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"adversary" poems
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
0
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Paradoxical Tendencies
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
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47
implosions are for starfish and our mission is clear. we have nowhere to be from and that's half the battle. we are seldom unbridled in the chastity of our carnal bluff... and our cages are breathing. we are finally designing our most daring Inertia. both mum on the details in the devil's flotsam. we jot some of the names of the nameless... on the outside of Dixie cups. like mint julep promise to a tangerine honest. again and again, we ache through the breeze of our soothing traumas. we court the verity of a sham. we blast through the congregation of our adversary, snipping varmints from a stale camp in the southernmost of our due south,; where they fear the bonfire until a vagrant maps the flaming tongues to a long kiss.... and we crash upon the shore of Never Asked. but regret This.
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May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
implosions are for starfish
We were boys, once. Our mother liked to dress us in tailored suits and leather shoes. Every Sunday morning. Ready bright and early for mass at 11. We'd sit in the classroom at the back of the old church hall. After mass. After the chatter of voices hushed down to whispers; virtuous gossip. Our teacher fed us images of hellfire and brimstone. *** and sin. Satan in a red cape and Halloween horns. He didn't always look like that. Oh, no. Mother said that he'd come out all dressed in a suit like mine. He'd be handsome! His voice would be a choir of one billion ****** souls and once you'd hear it, you'd never want it to stop. In my eight-year-old mind, I wondered what he did and what he felt when his own father cursed his name. Did he stare at his dad with his thousand-eyes? Did he protest? Did he laugh as he fell? In a cascade of feathers and blood. Maybe he was better off without him. He'd spend the rest of eternity trying to prove his father wrong. That he was worthy of his love: That he would be the only son to grieve for the mistake of humanity. The holy adversary. The one who would shout his love for The Lord until his throat cracked dry and his chest ached. He, who could see the suffering of his father's own creations. He, who tempted Eve and proved God wrong and we were flawed from the very beginning. Did he watch Eve eat the apple and savor every bite? He loved his father. Did he deserve it? I stopped going to church on my eighteenth birthday. What kind of parent would **** one son and praise the other? Who would let one son be nailed to a board and the other to rot in flames? Even as a child, I knew. Through every slap, scold and bruise. I would never bow.
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Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 9:32 AM UTC
Adversary
We were boys, once. Our mother liked to dress us in tailored suits and leather shoes. Every Sunday morning. Ready bright and early for mass at 11. We'd sit in the classroom at the back of the old church hall. After mass. After the chatter of voices hushed down to whispers; virtuous gossip. Our teacher fed us images of hellfire and brimstone. *** and sin. Satan in a red cape and Halloween horns. He didn't always look like that. Oh, no. Mother said that he'd come out all dressed in a suit like mine. He'd be handsome! His voice would be a choir of one billion ****** souls and once you'd hear it, you'd never want it to stop. In my eight-year-old mind, I wondered what he did and what he felt when his own father cursed his name. Did he stare at his dad with his thousand-eyes? Did he protest? Did he laugh as he fell? In a cascade of feathers and blood. Maybe he was better off without him. He'd spend the rest of eternity trying to prove his father wrong. That he was worthy of his love: That he would be the only son to grieve for the mistake of humanity. The holy adversary. The one who would shout his love for The Lord until his throat cracked dry and his chest ached. He, who could see the suffering of his father's own creations. He, who tempted Eve and proved God wrong and we were flawed from the very beginning. Did he watch Eve eat the apple and savor every bite? He loved his father. Did he deserve it? I stopped going to church on my eighteenth birthday. What kind of parent would **** one son and praise the other? Who would let one son be nailed to a board and the other to rot in flames? Even as a child, I knew. Through every slap, scold and bruise. I would never bow.
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28
The mirrior is my adversary. My eyes variance, what others don't see. To the word I'm adequate, crowning , spotless, and skilled Every morning I wake up, get ready and cover my lips in red majestic mac Red lipstick seems to illuminate confidence in the eyes of many, but to me it is merely a pigmented shield of secrets. Humorous isn't it? Every unmarred life, seeks to relive its pigments Fears, self-doubt, imperfection. Mirror, mirror, mirror on the wall.. Who's the thinnest of them all... The sound of battle rumbles Conscious at wrists ends Bawling in me Fat, Fat, Fat, Yours tricks are foul, you tauntful mind Vision is blurred from reality, Oh mind how you love to frolic Your sheer joys leave me unpieced, The snickering of my mirror, Damages my frame. Sorrowing fades my red lipstick Pigments revealed, Vulnerable, Unworthy, Marred to the bone Quickly I learned that the mind is the enemy, filled with con Staring in my mirror and all I see is fat. Red lipstick always seems to fade by the end of the night.
