If they really cared why would they do this?

I love them, do they love me?

If it wasn’t for them I’d **** myself already,

With them I do it subtly through self harm and ideation...

What’s worse?!?


I’m drifting...

Who do I go to....

If I ask for help they’ll get in trouble I already know that,

But if I don’t I don’t think I’ll make it through the year.

They’ve talked about how the things I admit to say will get them in serious trouble,

I wish they understood it was the **** they do to me.

Not the lies you claim I say astray,

The mental abuse and emotional torture...

Sometimes it’s a physical endeavor.

The one time it came to life at work.

The times you tell me you want to do it, hurt.

Hit me if it makes you happy.

Hit me if you want to call me crazy?

Punish me for my **** mind.

Only if you saw what’s inside.

Now I’m crying and wanting to die.

So I push this blade deep inside.

Red blood flows to the surface.

You can’t hurt me now and this is worse,


I punish myself,

While bleeding my heart out.

Im left without a plan.

How can this be my end?
Death, suicide, depression, self harm, abuse, torture, cutting, burning, violence
Catherine McCabe Dec 2018
Shut down.
Shut up.

If strength is dominion,
women are just beginning.
I’ve been scarred from head to toe so many times, it’s impossible to tell the old me from my recent history

My mind scarred from disease
                                       My feet from anxiety
My hands from guilt
                         My stomach from impurities

My heart scarred from betrayal, never to trust again
My ears from stupidity that never fails to turn on me

                                   My face from insomnia
My arms from inability
                                             My gut from fear
My shoulders from loneliness
                                         My fists from fights
My eyes from violence
                                     My knees from failure
My bones from pain
                              My ankles from weakness
My reputation from mistakes

And my soul from these dark clouds that refuse to fade...
The bells rang vividly through the cold misty evening as the carolers passed by,
Their serenades intoxicating the air with more and more of that red-green aura.
Busses, cars, and even an old man with a rickshaw zoom down the street,
Promising themselves they wouldn't let up the eve someplace away from home.

A silhouette emerges from the church carrying something wet and shiny.

Two cars topsy turvied and the passengers fell asleep.

Three men point exploding pipes at each other until they all fall down.

Four women braid each others' hair with clenched fists as the red mists paint the white brick wall.

Five people, all in a row, collapse onto the tracks of an oncoming train and decide to let go.

But the omniscient presence in the domed cloud sees all as a musing, for what are we but inklings?
I saw the story of creation unfold before my face,
voices of masses screaming vows before the lord.

like the last meal, this is how the end began.

With words like stones exchanged between families in a divorce court.
Ron Sparks Jan 1
I thought I was brave
with the scars to prove it.
My legacy -
   broken bones,  split knuckles,
   black eyes and loose teeth.
   Adulation and respect.
I fought  both man and isms
Never backed down.
But a black man, driving
an Uber taught me the truth of
true bravery.
Harassed, insulted, threatened by
a low-life passenger,
  white racism covered in a cheap suit and tie,
he refused to take the bait.
He denied himself the pleasure of
      justified violence.
He told me his story -
and anger for him, righteous indignation,
crashed over me in furious waves.
I admonished him for not
confronting that mans ignorance
   with a closed and determined fist.
Never back down, right?
Gently, he spoke the truth of
   black men in America.
His eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror.
You, he said, are innocent until proven guilty.
Protected by a system that
oppresses me.
I am guilty - period - and would be lucky
to be arrested, not killed,
  in a confrontation with that bigot.
So he did nothing, let the swine in a tie
off at his destination,
and drove on - leaving that pig to
wallow in his hate.
His bravery earned him nothing.
No adulation. No respect. No recognition.
Nothing except another day of life.
Another day with his family.
In contrast - my lifetime of bravery.
A pale reflection, when set beside his truth.
He was brave, not I.
My self-styled bravery, forever
by my privilege.
I am floating around in the mortal realm with no real place to go except to inhabit the bodies of unaware folk who just toil to and fro. I inhabit a pretty-looking woman just to get inside her head but all I keep hearing are musings of how she ought to be dead by slashing her wrists with a kitchen knife to escape from her domestic life and lie ****** on the floor for her husband to see that she was his last great casualty of being a drunken and hot tempered monstrosity. I have to get out of her mentally tormented rhapsody as she stands around looking around for somebody to hold onto. I wish I could hold her too. I walk beside a boy but he doesn’t see me so I get inside his head and find that his mind is filled with poetry about his worn out mother who is passed out and drained in the chair and she never knows where her son is or if he is even there. He writes bright-colored graffiti on those drab gray walls but scrambles to a dark corner whenever a police siren calls. He sells some **** to the local children in those same corners that keep him hidden. It is also the same place where he practices his rhymes about struggling to earn some dimes by selling some death to the innocent so he can live with a dark conscious to lament. This boy is a growing travesty so I leave his tormented rhapsody. I watch him grip the wall and cry and I want to comfort him, but I can’t, no matter how hard I try. I infiltrate into a homeless veteran and probe through his broken mind about his past as a soldier trapped in a fiery jungle with his companions roasted at his side as he hears sinister voices call out for him as he tries to hide in a corpse-ridden hole filled with his shot up compatriots. Now he hides in an alleyway in a country that shuns soldiers but welcomes “Patriots.” All of these people are filled with absolute pain of scratches, gunshots, batterings, and isolation. But the truth is that I want to feel just like I felt before when I walked with these mortals and I want to feel some pain than nothing that makes me feel alive and human again.
Scott G Dec 2018
To be in battle
To risk it all
A few minutes
Of intensity
That is all
Back on the ride
Again to find
Trouble in spades
To feel the shot
Of adrenaline pure
To turn on hostility
A high, no a thrill
To suffer on purpose
See things that are raw
What is the sense
A question must call
Whether or not
It is you or me
The violence endures
Just another, see?
Then when you age
You question it all
If right you’ve done
Or perhaps the wrong
The memories ever present
The faces become one
The images do clutter
The memories do cloud
Sudden, fear for no reason
Sudden bark, near bite
Impossible to live with
Was it worth its’ due?
Always aggression
Now teach me to stop

