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Leah Hilliges Sep 2020
The ugliness of the world
Slips through the cracks,
And hides behind doors,
And the dark veil of the night
That provides protection
For the unkind and the lonely.
night unkind Aug 2020
the transitional day


august August practicing her Academy Award speech,
“Best Month of the Summer, 2020,” between you ‘n me,
there wasn’t much in the way of competition, nonetheless,
careful chosen backdrop, sound effects, mood music -
The Zombies playing “Time of the Season,” inter-inter,
mixing in cool weather, blue skies, intermittent cumulative
cumulus, pushed around by a whitecapping 16 MPH wind

the transitional effects, the leaves dropping fast, **** pointy
s.o.b., pointy acorns, under bare feet means a lot of cursing,
nobody likes change and kissing sweet summer goodbye for a
chilly tonguing neath a smirking smile, for the fates, having
a mischievous hot streak going, promising fall_ing fireworks,
(insert hacking, can’t breathe noises, gunshots and last rites)

try to wrap my arms around the summering highlights, never,
to let go, but you can’t successful hold onto, grasp aholt of
sunlight, traveling clouds, tanning oil, when the breeze is already
autumn weight tweed sturdy strong, and your new bathing suit
(so flattering, so long!) got no unsightly pockets (uncool) and
they got motion, and you have no traction and they just ‘adieu’ you

transition from chilled to trepidated, worries change seasonal colors,
green trees gone, green money worries replacements, and brown is
generally an ugly color, what life leaves behind, brown things,when
things die. Even bay waters have got the fall blues, no more robust
blue eyed girls to decorate white beaches, shades of grays tryout to
be the signature of coloration of symbolic, leave-less, denuded trees

frankly,  I’m in a lousy mood and wait and weight mix, a new coffee flavor from Dunkin’ Depressed, gonna be a big seller if there’s any left, don’t wonder why, ain’t gonna be much around, since I’m gonna drown this magnifique summer body in a tub of coffee that came all the way from June and July, it turned bitter soured, ain’t gonna think twice ‘bout it, heck, after this, may not even think of ‘bout it at all, ain’t nothing to, for, or say...’cept

<> <>

“When a man loves a season
Spend his very last dime
Trying to hold on to what he needs
He'd give up all his comforts
And sleep out in the rain
If Mother Nature said that's the way
It ought to be.”


apologies to the songwriters of
“When a Man Loves a Woman”
night unkind Jun 2020
a truism, an overused, abused entrée to the first poem of the day,
they always are night-born, from a slow passage of dark to a light-triggering recording event, a 6 hr. poem period, gestation, incantation

and a sort of relief, temporary

many the miles voyeured, a mentaller feasting sated,
simple rhymes to covet, rephrasing the complexities of
our other lives, where our sub-selfs exclaim, out loud!
this is me unchained, this is me chained, this is...someone


besotted by the rottenness of honesty, once air-exposed,
eyes fixed, no away-turntable, all that well hidden spoilage
in dreams reverent, forsaken, my ashamed-ness, is willing
taken to the scaffold, and by daylight first, perceived, conceived


we may examine the half of me, nay, the all of me, open-face
secrets secreted in my nighttime travelogue, of crimes, revelations,
insects, drownings, strawberry moons, all the fraying edges of a
linen covering, my cadaver pouch of well used words


inscribed thus:

”human born from a sac, and to earth returned, in sackcloth
night unkind Jun 2020
an ancient lyric, come to haunt,
no longer a shield, now thinner,
of gossamer consistency,
a tissue-thin papyrus,
“my poetry to protect me”

the poem words always were
a clarinet reed, capable of singing,
a highest pitch voice for turning
blades of clean steel clean away,
now blunting paper bunting, penetrated.

re-formed my shield, re-purposed,
into a stabbing instrument offensive,
my poetry pricking tearings in my worn
thin fabric tapestry, woven from linen
excuses of why I can’t, why couldn’t I.

this is life. moats becoming drowning
pools, castle walls reversed to entrapments,
wrecking machines, boulders hurling,
medieval defenseless against modern rhymes
giving away to free verse horde onslaught.

too late to apologize to myself, alas, my words,
my protectorate, island redoubt, now ruined
by doubts treachery breech birthed from within,
these verses hollow point bullets engineered,
Caesar’s words clarified, you, et tu, are Brutus
too, two, for the price of one, betrayer and betrayed.
hiba sajid May 2020
Run away from hatred
Before it comes to feast on your heart

Burn your ego
Before it slowly burns you.

