cheer,
How could this happen here,
In my heart,
Once broken,
Now mending,
Pending,
I'll be fine at last,
This won't be buried in the past,
Here we go,
Trial after trial,
Let's see where this one goes.

- Jay M
January 28th, 2019
Fheyra May 2020
...
My Spirit, I dropped
My neck, how tragic!—
Oh, why was I doomed?—
What a shame of love,—
Beset me for living
How poor was my trial?—
That king caught me— Just to be his vice!
Surely, I was a noble queen—
'Til the justice defied me..

Coined by 30 years,— Now deriving for 25 years,
This automatic era seemed haste for me,— Where people work less with limbs,— And more with chained machines
All tenses are verbose,— of such faint vision;— When all the dots meet,—
Perhaps, gallops are faster than wheels.
--...
Whenever I daze in my reflection,
I morbidly feel the bruised mark on my pelvis,— whence Homer penetrated it,— And this slit scar on my nape— of my husband's infidelity
Oh fate, may thou all wrath in flames..

I was not an outlaw!—
Thou all praised a sculpture,—
And smashed it, when it was bore!
Thou bidded swears— To a bedswerver's norms!
My downfall revealed thy disgraced offerings— Traitors!

—My poor, poor queen— Do not weep,
    For I shall be great,— This lady will
    dissect the hypocrites, and clothe
    the faithful—
    I shall be the image of your tragedy
    and glory
    This is the order of my commitment
    I am a ponent;
    I am a defender.

Quote our testament:
"We art the culprits and victims of our own plot. If an admiring rogue invades thy core, it shall weakened thou as culprit into an ever victim— To be held in judgment, and to be both perceived as no innocent."

—The conviction of worldly accomplices,
    This shall be the vengeance of an obsolete sentence.—

Altaira, with me,—
Thou art neither a corpse—
Nor a bit of ash;
'Tis the time for ruling
Your Majesty—
Cheers to the jury..
This is the final sequence! The whole story was about a woman having her past life regression, and in her pasf life, she was a queen who was betrayed and beheaded. The rage of the queen still lives in her body, but her present self knows that she should be persistent to provide justice for herself, and to her country.

Remember from "Rituals and Joviality", the Spirit is the voice of the Psychologist that helped her meditate and see her past life. The "Saith the name of an Altar maiden" line referred to a command, for her fo say the word, "Altar", because it resembles the name of her past self, which is "Altaira".

Now finally, she became a judge in the end.
Justice is served.
karly codr May 2020
My trial is over,
I have none left to give.
I've fought and I've fought
Why do I still live?
The darkness awakes me,
It haunts my soul.
My thoughts are uneven,
They've taken a toll.
My heart is breaking,
Pulled by a thread.
Pains in my chest,
Show that I should be dead.
The music inspires me,
You cannot die today.
I open my heart,
My thoughts do not stray.
I am just gonna keep writing my depressing poems and you guys can keep reading them and we'll all be great. :)
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