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Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
Red Lipstick
Standing outside the coliseum He wipes his tattered brow As he waits in chains And what remains Of a worn and used nightgown The oak doors creak as they slowly bow He walks the axis road The dogs at his heels, he knows, he feels Pains that have been bestowed A table is set upon which blades rest The choice of which he makes He reaches forward, picks up the sword No room here for mistakes The helmet is hot, he feels his breath As he walks upon the field He is a trapped snake inside a crate He raises up his shield His adversary stood there watching With a shaking fretful eye They prepared to fight until deaths bite Took and run them dry With one fell swing of the sword He brings his foe down The steel glistens in the sunlight Enhanced with the smell of blood The crowd cheers and roars What do they know of it? The life he has taken It cannot be replaced He is trapped inside He cries for freedom inside Slowly he dies inside Inside himself.
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Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
Gladiator
I cared for you since day 1 You never knew me Yet I gave everything I got Just for you to be happy. I am just waiting here Ready to support you Anytime you need me But then you love someone else An adversary that I'm helpless with Time to give up For the first time and the last time I just want you to know The only reminder I can give to you "Usted siempre sera mi siempre" "You will forever be my always"
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May 30, 2022
May 30, 2022 at 6:48 AM UTC
Falling from afar
They call her Violent Violet for the purple bruises that bloom dangerously deep and disturbingly dark along the tops of her knuckles. To her it’s decorative floral. In fights she clutches violets offering their vicious beauty to any contending adversary. She’s a volatile force of nature.
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Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
Violent Violet
They tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. The millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable--and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come. It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace-- but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!
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Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
Patrick Henry: Liberty or death
They tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. The millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable--and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come. It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace-- but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!
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2
The cold grey clasp of Sunday Skies blocked by an eternal ****** of crows Fingers engrossed upon the neck Asphyxiate existence from seamless seams Decant the ocean obscene Where once we were gone in a reverie ...Now only Monday is a day away Waiting like a shadowed adversary We obstruct our eyes And wish the days away
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Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 9:12 AM UTC
Monday
an old familiar, an adversary of the first degree, when we wrestle, me and this god disguised as an angel disguised as man, the door to where we tangle, clicks shut with a perceptible oval sounding, a trumpet announcing commencement of the festivities, that we are Occupado no stray observers permitted in, the room entrances locked, someone's two hands upon each temple, (cannot be mine, for) inside we combat literally, "mano-a-mano" hand to hand, word to word, gradually, continuously, up close and personally, one on One over the course of a lifetime, each battle named, famously borrowed and thus recorded, Agincourt, Waterloo, Gettysburg, Leningrad, Ðiên Biên Phú, for the record keeping purposes of our unforgiving ****** historian the rules of engagement somewhat flexible, biting, choking, eye gouging, kicking when down, not just legal, encouraged, no holds barred, when we wrestle, the dirtier the better take turns declaring a victor, for that matters little, truly, just a record keeping notation, the battle and its aftermath, the waves of pain inflicted, the casualty count engorged, is the greatest glory, dans une manière de parler though sent away the children, our earthly goods, designating them purportedly, non-combatants observers, yet 'no rules' meant they could be accidentally drawn in, non-combatant status does not prevent them from being freely captured or killed the conflict ongoing, no one ever calls for a truce, for both unequal adversaries know, no quarter will ere be given, and though the tide shifts, each individual battle produces as always, a winner and a loser noisy affairs, long after the battle, the slain yet scream, perhaps I am confused, perhaps it is the day's survivors, announcing that sadly, they are still alive it must be the latter, for here I am writing and recording, and though alone, I hear an ever growing louder, gouging sine wave scream piercing, daring my soul to leave my wracked body for though mortal wounded, I am therefore both dead and alive, but which more so, none can surely say this conflict remains unconcluded the pain in my hip, now everywhere, my Jacob, now, Israel, marker so visible even if itself, unseen 3:59am
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May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
Wrestling With God