Easier said
nick armbrister Dec 2018
Layered Cake
I’ve known many unsavory characters from my home city of Manchester
There’s the ex-demolition guy who took a great dislike to me
Did he have visions of blowing me up instead of my old car?
He had a trainee apprentice in the wings and had connections

I knew several football hooligans who fought for what?
For England, their home team, themselves, for violence?
Each told me a story of Rah-Rah-Rah Here We Go Lads!
One fought riot cops in Poland and was jailed in a sanatorium
He somehow escaped and was banned from Poland for life
The other was a City fan and battled his opponents in Greece
He was 45 and still loved a good tear up on match days

Drug dealers prominently featured in the city and surrounding towns
One dark night in my home town I saw an ex-dealer shot dead  
I heard then saw the BMW getaway car zoom off
Oddly I thought I heard two gunshots after it had gone
The ex-dealer’s wife asked me to help and I tried to
But there was nothing I could do but call the medics

Chavs are the worst in my town and others
Council House And Violent and ruling the tough estates
With their violence, crime, dealing and other acts
Not going to school or college but sleeping all day
And drinking and smoking **** all night with their underage gals
But when do they have time to do their crimes?

There are the plastic gangsters who think they’re it
Maybe with their mates they can burst a paper bag
Or intimidate innocent law abiding citizens who are meek

Further afield I met a gangster in Liverpool who was alrite
He liked a right tear up and had a job to appear legit
But his real work was in various things like drugs, guns and cash
He offered me a job as a courier because my car was old and gray
I said no for its easy in and never ever out

The English racists were a breed apart who hated all skins
I got on with one who liked metal but we clashed on views
He loathed foreigners and wanted them all out
And insisted that white men stick to white women

Most scary of all I met a killer on the run in Newcastle
We were on the ship disco by the river having fun
This guy had a real flirty wife called Carmen
I danced with her and later talked to her husband
He schitzed out and went mad but not for chatting with his gal
I asked what’s wrong and he admitted to killing a man
And said he didn’t know me from Adam so be quiet!
He was a Londoner and I said you did it for your own reasons
His wife consoled him when he had flashbacks

Ex-servicemen gave me a few problems over the years
I was drinking in my local pub when a para and a marine argued
First with one another and then with me over who was best
They hated the air force and me wearing an Air Force badge
Maybe they needed a war to get their heads blown off?

There were many fighters who lived to fight and cause trouble
Some had a go at me I tried to avoid their skills but heard their stories
Some were nutters but others quite pally and fine lads
There were brawlers, boxers, Martial Artists and more
Near the Mess House pub in Oldham guys die by a single punch

These savory and unsavory characters were the fabric of England
Some I remember and many I forget for right or wrong reasons
Their stories live on here my poem for you to judge
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