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Words' Worth Oct 15
The girl caught in the wire
Knows the right way and shows fiery pride
Instead, of taking the sunshine and more
Clasping the delicate rays with her parched palms

Leaving desolate prisoners inside
A dark day made only of steel cages
They will let in the light, those lying in the shadow
It's blazing outside, it is bright

Cold waters will calm, then turn the tide
Soon the cursed world will die
Women can see the sun when it swallows the earth
It is a ball of hope saving them from guns and guards

Their dreams will turn to ashes
Mothers with empty wombs love them just the same
To them their daughters haven't seen the rain
The sun grins from behind grey clouds and sighs

Soon, freedom will come within their reach, fast
And these daughters will get stuck deeper
The dream slips faster than sand in an hourglass
They deserve love from the depths of hell itself

Until one of them dies by the bullet or ****** disease
They don't belong to them, do they?
These pigs moan if their houses are made of gold
The white men want oil fields with them working
Such injustice has gotten beyond the point that people can turn a blind eye. You need to vote to bring focus on how the black people are getting treated. Its been like this, since the 1600s, and it saddens me that many will let it go on. I live in a different country, but I know this is the right thing to write for people who need to hear this. For those who are unaware, ignorant, and need  to get disabused about slavery, please wake up. It's all on the news.
Maria Mitea Jun 16
The Provocation on Highway 401/ By Maria Mitea

There will always be a provocation, temptation, elation
Someone inviting you for a fresh breath to take in, and out
when you, the day-to-day maker are driving, loving, or maybe make money
with a hammer in your hand hitting on a red iron.

Hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen
on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe,
not, or again maybe free love, wanderer, adventurer, or vagabond
with a hoarse voice, will invite you "Going Out West", and change your name.

I am in, even though I don't know what I mean, Please, before I start to write let me park at WalsMart, and my apology if you feel ignored or bored.
I have an important encounter on Wikihead with Tom Waist, intrigued if he meant anatomy or a cut of meat from the leg of a lamb, or maybe he liked to be, or feel in between for the rest that moved in thin blood and sotto voices.

I pulled in, and find out that Tom Waist was born after the ussr famine,
agogy to see what lives in his guts, what a bad habit, "girl! go back and read what's the challenge about." I hold in from searching his words and thoughts that he played on a yellow paper, and think " Hm, he was born after the famine, his music and poetry must've been concocted from hunger starving for life itself."

I click one more time wikihead, and I see that indeed he did all he could do on earth and not only, but he also dug underbelly, living in between starving his audience to tears with his hoarse voice and appetite for art. Then I need him more. I can feel how he invites us all for artistic addiction, and I need him more, on a smartphone, I am digging his music and stumble into the "House where nobody lives", bursting into tears.

There will always be a provocation, temptation, elation
Someone inviting you for a fresh breath to take in, and out
when you day-to-day maker drive, love, or maybe make money
with a hammer hitting on a red iron,

Hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen
on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe,
not, or again maybe free love, wanderer, adventurer, or vagabond
with hoarseness in his voice, will invite you "Going Out West",
and change your name.

I read again and again, and one more time I listen to a spot fyi " Going Out West", and ask if this was the "voodoo ... , I am gonna make myself available to you" without losing your composure you have your "voodoo" means that brought me back in tears in the "House where nobody lives",

Ones, hey, you two, and three, five four, or maybe ten, and even thirteen on a pin-up, or pin down you choose to live in Bohemia, or maybe, not, or again maybe free love, wanderers, adventurers, or vagabonds with hoarse voices will invite you "Going Out West", and change your name.
Thomas W Case 15h Challenge,
We worry.
We wonder why.
We wake, we wait, we work
We worry.

We whine wuthering
Whispers, wavering, wasted,
Wishing while wishing
Wanting while wanting,
Wondering why.

We work well,
Well, we work,
While wizardly weaving
Wispy wavelengths,
Weedy wasps of
Wanton whimsy,
Wired well within.

We will warmongers
Without wonder
Who wreak
Widespread waste,
Welcome Wasteland,
Washing with war the
Wounded World.

We will war
War wills we
We wage war
With weird weapons.
We wrestle with will.
Why?

We wait whole
Weekdays, weekends. A
Ways away, the waning
Winter winds of men's
Wisdom's wavering.

Withering winks from
Wistful women,
Widening wingspans,
Wads of we, we,
Wandering westwards
Where suns wane,
Wait out wear of weather ,
Wondering why.

Warm waters will wash us,
We will wake up well.
Left Foot Poet Feb 2018
what does the W stand for


my 2:00am friend?

left feet touching and yet I am clueless, unsure in what language I should compile the possibilities and

reread my poem and shotgun taken aback

you make my urgency feel so trifling

and I read your are back but you are more gone for,
love’s  misfortune has you, graced,
like a hole in the barbed wire fence,
had bled you dry and let the seeds for
the next planting go astray;
this is comprehended for my fences
are so busted in so many places that
all the animals escaped only to return
at feeding time, their curiosity of the outside world
limited

and W has limited infinite answers

for there are no names that begin with W
for farmers in our native tongues

suspect if you are reading this it must be after 2:00,
indeed it’s 4:07am, and the puzzlement is face flushing,
annoying and curiously intriguing...

and i remain,
“sincerely” yours

L.F. Poet




p.s. thanks for reading my stuff
Lynnia Apr 2019
Well hello again. Although we’ve clashed,
A new tune rises from the ash
Vermillion chords may paint this song
Ending it all; I hope I’m wrong
xmxrgxncy Feb 2019
you've changed things- location is gone, all personality is gone.
no, we haven't talked in six months.
yes, i miss your company; does it have to be more complicated than that? i don't think so.
i'm worried.
are you overseas somewhere bound up after your last trip there for christmas?
are you at a completely different school and every time i walk past your classrooms i get anxious for no reason at all?
have you changed your hair, changed your major, changed the way you walk?
i can't find you, and i know deep down i don't need to.
but i wonder, and i worry.
where are you?
#w
Matthew Feb 2019
If I made a poem that sang to the seas
and whispered to the winds,

Would the winds remember what was whispered?
And when I sang to the seas, should they see the secrets sunk into my subconscious?

The winds won't ever wander where I once have.
The seas never will stare solemnly at the stormy sky.

Seems that it is worthless.
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