an old familiar, an adversary of the first degree, when we wrestle, me and this god disguised as an angel disguised as man, the door to where we tangle, clicks shut with a perceptible oval sounding, a trumpet announcing commencement of the festivities, that we are Occupado no stray observers permitted in, the room entrances locked, someone's two hands upon each temple, (cannot be mine, for) inside we combat literally, "mano-a-mano" hand to hand, word to word, gradually, continuously, up close and personally, one on One over the course of a lifetime, each battle named, famously borrowed and thus recorded, Agincourt, Waterloo, Gettysburg, Leningrad, Ðiên Biên Phú, for the record keeping purposes of our unforgiving ****** historian the rules of engagement somewhat flexible, biting, choking, eye gouging, kicking when down, not just legal, encouraged, no holds barred, when we wrestle, the dirtier the better take turns declaring a victor, for that matters little, truly, just a record keeping notation, the battle and its aftermath, the waves of pain inflicted, the casualty count engorged, is the greatest glory, dans une manière de parler though sent away the children, our earthly goods, designating them purportedly, non-combatants observers, yet 'no rules' meant they could be accidentally drawn in, non-combatant status does not prevent them from being freely captured or killed the conflict ongoing, no one ever calls for a truce, for both unequal adversaries know, no quarter will ere be given, and though the tide shifts, each individual battle produces as always, a winner and a loser noisy affairs, long after the battle, the slain yet scream, perhaps I am confused, perhaps it is the day's survivors, announcing that sadly, they are still alive it must be the latter, for here I am writing and recording, and though alone, I hear an ever growing louder, gouging sine wave scream piercing, daring my soul to leave my wracked body for though mortal wounded, I am therefore both dead and alive, but which more so, none can surely say this conflict remains unconcluded the pain in my hip, now everywhere, my Jacob, now, Israel, marker so visible even if itself, unseen 3:59am
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91
I cannot recall the precise moment  of my arrival at Anhedonia memories blindsided by a phantasmagoric comorbid collage of cant precipitated by some newspaper reportage or holocaust story some creepy instance that breached the precipice between simple sorrow and permanent melancholia some fatal blow that cinched the deal some horrid event that could not heal some dejected disappointment that could not be resolved some moment of unguarded clarity when integrity dissolved nevertheless I have arrived at this mangled juncture élan a mania not even Edison's medicine can extirpate I was quite lighthearted before the inferno before my brain broke ennui now a   turgid companion feeding on gaiety, never sated, seeking famine esurient unrelenting usurper of  happiness go away, leave me alone, relish some other  soul's  madness gone is any exuberance, glee or mirth miseries are mine, many the days since birth better I was carried  from the womb straight to the grave a fatuous existence, clamoring and grasping in vain it's as if I was born into a well but these waters they burn the bludgeoning alcohol a liquid hell Oh florid loquacity, you are an impostor your verse is an adversary a foray of jagged rhythm justifying a storm a sordid verbosity  assuring no norm a plaintive scratching guild of recriminative collaboration some alliance of fulminating disquietude the cost for the fare on the adventure to: the stunning moment  you too will visit Anhedonia
0
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
Destination Anhedonia
I cannot recall the precise moment  of my arrival at Anhedonia memories blindsided by a phantasmagoric comorbid collage of cant precipitated by some newspaper reportage or holocaust story some creepy instance that breached the precipice between simple sorrow and permanent melancholia some fatal blow that cinched the deal some horrid event that could not heal some dejected disappointment that could not be resolved some moment of unguarded clarity when integrity dissolved nevertheless I have arrived at this mangled juncture élan a mania not even Edison's medicine can extirpate I was quite lighthearted before the inferno before my brain broke ennui now a   turgid companion feeding on gaiety, never sated, seeking famine esurient unrelenting usurper of  happiness go away, leave me alone, relish some other  soul's  madness gone is any exuberance, glee or mirth miseries are mine, many the days since birth better I was carried  from the womb straight to the grave a fatuous existence, clamoring and grasping in vain it's as if I was born into a well but these waters they burn the bludgeoning alcohol a liquid hell Oh florid loquacity, you are an impostor your verse is an adversary a foray of jagged rhythm justifying a storm a sordid verbosity  assuring no norm a plaintive scratching guild of recriminative collaboration some alliance of fulminating disquietude the cost for the fare on the adventure to: the stunning moment  you too will visit Anhedonia
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31
I had to disassemble it Our world Take it apart Bit by bit Word by word Those words Letters Full of meaning Could no longer exist Anywhere My friend, my lover And my refuge Suddenly turned Traitor Turned foul Deceptive Dangerous My friend, my lover My language So I began the demolition Of clandestine concepts Tearing apart nouns And adversary adjectives violently, I separated verbs And adverbs Thus impairing indecent interjections Until our grammar Finally collapsed Now there is only silence Safety in signs like Minuscule monuments All bereft of meaning And I am in mourning For I have no words To throw into the void Only memories Of distant dialogues Dreams
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Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
Taking Apart Language
Am I among those they write deep in the threads of contempt? For no one truly can be a hero to all. We all imagine the songs powerful and triumphant will someday be our own. But what is desire? What is the facade we wear day in and day out to power the most illusive masquerade? What if the turn from my childhood was never a turn at all? Is it so strange, is it too far of a line to draw that I may be the villain? Perhaps we're all simply searching in desire for an adversary. The call to arise, the call to spur us forth from the pit too many have found as solace. Now what if I am not even a pawn and barely a sheep in life's great puzzle, or is it a mystery never to be solved? I long for the moment I'm desperate for change I've bit the blind eye And now I wish my own would remain shut. So who or what is to say that I won't snap like the thinning rope caught in a chokehold? My dear is the victim and the fall is too far to survive. Where shall I be when my final spin has spun? Will I drag to a halt or careen face-forward? A gradual decay or a shot to crack the wall, either way I may merely be the villain.
