mrc Dec 2017
sometimes i think that even the flags weep
Haley Nicole Sep 2017
I cry myself to sleep night after night
In seek for a better life
One not so suborn and filled with love.
I drowned in my tears every night
Just like my ancestors have night after night
One’s that were less fortunate to live the life I am living today.
They would tell me to let things be
At least you have a place to sleep and food to eat
At least you have property you can own and an education you have grown.
But this is America, Home of the Brave
And if no one is going to be brave then it must be me
Someone needs to say it, someone needs to speak it
It’s not just for the black but for people who are different,
People with disabilities and people who fall under diversity.
We fight so many wars but yet we can’t tame the ones inside
If it’s not my country then it’s certainly not yours
We have to be bigger, we have to think greater
Then someone’s gender and always remember
Your religion is sacred and so is your history.
Night after night a soul dies
A life flies away into the unknown
Hoping that the children they left behind
Can have a better life then their own.
So I would really appreciate any feedback whether good or bad. I am currently adding this into my school contest paper in the category of poetry. It can only be this length as in no longer. But if any suggestion on word change or grammar/punctuation please do not hesitate.

This poem just kind of flowed out of me. And it's one of the realist pieces I have written in a long time.
Joshua Haines Aug 2017
Maggots boil from under her skin.
  I will never see her again.
I have heart aches that
  stem from mistakes.
I count them as they
  leak from her skin.

Her eyes are raisins;
  I will never find what
they last captured.
  Cheekbones higher than
my song. My finger brushed
  along all that was black
and seeped into her back,
  tripping on her vertebrae
like a boy frolicking home.

  The cacti stand still--
while I feel quite ill--
  standing in an ocean
of honey.

  The people stand still--
America is ill--
  standing in an ocean
of money.

  You stand still,
too afraid to kill
  an ocean of hate
you tolerate.
WGelles Jul 2017
Trump's covfefe
caused a kerfuffle.
The people's voice
cannot be muffled.
A real brouhaha...
The Emperor's absurd
and yet we hang
on every word
and he has every right
to coin a new word
to have his fits of logorrhea
to incinerate North Korea
to mock the handicapped, women, and blacks
to free the super-wealthy from tax
to trash the planet
rob the poor
make the rich richer
and do much more....

"President Trump"
is an oxymoron.
Donald the Chump
is a moron.

Ooops, Pussy-Grabber's term has expired.
It's time to tell Trump:
"You're fired."
Mane Omsy Feb 2017
How do we forgive a cold hearted man
Who exiled us from this land?
How could we smile and cry at once?
You blew gently, the fire still burns

How could you desire to be so safe?
When there's much more options
Who would feel safer if the other's armed?
But he's just protecting himself from you

When my child cries my heart breaks
Coz the rope of hope, couldn't hold on no more
I cannot tie my life on any edges
But to hang myself is shameless now
Despite the travel ban, several lives are at their edges. Please be a HUMAN, Donald
RJ Days Nov 2016
must recognize our Form
in the mirror,
see our Face, and make our reflection
as we kiss it, though it regularly sickens
Us.

I

We are still Us, though
that probably means little if it ever did;

We have been amended beyond recognition
from centuries of lobbing
off limbs, appendages, stitching clauses
like bandages then forgetting about them
if we ever shower,
disfiguring the pale torso of our Body
politic, naked and middling before posterity
grotesque genitalia dangling
hopelessly, and useless
between marble columns
unable to unite in congress assembled
erasing pluribus unum;

We're our Legs, buckling under obscene weight
now cloture’s invoked, the question ordered
on history with yays and nays,
discourse long reduced to the nuances
of blusterfuck;

We're our Buttocks, passing gas
bills, denying a snowball’s chance of
melting in frozen hell or on house floor,
and our Brain, lobotomized
better half yearning “Yes, we Can…
…ada” beckoning the coasts, blue dots
on blue dot ever browning;

We're our Fists, clenching gavels
while advising Mother Earth to lube up
because even without her consent,
reality’s adjourned;

II

We're our Skin—yes, our Skin—, thin-
ly veiling contempt insufficiently concealed
by layers of spray tan and unmarred
by blood sweat tears of our foremothers
and our Brow, not sweating more perfect
when it's so easy to turn and follow storybook greatness,
when our Fingers, callused from tweeting
Little Bits of Sambo,
which though once again retitled
and re-released, remains a classic,
completely unrevised;

