#poltics - Hello Poetry

How it all started I cant quite remember The only thing that's left, a fragment of memory, a piece, an ember. I pleaded, I begged the God to think of a little child that is being destroyed, I begged him to react before in me the only thing that would be left was a big void. But God remained cold, there is no way to cure the wounds of old.So I ve rotten for a couple of years, tried to heal my wounds with yeast and tears. And nothing came abought, only a deep saddened drought. My soul was slowly crushed by a false mission, with a ban to sign my petition. I've sat on the cold trone to know how it feels, nothing in that imaginary belief is real. Witches serve the rulers that claim they're bold, pretending to be divine but inside contain only mold. And this Earth spins, there is no other way, but for us, petty fools to be dismayed. Puppeteers pull their strings, so we can forcefully bow down and kiss their rings. What kind of idiots do you think we are?, Do you really think all schemes go that far? Sad alone, abandoned, without any hope, We go out and accept these monsters only to be hanged by a rope. Call them Psychopaths, Borderlines, Narcs, They give a bad name even to sharks. But every thing that rises needs to fall. But before they do, they'll try to silence us all.

0

Jul 1, 2018

Jul 1, 2018 at 7:12 PM UTC

Tijana_

The Great Age of Machiavelli

How it all started I cant quite remember The only thing that's left, a fragment of memory, a piece, an ember. I pleaded, I begged the God to think of a little child that is being destroyed, I begged him to react before in me the only thing that would be left was a big void. But God remained cold, there is no way to cure the wounds of old.So I ve rotten for a couple of years, tried to heal my wounds with yeast and tears. And nothing came abought, only a deep saddened drought. My soul was slowly crushed by a false mission, with a ban to sign my petition. I've sat on the cold trone to know how it feels, nothing in that imaginary belief is real. Witches serve the rulers that claim they're bold, pretending to be divine but inside contain only mold. And this Earth spins, there is no other way, but for us, petty fools to be dismayed. Puppeteers pull their strings, so we can forcefully bow down and kiss their rings. What kind of idiots do you think we are?, Do you really think all schemes go that far? Sad alone, abandoned, without any hope, We go out and accept these monsters only to be hanged by a rope. Call them Psychopaths, Borderlines, Narcs, They give a bad name even to sharks. But every thing that rises needs to fall. But before they do, they'll try to silence us all.

15

Quite the start to the weekend There it goes, watch it ends These pages are made of dust What is half read is still unread Tree of paper leaving glue trail In search of the perfect bookmark I found a place for receipts to recuperate I locked eyes with Jupiter On a wooden coffee table The great counterclockwise storm Ticking away with each drop Disaster, sky without a star Heaven receives blessings, On slow workdays When martyrs are lucky enough to live We swore by that which divides day and night, and fails to conquer either That Faith must not pass the gate Until they call for prayer Until the square of crossroads is clear Sometimes I feel like a disbeliever in Jerusalem Prayers manifest duality as one So shoulders can shrug in unison Banal attempts to restore faith Outrage is out of reach The mind sets red-tape traps, We call that mindless assertions In the climate of trumpets and megaphones Nothing escapes poltics Vicious cyclones of “Breaking News" cycles "I see pictures of children in faraway places that wreck me for a day"

0

Nov 8, 2017

Nov 8, 2017 at 5:25 AM UTC

YuriMarkovic

Segments

Quite the start to the weekend There it goes, watch it ends These pages are made of dust What is half read is still unread Tree of paper leaving glue trail In search of the perfect bookmark I found a place for receipts to recuperate I locked eyes with Jupiter On a wooden coffee table The great counterclockwise storm Ticking away with each drop Disaster, sky without a star Heaven receives blessings, On slow workdays When martyrs are lucky enough to live We swore by that which divides day and night, and fails to conquer either That Faith must not pass the gate Until they call for prayer Until the square of crossroads is clear Sometimes I feel like a disbeliever in Jerusalem Prayers manifest duality as one So shoulders can shrug in unison Banal attempts to restore faith Outrage is out of reach The mind sets red-tape traps, We call that mindless assertions In the climate of trumpets and megaphones Nothing escapes poltics Vicious cyclones of “Breaking News" cycles "I see pictures of children in faraway places that wreck me for a day"

31

* *If the people have nothing in common. . . . . .then there can be no common sense.* *

0

Jan 30, 2017

Jan 30, 2017 at 6:06 PM UTC

david-john-mowers

a·po·lit·i·cal/āpəˈlidək(ə)l

* *If the people have nothing in common. . . . . .then there can be no common sense.* *

2