#uniform
His senses hold him prisoner,
Overwhelmed and alone.
The walls are his burden;
The light, too much to bear.
The soaked linen of yesterday’s news,
Stained with fear from battles before—
An old uniform hangs alone,
Boots polished beside paper awards.
Headlights cast broken shadows,
Each a spectre of the past.
Empty scotch bottles and cigarette burns
Mark a slow crawl to solitude.
Light burns through a slither
His heart beats through the walls.
Strangled by the sirens
That triggered him before.
He needs to be cradled,
Yet no hand reaches for him.
He sways back and forth,
A pendulum of grief.
Screams, muted by paralysis;
Silence pervades the void.
Fractured by a rasping breath
And a crescendo of emotions.
The warning bells pass—
They did not come for him.
His fragile breath of sorrow
Whispers to an empty room.
By Darren Wall ©
Jan 27, 2025
Jan 27, 2025 at 7:15 PM UTC
Because I am a woman
My mind thinks faster
My hands are kinder
My breath comes more controlled
My temper is softer
My soul more forgiving
My resilience stronger
But you see me as weak
For no other reason
Then the fact I am all woman
Yet my boots are just as heavy
My uniform just as worn
My skills just as sharp
I run into the danger just as quickly as you do
And yet you get a smile and a nod
And I just get dismissed
Because I am a woman
Mar 2, 2022
Mar 2, 2022 at 12:25 PM UTC
The officials in
their official light blue shirts --
around little chest.
Jan 4, 2022
Jan 4, 2022 at 3:03 AM UTC
What are we, but uncivilized and irrational, for wanting comfort in what we wear?
And yet, Who are we, in defining our status through clothing, announcing our wealth on golden watches and expensive shoes?
Is it truly fair to judge someone based on the quality of clothing?
How do we know this to be true?
Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 12:19 PM UTC
(You)niform:
Remaining the same in all cases;
consistent; steady
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 5:22 AM UTC
He is trully a brave protector indeed
Neither rain nor shine there he stand
And with the pain of sun and heat
Still he maintains his composure
Everyday he brings hope and protection
As citizen and policeman of this nation
Even if a lack of sleep hinder his stand
Wearing his uniform makes him proud
And later at sunrise he goes home
Looking down on his little angels
Sleeping peacefully in their own dreams
And imagining their bright future
Yet he still sacrifice his life for us
He is trully a brave protector and a father.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 10:36 PM UTC
As I was climbing the steps,
Today after school…
I felt a pang of claustrophobia,
Despite being outdoors…
As I watched the herd of students in uniform,
Both in clothing and in conversation…
I felt scared.
Because I was a part of that herd.
One which mindlessly spent its days,
Spent,
In accordance to the routines of the society,
Their personalities among other things.
All those kids,
In preparation for standardized tests,
Had become standardized as well…
They were forced to fit a mold,
For so long, that they didn’t have to be forced anymore,
And it had all happened so quickly, just like the way mold covers food,
And it had come to seem so permanent, just like patina covering brass,
Hiding the quirks and the character of the statue for all eyes to see, through corrupting it.
They had turned fit to false ideals.
The stair was full of black coats,
As if to make the uniforms even more uniform.
And even the rare spring-like winter day,
Hadn’t made me want to break the routine that day,
To run away into a field
(If I could find a field in the concrete jungle,
The one that I hadn’t yearned to desert just yet,
Though I should’ve made any place my field, anyways.)
And to dance & lie among wild flowers,
Each one unique and not uniform at all.
Even the trees around the stairs looked one and the same,
But how could the system curb even,
The one thing supposed to be unrestrainable,
The uncurbably roaring nature,
To bend it in its will against diversity.
Just like it had done to us…
But then I saw kids playing in the soccer field,
Not a field of flowers, but a field nevertheless
They did seem to be thinking differently,
Their laughs didn’t resemble each other’s
So it was growing up which had made us like that,
A premature maturity,
Which would be premature even at the age of eighty,
(If it could even be considered maturity)
Which had stripped away our individuality,
And had made us a homogeneous flood, sweeping away all identity
And I still am a captive of the desperation that had taken a hold of me in that brief glance,
I still don’t know what to do,
Humanity, help me,
Aid me in melting these cages,
Through the heat of the stars presents in your minds as well as your hearts,
To recover individuality.
