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D Apr 7
Mind on the brink,
Sunk thoughts in a blink
Who’s there?………
                            ….Where are you?….
….What?…
                                                    …no..

Scotty didn’t know,
What brother did in tow,
How greasy hands touch upon the innocent
A daughter doesn’t tell,
The scars they never show.

Scotty doesn’t know
Wife got out the papers,
The lawyer signed and notarized
Waiting for the right time
Manilla envelope creased with sweaty hand prints.

Scotty was fond of rope,
But could never buy a vowel,
Clues left him clueless to the truth
The pills make him expel the bowels.

Scotty doesn’t know,
The voices aren’t real,
Brother looks like a nephilim
Wings made of goose down and paper meal
He’s dancing upon the tree tops
Trying to write the words,
Striking out as the swing tightens.

Scotty was playing hangman,
Tire rope swing, swung
Saying goodbye to the demons
Voices that ring his bells rung
How his brother never loved him,
Only the fruits of his own creation,
And with her lost innocence premeditated
He offered to solve the puzzle,
Eyes dilated.
Based on a tragic true srtory, it is a work of fiction but based on actual events of someone I used to know.
Viktoriia Apr 6
a little bit of violence goes a long way.
say no to your reflection,
watch it fall apart into scattered fragments.
all of them are still you, remember?
now they can be used as a concealed weapon.
if you choose to do so, aim at the heart,
for you're not a butcher, you're a sculptor,
and this shard isn't a knife, but a scalpel.
watch the lines disappear as you cut.
it's unlike you to worry about blood
as long as it doesn't stain your dress,
as long as you lose some parts
in the process,
getting rid of all the unwanted layers.
all of them used to be you, remember?
kept asleep by injections,
kept awake by the pain.
flaws don't have a say on the matter.
a little bit of violence goes a long way.
Nemesis Apr 5
Little pond, little pond,
In the heart of this town,
Two little frogs sitting side by side,
We were young, barely five.
We played with rocks, sticks—
Jump ropes, chess, and dominoes
All those harmless little things.

He brought a stick, and I the stone.
He claimed the pond was our kingdom.
We were both knights with a cause—
Defeat everyone who can do harm.
The water is muddy; it needs cleansing.
See how those green monsters keep splashing?
They need to be defeated.

He palmed the stone in his tiny hands,
Threw the rock as it splashed.
The first one missed, the second skipped,
The third cracked as it hit.
“It is nothing but a frog,” he protested.
It was something small, alive, and green,
Not something that a boy can ****.

But how violent can love be?
He batters his hands.
Why is it in his nature to crash?
Look at the frogs; see how they jump—
But how would they look
If they were crushed?

If you want to stay, my friend,
Wrangle their little necks,
Gouge out their eyes,
Tear at their insides.
Rocks are made
To crush, crush, crush—
Can you feel
The rush, rush, rush?

Two frogs sitting by the pond,
With their hands and legs torn.
I shook my head—
Not made for violent acts,
And to do this for his satisfaction
Would be self-betraying,
Not fitting for innocent beings.

Two innocent beings,
Sitting side by side—
Is he worth it,
Shedding blood for?
When I look at my reflection,
She knows she wants more.
"Crush them, crush them," you chanted—
I hesitated back then.

Innocent and right,
But at home,
You had to fight.
Later, they buried the hole.
The dirt and ground covered them whole.
Two little frogs, side by side,
Now they sit with heads torn wide.

Violence breeds violent acts.
Rocks and sticks
Can shift from toys
And playing children
To careless fools.
It's right, it's alright.
I know you had to fight.

Draw your sword and die by it.
At home, his fist shaped to hit,
And the cycle is just habit.
The predator chases the rabbit.
And if you ask me again,
I might not think twice—
Two frogs sitting side by side.
Who's To blame here?
Rewind the time
you'll find we both fear the future
you was drinking cold beer
While I was driving you crazy-
no steering wheel.
That's a bad situation
not apologizing for testing your patience
Cause you is the Einstein who made this mess
Now im stuck as a mistake you created

Streets is calling my black berry
Around my head is three thuged-out fairies
One holding a gun,
one holding some juice,
and the other one seems to be getting lose

Dap up dap up dap up,
one minute
Im in the crew our deeds seen as sinning
But as long as im with laughter
and happy ever afters
im gon' walk like im winning
The finishing line around the corner
All it takes is two knocks, law n order
All it takes is two knocks, from the border
All it takes is two shots! manslaughter
From the accented phrases, and wierd pronunciations, The poem shows, first person, the chaotic lifestyle of a street ****, and the choices they make.
Meggi Apr 1
The soldier can not always be fighting
There must have been a time before the fray
When the man’o war was a child running barefoot over land without mines
There must have been time for rest
Time for lunch
Time for bed
The fighting man must still dream at night, of *** and flying and the boogeyman as I do
He must have taken up his own arms
Dressed in his own clothes for the day
Let his own legs carry him eastwards
******* his own head on straight
The man inside the camouflage still combs his hair in the morning
Telephones his mother to ask about the recipe
Tries to lose the last of his gut before summer brings the beach back into popular culture
The soldier too shall die
Die victim and perpetrator and ghost of state sanctioned fury-for-a-cause
Fury-for-a-sons-life, mother dearest
Load him up! Send him off! We shall turn your boy into a man! We shall give him honour! We shall carry his body home from the field on the back of a friend!
The fighting man in his bloodlust
Turns out to be nothing more than any other son
Loaded into a gun
Shot across the field
Into the face of a history who will call him Soldier
Into the face of the mother who will call him Little One at the funeral
Who will wail and weep and tear the flag
The mother of war knows best the sting of the gun
The sting of the soldier in her arms
Hope Mar 30
Don't get too close
the closeness makes
this crazy mind distrust you.
I come from generations of lunatic woman.
Mad with passion
        jealous of the gum stuck to your shoe
          or the pool stick you chalk up right before
          you hit the rack.
                  I tell you
                      we're out of our minds.
    
