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Poetress2 Apr 6
She sits in the Doctor's office,
with one thing on her mind;
To rid herself of this Fetus,
so she can go on with her life.
~
Her dreams would all be ruined,
if this child were to be born;
She just can't let that happen,
thus she decides to Abort.
~
They call her back to a room,
she follows the Nurse's lead;
Gently she lays on the bed,
then sees the ******* machine.
~
Her mind is filled with doubt,
"Am I making a huge mistake;
The baby isn't even alive,
get a grip, for pity sakes."
~
Then the Doctor enters the room,
he is really quite polite;
Inside of her, he inserts a tube,
and she squeezes her eyes tight.
~
But deep within the occupied Womb,
the Fetus flinches away;
As the hose begins to tear apart,
how and what it may.
~
Then it grabs onto her tiny hand,
no longer a thumb to ****;
The baby's eyes are filled with tears,
for the pain is just too much.
~
Little by little, it tears her apart,
no one can hear her screams;
But parts of her pass through the tube,
thanks to that horrid machine.
~
Her tiny head is the last to go,
donned in curly, black hair;
She's simply but a memory,
Mama's product of an affair.
Poetry Addict Feb 13
Buttoned-and-pressed eyes
Crystallized rationality glistens
(or so it seems!)
in their quest for whoisit.
Policemen occasionally search our underground train system when we're downtown and stop all the trains. My hometown is known for the huge quantities of police.
Jessica Jan 24
This cosmic canister carries the world’s disarray-
Our destinations different, our feelings the same.
Though we have regular meetings we remain strangers;
Heads down, uncomfortable.
A pattern forms in our lives which none exits, our sacred routine which if changed is wrong.
Empathetic eyes glazed with weariness.
At each departure, a new inhalation of caffeine and smoke,
A new wave of bodies,
A new mass.
We all contribute to the mass, but the mass never goes,
Only waxes and wanes with the seasons.
We travel as one, carried by destinations, riddled with enigmas.
The hour reaches 6:00 and the mass bulges; the kettle is at its boiling point.
We move as agitated atoms riling against one another.
The world’s day draws to a close, as our microenvironment wakes.

A man exhales stale disappointment- no promotion due.
The coarse skin of his fingers caresses
The constant happiness in his life;
Helping him live, hastening his death.
Unable to inhale satisfaction, his suit clad leg
Writhes underneath the table,
Distracting him, but alerting others of the craving.
Although his tie is straight and his briefcase orderly,
A lose thread and weary eyes give him away-
He’s tired; tired of life, tired of the necessary endless routine
Which holds him and his livelihood captive.
It weakens and sustains him simultaneously.
His secrets define him.

A girl sighs, her cheeks wet,
Tears heavy with hurt.
A bruise has settled itself on her forearm;
A warning for the next time she comes home late.
Her skin has become a canvas and everyday more paint is added.
Her permanent ink hides the painful marks
Yet the latter seems to leave the most lasting impression.
Her face is scarcely discernible;
Metal studs line the place where her smile should be-
They are so many that her humanity becomes robotic.
Her secrets define her.

The tube we sit in holds heavy hearts, new smiles,
Old friends.
The mass becomes one as each day our routine returns,
Unchanged.
We get to know our fellow travellers
Without really getting to know them at all.
Their influence on our existence seems insignificant,
Yet they contribute to the steadfast mass that so grips our little lives,
Whilst we hold on to sanity by a single thread.
Our secrets define us.
fairyenby Jul 2017
They stand, the two of them, enveloped. Their bodies the segments of an orange before
ripped apart by delicate, hungry fingertips.
It is rush hour in Brixton and as she leans against this
unsteady machine, he holds her as if her limbs might fracture and fall
and land at their feet,
as if they might become neighbours to the newspapers and trodden gum that have
made their home there, *****, discarded, at ease.
Silhouette quietly nestled into his frame, sharing shadows
she, is elsewhere.
Gaze transfixed by a small being in front. A tiny entity that holds all of her undying
attention. Her lips bitten down to their core,
skin replaced by yearning and fear and a tenderness that you could touch.
The child’s tangerine lips waver hesitantly and then burst open, releasing a giggle
that sounds like fallen dust in sunlight, if it had a sound.
The space between them becomes a mirror, so much that the infant’s mother
looks like she has just learnt the definition of the word ‘envy’.
The tube falls into the station, and the passengers are squeezed out:
a frenzy of rushed beings in their most natural, narcissistic state.
From across the platform in rush hour, the train leaner is a mother.
And in her arms, oblivious, her lover.
January 2017
The urban legend going round the mummy club
A woman
On a tube
Breastfeeding her baby, 5 months old, under her t shirt.
Not **** out
No feminist flags waving
No brazen cocky smile.
Just a hungry baby and a mother made by nature
And some milk

"Put em away Love", slurs an **** man halfway down the carriage.
The other passengers are divided.
Some sink deeper into their headphones, under their broadsheets.
The others are ready for revolution, sit up straighter and plan an attack phrase or a protective move.