We're our Ears, nostalgic for the crack of doom
and we're our Tiny Hands, unable to help themselves
from popping a Tic-Tac and grabbing
onto those titillating, dusty buttons
on the hydrogen jukebox;

We're our Eyes, heavy
as a defeated queen
with makeup running, blessing us
all for this operant foray into madness,
ever observing how our Arms, which
(torches now extinguished)
flail in confusion amid incalculable darkness
still hoist our pitchforks low and
our Tongue still grievously petitions
for more deplorable words amid
hallucinations of victimhood;

We're our Penis, pissing
on progress, except
which—failing to rise to the occasion—
nonetheless manages
to flop over and strike once more: a dis-
chord in common defense of
fragile white male privilege
always showing, never growing,
general welfare and tranquility flushed down
the toiletbowl of history
hoping those old turds never
resurface, still ignoring the stench of injustice
and the chipping of gilded porcelain;

We’re our Lips–which neither Broadway hits nor
newspaper clips nor high minded pleas alarmed,
and with Dr. Franklin’s warning notwithstanding–
We are our Lips on treacherous steps which will be
all executive power herein vesting;

III

We're our Palms, grasping rope amid air
saturated in deathly vespers, which tugs
down-up toward unearned heavens;

We’re our Asses, pretending to be
our Mouths which chide & otherize, while
our Shins expose their cuts to shit,
bullet-holes welcoming the swift infections
in what dank sewage now pours from open
Overton windows, broken along with
any pretense of civility; ultimately,
the only thing we could shatter;

We’re our Holes, shamefully enjoying
the prodding and poking caresses
of anarchy, be-
moaning un-
Equal Protection law & order bestows,
depriving life, liberty, property
when our Hearts, weary of
the long hard due process, supremely
malign centuries’ holdings;

We’re our Immunity, sovereign it be
fighting all insults foreign and domestic
and our Voices rising in lamentation
for what we’ve lost and what we’ve barely kept;

We’re even our Hair, unkempt, distracting us
from enduring corruption of our Blood;

We’re our Balls, too. No, never mind.
We never had any. But She did,
and class despite the strength
of glass;

IV

We’re all that still, and our Souls'
politic too, fractured much asking
what Un-
ited States we’re in;
September 17, 1787 – November 8, 2016. Not a bad run, I guess.
zody rose wang Nov 2016
speak,
my loves,
of your fury and disappointment.
chant,
my sweets,
a relatable rhetoric that touches deep.
sing,
dear warriors,
a tune that cries for safety
of the oppressed
of us
of the world around us.
fight,
in companionship.
as one.
for there is strength in numbers.
for there is power in truth.
i don't think i can ever forget yesterday.
Oscar Mann Mar 2016
In the land of the free
People look at an absent God
To lead them the way
To show them how to use their liberty

They trade their precious privacy
For the right to bear machinery
Second amendment über alles
Individualities despite casualties

They distrust DC scum
Consider them corrupt vultures
So in order to cure democracy
They bow down for authority

And Christian conservatives
Look at liberals in disdain
Inside strip clubs and Hooters
Where praying holds a different meaning

The United States of Absurdity
Shouldn’t take itself too seriously
The true leaders of an absurd world
The U.S. of Hurray
AvengingPoet Oct 2014
I’m terrified of all things
And I guess it could be worse?
I tell myself, “people are just people
and that they shouldn't make me nervous”
But that isn’t really enough.

I need to find some peace
Or contentment of some kind
I’m actually quite simple
When I’m not going through existential crisis
But man, I really freak myself out.

All I know for sure is that I have my individualism
and freewill
and nobody can tell me really what the fuck to do
and that is what fucking matters most
even if I lose my cool.

All I hope is that I can achieve a few things
and nobody will boss me the fuck around
because I am my own authority
and I own my mind
Mr. America, you don’t own me.

Mr. America,
Instilling the fear inside us all,
You own nothing whatsoever,
My enemy: The State,
I am me…

Do you like that?
AvengingPoet Sep 2014
All they can do is survive
Gated cages of death
Surrounding them all
As starvation is the key
With the burning smell
Of those who are different

The only way to exit
Is to have no choice of life or death
They live under the pattern of both
As the leader screams
Piece by piece
Brainwashing the nation

Knowledge perceives those on the outside
But they don’t care enough
As they suffer and suffer
Because the angel of death
Will be victorious
With millions going

Simply gasping for air
As the gas comes settling down
Might as well tear them limb by limb
Eyes slowly closing
Only hoping for a shower of gold
In another realm

All they can do is survive
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