For I refuse to give up,
And to loose myself in the flood
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 9:42 AM UTC
Every time I see men in uniform
I'm reminded of how you threw your life away
Willed yourself a killing storm
Leaving me with nothing to say
I believe in reincarnation
Someone will pick your soul out
Of the trash filled mountain, making of you a new creation
And I hope- no. I know without a doubt
You will be a flea.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 10:50 PM UTC
From Amiens upon the Somme
Across the land into the Salient
Our brave men toed the ebbing line
Through wire and mines
Through mud and blood
Through many men and horses shred
Under sun and moon
Through wet and flake
Little rest they won as they fought
The testing yards and inching miles
The scent of death clear in their heads
Their nostrils burning from hell resent
Cauterised wounds some munition singed a deathly end for some
Their eyes by night a blazing fired earth of blues Oranges yellows Reds
Their ears ringing whistles and drums
A sense of booming dread as all around the melee continued
Death by death, Man by man, Son by son
Precious sons many in numbers they did succumb
To the battle cry of walk not run
Blood curdling in their gas filled lungs
Fungi in their rotting boots
Sweat and tears in itchy suits
Muscles aching tendons taught
Nerves for some as they were next
To mount and face the hidden land
Where fate would deal its dreaded blow
On to meet the dreadful wall of death
Choice was none, no turning back
They stood as force though force would guide, those of fear and wisdom's stand,
Over, or rest where shot by those by order for descent
© Robert Kingston 17.10.14
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 6:02 AM UTC
Accepting my generation is kind of hard, everyday mental capacities are sabotaged, take a glance at my peers & everybody's identity is camouflaged
It's an age where there's a long line of scars, their inner image is cut down reduced like wood to a cabin lodge, & they don't realize one day they'll have to pay for pretending, identity theft is a major kind of fraud.
No mind desires to think for itself, they wait on the next topic like a lecture class, only to not develop their own opinion on a topic already selected for them, it's like a professor giving a quiz with the answers listed.
Love is ridiculed & you're chastised if it's felt, my brothers and sisters are clearly broken, a generation of fractured glass, & my soul aches as I observe minds that were predestined for uniqueness be restricted and uniformed to one day wake looking for their life realizing they've missed it.
The other day I found myself on the Twitter page of a boy who has counterfeited my essence & over written the gift God gave him that is his own style, his own thoughts, his one fights.
I felt no anger rather sympathy, the avidity to help, to show and tell him that no flesh is of greater value than another, that his mind is as onliest as my own, & rather than borrow my charisma he should seek his own until a fit feels right.
Everyone witnesses this tragedy but so many are blind to it. Social media sets the standard of what you guys feel, accept, avoid and address & those actions are the root of what will define you & should originate from your own spirit and core.
Believe it or not the opinion of the public you're not assigned to it, Don't let opinions lead you astray from the real, to neglect, and compress those remaining fractions of who you really are screaming out to be heard and glorified more.
Consider we live in a generation where guys will crave for women who are generous with their bodies & then give advice for another man to steer clear of a woman who has shared the very thing they search for & chastise that guy if he shows any emotion toward her.
Comprehend I observe girls complaining about immature men & being blistered by bad intentions but have the audacity to turn down a genuine and God abiding man down simply because he isn't a quarterback or a power forward.
We lack identity. So often we say our parents just don't understand but how could they? We glorify pain and lend scars, social media has made everyone feel as if they're famous, pretend stars, personalities blending together like a *** of gumbo, inseparable, undeniably the same and we wonder why we can't tell who our friends are?
Narcotics are consumed by the plenty, minds are poisoned with false values we've enveloped ourselves in, no one longer values a good person but rather what that person has that is valuable & they say we're the future? If you ask me, we are where the end starts.
Absent Identity -Dash Pinder
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 10:15 AM UTC
My jersey is worn
My pants are torn
My pads are busted
My joints are rusted
My shoes are old
My gloves were sold
My gear is out of date
My helmets not so great
I may not be the norm
But I still wear my uniform
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
radio playing, laughter transforms
into screams, metal crunching and
closing in, a flash of red hair,
or is it blood
the smell of dirt and smoke,
hands pull me from the wreckage,
covered in crimson water that
is not my own
searching eyes and choked shrieks,
where are they, where are-
face-down, still, twisted into
unnatural positions, unconscious,
the deafening screams are my
own, falling to my knees
helpless, seeing red but not in
anger, somewhere an ambulance
arrives, parents and bystanders
watch with unwavering fear
they scream for their mother, and
she is not breathing anymore-
uncontrollable shaking, a breath is
finally taken, but the battle is not won,
rushing, bright lights, tears and mud
staining my cheeks
she can only see shadows, his neck
is broken, another scream, a phone goes
off in the next room, a man in uniform
takes my hand and doesn't let go
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 7:40 PM UTC