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Run. Run. Run
Here they come
The rampant dogs
Ready to rip off
People's skin.

Another ****** forgotten
Another person in their coffin
For just living in their skin
There's no way to win
Against supremacy.

What's next? Another Holocaust?
Another mass-genocide lost
In the media? In history books?
Because if this is how my future looks,
I don't want to live through it.

This is why we must stand up now
Before the dogs and sirens get too loud
We can't travel back in time, not like this
For there is so much good we'll miss
Unless we protest the injustices

Plaguing our society.
I just felt like writing a poem about all the things happening in our society today. Dealing with racism and supremacy.
I ran down the shore
as the knifes crested near me,
               never reaching the shore
that I stood upon.

For I don't want to drown,
          I want to breath.
crimson stillness isn't my
                                   sunset..

So I run, out of breath..
  but the shore line is further now..

No waves will wash over me this day..
All I see when I look in the mirror,
Is a reflection of his ghost.
Is the dullness of his eyes
And the crookedness of his teeth.

I don’t remember most of it.
It’s easier to forget when
My skin, like his, is awake

—So I stopped sleeping.

All my memories of him
Have baptized in blood,
My own blood.
Perhaps my mother’s too,
And that of my sisters,
Maybe his.

I stopped wearing my glasses.

Maybe if I don’t see the crystal of the mirror,
I won’t see him either.

But it never works.

The truth doesn’t get any cloudier.
I still feel his breath on my battered back
Laced with liquor and some
kind of rotten.

I stopped washing my hands

Because they get more calloused
And more like his.

Sometimes,
When I stare at my feet,
I still see cherry wine
On the cold floors.
I still feel glass
Puncturing skin.
And curses thrown
Through
My mother

I started drinking.
But now I feel more
Like him.
Like the waves of beer
In glass bottles
Is him
Trapped
In a monster.

I started drinking.
But now I feel more
Like his.


I wonder if I will ever be anything but
His.
Mikey Kania Feb 21
rivers of dust
ninetynine cents
beastly fightin' wit
glowing nails
ain't no fakirs it is bloodshed
fakers neither knuckles bloodred

feel verse seven: just a bloodbath
Today is a good day.
a face of stone and bloodred eyes
he is not dumb, he is not wise
a vampire, dressed in black attire
ruler of the world, lobby boss, a rock

a fierce narcissist being hurt
even by your friendliest words
knife-like fingernails, teeth spiky
he slits you up, devours your heart

cannibal lecter style for real
he just does not know how to feel
psychopathic soul, a tall goon
ruling from a bone-made throne

you can not make a deal with him:
he's like a bank and always wins
your family is dead my friend
today is your turn: you will burn

barbeque-images, intestines
human-scented steak with bloodshakes
festival of gore, you creature
since you are the vampire's feature

humans come, humans go, you know?
a vampire does not bother
he will tear your body apart
to carve a poem into your flesh
Today is a gory day.
Lisa Conway May 19
I had thought us happy but your contempt changed that
I’ll never know why you became so bitter, full of scorn
You said you felt trapped, weary even
That my desire made you feel resentful , miserable
so you alienated me from everyone making me lonely

Frustration and irritation made you a monster
You caused me to feel  nervous, overwhelmed by your hatred
I was so bewildered and sad, i’d tried to make you happy
i wanted so much to keep us together but you almost broke me

The lies that poured from your lips was shocking
You made me feel so ill , stunned and disgusted
Little did you know that everyone would see through your deceit
and tell the world what you really were

© L Conway 2020
Personal poem but would welcome any friendly feedback
Zywa May 17
What is violence?

I don't do it, if I do –


I quickly forget.
Collection "Bruises"
Remembering those that are keeping it all together whilst being screamed at, humiliated, insulted, offended and hurt.

Those who feel like screaming but holding the meltdown in check.

Those who are frustrated and trapped and killing somebody seemed the best option but just do not have the right state of mind.

Those whom in the ugly face of violence, are still fighting for their right to freedom of choice.

Freedom for a right to live equally because, life has dealt them a hard hand. A right to be who they dream to be.

Those that are being mistaken for their tears as mere weakness.

Those that have lost their spirit to fight but are hoping-still.
Those who are in their lowest now but still faithful and pressing on despite everything.

Those that feel the need to cry but had to smile instead.
Those who live within their means but wish there could have been more or be more because of another brother, sister, relative in need.

Those who put every one elses need ahead of their own.

Lest we forget, you are remembered today.
The cold steel of my gun
Reassures my broken mind
Empowering me, filling me up
With a darkness that's entwined
With a pain that burns like the sun

The quiet boy you've ignored
That only sought acceptance
Isn't me anymore
So, prepare for penance
Because death is at your door.

I am done being the pawn
In this cruel game of yours
I wish I was gone
But my soul soars
For this will be the dawn

When all this pain wrapped in a bow
Will simply... Explode!
Thoughts? This is probably the darkest poem I ever wrote.
Steve Page May 11
Do I look bovver'd it's botched?
You wanted bespoke and that’s just what you got.  
I’m chock-a-block with jobs,
so this the best of a very bad job.

It might look bog standard,
but remember it was already cack-‘anded,
so just shut your gob
with all your talk of you being robbed.  

Look, your ladyship, you might well be miffed,
but I’m sure you can make do with a little skew-wiffed,
so ‘and over the readies and make it swift -
I’ll walk away and we’ll call it quits.  

You know me and my rep round this manor,
if you don’t cough up I know a right tasty geezer
who will breeze over ‘ere and wrap each of his fingers
round a whole lot more than your French wind-ders.

- That’s a lot better, you’ve got a nice gaff
and I’m sure neither of us want all of the faff
that goes with ‘ard feelings and still ‘arder stares
through broken front wind-ders and costly repairs.

You know what I mean?
I was channeling Bob Hoskins for this one.   I'm from south east London - and some of it rubbed off on me.
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