Run away from your yourself
Run away until you see only love
Love and hope for all
Love and respect for all.
Zack Ripley Mar 2019
Every day, you feel like you're dying inside
trying to ignore the pain gifted by a world that can be so unkind. You look in the mirror and try to like what you see.
But the ones who broke your heart
won't let you see how beautiful you are.
If you feel alone and scared to trust the ones that love you
because you feel like they won't understand,
it's easy to push love away
when you feel like you're the only one who knows your heart
and you're the only one who can.
But please, don't give up on love.
Don't give up on your heart.
Forget about the ones who couldn't see your beautiful soul right from the start.
Don't give up on your dreams
and someday you'll find
this crazy life can be so much better than it seems.
So don't give up on love.
Nolan Willett Dec 2019
From a young age,
I took hours to imagine scenarios
Where interesting things happened,
Mostly to me,
To deal with an unkind reality.
A coping mechanism
That I never really grew out of.
Mark Toney Oct 2019
Beautiful downtown Atlanta
Sunny, blue, cloudless sky
Tall, wide, massive buildings
Window glass glistening in the sun
Beautiful, well-dressed people
Gainfully employed people
Taking care of business people
Running essential errands
Contributing to the community
Pursuing positive, purposeful lives.

I take in the sights, sounds, smells
Sounds of people walking, talking
Engines revving and car horns
Smells of restaurants and fast food vendors
Engine exhaust and overheated brakes
The feel of the sidewalk
Under my expensive dress shoes
The heat of the sun on my face and neck
The exciting hustle and bustle
Of a thriving metropolis.

A faint “Please, sir. . .” reaches my ears
And a homeless man appears
*****, disheveled, hirsute
“Please, sir. Could you. . .”
His weak speech trails off
As I divert my eyes, quicken my pace
Ignoring his petty pleas
As he disappears in my wake
Bothersome soul, good riddance
Why doesn’t the city do something?

Days later the encounter haunts me
I was so proud of the way I handled myself
How easy it was to dismiss a soul in need
Months later the encounter haunts me
Instead of the clever human
I had become cruel, inhuman
Unfeeling, unkind, uncaring
Years later the encounter still haunts me
Never will it ever happen again
Never. . . ever.
5/8/2018 - Poetry form: Free Verse - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2018
purple heart Aug 2019
how can some people not see,
how can they not feel,
how terrible unkind and unjust
are they being.

doesn't their soul shiver?
does sound sleep come to them at night?
doesn't their heart, skip a beat?
does the unheard replies haunt them?

i wonder
how?
they mange to breathe after.
people often forget, how to act like humans.
there should be a crash course for that.
isn't?
Michael H Aug 2019
I said I'd write a poem for you,
Once I got to know you,
And now, I think that I do.

It took some time for your colours to shine,
But now I'm done, so here,
Let me show you.

You are light as the day,
With no hint of dark,
It's all bunnies, princesses and pink.

You bore me to tears,
Like a bar with no beers,
And you certainly can't handle your drink.

You're the arms-length kind,
A mediocre mind,
Fakeness and lies are your craft.

You flutter your eyes,
Like a sneaky tweety-pie,
And all the boys start acting daft.

It can't all be bad,
That would be sad,
Of course, there are nice things to say.

I just don't know what they are,
Not those things in your bra,
I've seen bigger **** in ballets.

You have a nice ****,
a nine, if I'm asked,
But that means that I'd have to say...

If I'm being true,
The best thing about you
Is the sight of you walking away.
I never gave it to her.
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