As a teen I'd
spit on my walls-
sweep up broken glass
from the fists full of love punches thrown from
one parent to the next.
            Alcohol, and
              rage
                  stirred with
                     resentfulness
                         can drive any car off a cliff.

I'd miss weeks of school
because of this.
Jumped out of moving cars to get to "safety"
smoked cigarettes
behind the tree
that covered the window to my brother's room.
   no one noticed-
              ever.
Not the times I'd be gone
    or the missing homework assignments,
       not even fear and
         beer bottles that reflected
            in my innocent eyes.
  
     It molded
     this mind
     I carry now-
      I'd curse at the sun
          told the moon to *******
          learning not to trust
                      a shadow
or even a noise.
Especially a couple weeks of calmness.
      Don't trust those,
they'll pull the rug out from
under you and
break your nose,
slice your wrist
making you learn
silence
and introduce you to
darkness.

Life goes on now,
prescriptions burn the
nerves,
     but never
keep the craziness at bay for long.
          That the calmness
                          always
                           ends.
House shaking
children quaking,
chaos-
my parents engraved in me.
      Also gifted me jealousy-
plus a little of this and that
that can turn anything sweet into sour.
        So I'm telling you
even when the stillness comes
don't you dare hold your breath-
it won't last
           we'll make sure of that
               at least it never did for me.
I grew up in the shadow of my mother’s cries,
a symphony of pain echoing through thin walls.
My father’s rage was a storm I could not calm,
locked away in my room, a prisoner of helplessness.

I trained my ears to listen for the silence,
for the absence of that horrible sound meant safety.
In the sweltering heat of summer,
I turned off the fan, closed the window,
sacrificing comfort to keep my vigil.

The stillness was my shield,
my ears scanning, always scanning,
for the sound that shattered peace.

I wondered, if my mother had been different—
empowered, independent, unyielding—
would she have escaped the blows?
Would I have been spared the scars of witnessing?

But no, her submissiveness was not the crime.
The fault lay in the hands that struck,
in the heart that chose cruelty over love.

And yet, I confess, I dream of a submissive wife.
Not to dominate, not to harm,
but to prove, to myself and to the world,
that gentleness deserves tenderness,
that softness is not a weakness to exploit.

I will love her properly, care for her deeply,
respect her fully, treasure her words like a melody,
and hold her thoughts as close as my heartbeat.
I will be kind without condition.

For if I do not, it would be as if I blamed my mother
for the sins of my father.
And that, I cannot bear.

Yes, I celebrate the empowered, the independent,
the women who rise, unbroken, against the tide.
But let us not forget:
a submissive woman is not a flawed woman.

She, too, deserves love, care, and kindness.
She, too, deserves to be safe,
to have her voice respected,
her opinions valued,
and her dignity upheld.

For the fault of abuse lies not in the victim,
but in the hands that wield it.
And in my hands, I vow to hold only gentleness,
to break the cycle,
to honor my mother’s tears
by creating a world where no one has to cry.
In Defense of Gentleness
This poem explores the trauma of witnessing abuse and the desire to break cycles of harm. The term 'submissive' is used not to endorse traditional gender roles or power imbalances, but to reflect a personal commitment to treating gentleness and softness with the love, respect, and kindness they deserve. It is a call to honor the dignity of all individuals, regardless of their nature or behavior, and to hold abusers accountable for their actions.
Gideon Mar 8
I fell madly in love with you.
Your sweet compliments drew me in.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your soft kisses won me over.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your advice told me to listen.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your discipline made me better.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your harsh words caught me off guard.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your apologies regained my trust.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your bad habits became mine.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your anger made me feel protected.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your disappointment was immeasurable.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your love made me feel crazy.

I fell violently out of love with you.
Your sweet compliments stopped coming.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your kisses slowly faded to pecks.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your advice led me astray.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your discipline left me confused.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your harsh words stung like tears.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your apologies were double-sided.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your bad habits ruined my life.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your anger scared my childlike heart.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your disappointment made me feel even worse.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your love made me feel unloveable.
It's meant to be in two parallel columns, but I couldn't do that here.
Gideon Mar 8
Let the world read the words you have written.
Let them sink in like fangs that have bitten.
Into the flesh and into the soul.
Filling the deepest and darkest of holes.
Voids in our minds and caves in our hearts.
Filled to the brim with beautiful art.
If not for the Holy Land,
The Germans and the French in battle,
Would have failed to be met.

If not for that and the WW1,
My ancestors would've never been met,
If not for that, I would never be born for peace.
The blood of war bonds it's survivors stronger.
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