But this is what she's been waiting for since she so triumphantly became a successful, proud breastfeeder.

With a wet plucking noise she pulls her baby from the ****** where he was so contentedly feeding, where his warm little head was halfway to milky coma dreamland.
And she holds him aloft, her grip is confident and full. No one is afraid she will drop him, but he does not want to be there.
And in the stark light of the carriage, arms and legs chilly and free in the air he begins to flail them about. His voice throws out mews to every window of the carriage, turning into scratchy shouts as his protest gets stronger.
Until the baby, in a blue furry jumper, little bear ears for cute effect, is screaming.
Red faced, and with tonsils and tongue vibrating in the storm of his voice.
Arms and legs swimming frantically, looking for the bank of the river where warm mummy sits.
And over the storm, mummy looks over at the swaying, squinting man and shouts,
"WOULD YOU PREFER THIS?"
In one movement she cradles the yelling blue cub, shushing and quietly speaking to him as only a mother can, offering her ****** to his mouth until his round fuzzy head is bobbing and his mouth quietly busy resuming his meal.
"Or this? " She looks over at him.

The man mutters to himself and looks away. At the next stop he gets off the train, tripping down the step onto the platform.

The mother releases the challenge in one large breath.

She looks up at the two young men sat in front of her.
They are smiling, staring in awe. Choking and speechless one of them starts to applaud her.
Clapping her and shaking his head, his mate joins in.
Just an urban legend...
Balkus Oct 2016
On the tube,
on the Jub-
ilee line,
feeling fine.
Almost fine.
Out of ten - nine,
or maybe eight,
if not seven.
Tube ain't heaven
more like hell,
feeling unwell
actually,
I'd give it six
out of ten,
no, five, man,
four, or less,
three, it's a mess
fresh-airless,
crowdy, jeez,
two I'd give,
one, oh, no,
getting worse,
can't breath now,
zero out
of ten, ouch,
let me out,
let me out!
Stephanie Grace Aug 2016
This morning I was filled with an inconsolable hurt
And I noticed everything on my way to work…
The man in the grey coat reading his kindle
The blonde lady telling her friend about how she was newly single
I saw the small schoolboy leap on the train
I could tell he didn’t want to be late for school again
I became aware of the fed up look on the train drivers faces
They looked as though they were exhausted of coming to these places
I observed a handsome young man give the old lady a seat
Everyone smiled and thought, isn’t he sweet.
I grimaced when the barrier decided to trap the man in the suit
He cried and complained that he should have taken a different route.
I noticed everyone but nobody noticed me…
Because the pain I felt made me as still as can be…
Blue patterned seats
Between cold yellow poles
Strangers seated with eyes
That never catch their souls

Bodies pressed against bodies
Heat and oxygen shared
To remain in one’s solitude
Is the universal prayer

Fingers meet
Or feet step on feet
Apologies never catered
Words don’t ever speak

People with the most in common
Those standing, those seated
Every one of them human
Every one of them beating

This unity shared
Though never acknowledged
Has its own kind of beauty
Forever repeated
IsReaL E Summers Nov 2015
"Hear da children crying!
Give thanks and praise to the Lord..."
I don't feel alright.
Not tonight...
When the moon is
FULL & BRIGHT
ILLUMINATING                                                i
                                                                WHATS
                                                                            R
                                                                            E
                                                                            A
                                                                            L
Quotations from Bob Marley.
Moonlight tea just you and me;
What's right?
Balkus Aug 2015
In tube strike city life is a pity
you always feel unprepared.

Even if you are prepared, you lose.

You can shut up or you can moan,
but you can't choose.
You can only mind your gaps
and watch your nightmare relapsed.

Your bus is late, and late are you,
and eyes of paradise are blue.

You "****" this "*******"
with anger inside.

And  it ***** you back
with angel smile.
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