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Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 2:58 AM UTC
What If I'm the Villain?
nothing's instantaneous temperance a requirement change forever targeted til self becomes fragmented heart an aqueous soluble erstwhile deliquescent puddled into pulp taken out like trash fitting for an adversary malicious and malevolent destructive to the starling plucked and plunged to sea so drown to suffocation laudable attempts at termination inundate your consciousness using barrages of indifference convinced affection's unattainable death deserted and companionless auspicious in my loneliness asphyxiate to expiration
0
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
Inanimate
*Italic drumroll... imperial cavalcade with Roman horns, eagle standards raised*; ♪ ♫♪♫ ♪♪♫♫♪♪♫♫♪♪♫♫♪ ALL HAIL ! Ye screen-fed sacrificial citizens, seething simpletons and volatile voters: attend now, with republican fervor, tempered by democratic zeal, to the golden-tongued orator of our epoch, gallant guardian of American greatness, avatar of avarice, the Jeffersonian gentleman, anointed autocrat and Sultan of Swell, windswept Wazir of Wonderful, emissary of towering eminence in empire, The Anti H-Rod: Donald J. TRUMP ! (Plebeians look up from their circus-bread for a second—) And may Our Sovereign Savior & Almighty God also bless his worthy opponent and adversary *HILLARY ("H-Rod")* (Patricians murmur, nod; a few salute)
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Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
Of Debatable Importance
I wonder if my late night plays Will ever be relayed To a generation that is slayed In my play every black home Has two stories, a fence and a dad that won’t roam Their cars ain’t all chrome No bars on the windows No grandmas saying lord knows When cops shows There are more colors than grey No dope boys on the corner cliche Or dogs on chains barking to get away The colors blue and red stand for a flag The black youth aren’t in a body bag And pants never sag Black men aren’t scary and mean The system isn’t their adversary or The silver screen They don’t fill cemeteries nor chase The color green Black women have a name Not ***** or **** used as shame No fakes buts for their fame The son has more hope Then shooting a ball and ****** bout dope He aspires to use a stethoscope The daughter is strong and free She can either write a song or get a PhD Her future is whatever she wants it to be Their ain’t thugs on tv our color Not every sitcom has one strong black single mother Or get drunk and fight one another Gun violence is a joke the police don’t chock our folk Our music don’t promote drug use And Gucci don’t ****** Drivebys are now hi’s Every family is woke and wise It’s sad to know That this world won’t ever exist Because the world outside Is to nightmarish
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Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
My Dream
A yellow belly cardinal launches itself at my window Pecks away at the old window pane, Should I chase the intruder away? Or should I make him the subject of my next poem He became my inspiration, and I his adversary It slurred whistled phrases calm my inner soul After a while the pecking annoys my daughter’ cat So, here I am compromising myself and not caring Because I am about to compose a piece: About war and peace: title Fluffy and the **** bird I took out my camera and zoom in on its beady eyes, and realize that it was as blind as a bat Teeth-chattering, tail going from side to side, doing the war dance this **** cat, A blind cardinal with a sweet melody what more can I asked for, but to watch and learn from the intruder, the spoil feline and the observer, A yellow belly cardinal launch at my window Pecks away at the old window pane, Should I chase the intruder away? Or let my daughters’ cat razz it?
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Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 9:23 AM UTC
The Intruder
I poured my heart out Soaked to my soul with sincerity Wasting words on deaf ears Connected to a heart devoid of pity With incredible fortune I looked at my hands; Armed I was with golden bravery. Enough to conquer lands! And my adversary was but a man.
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Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
To War with Indifference
I am not disposable. That's a fact, it's non-negotiable. A fact, which right now you smirk at- but I am not a servant, and you're certainly not an aristocrat. I am not expendable. I wish proper etiquette was injectable, because that's a vaccine you desperately need. Caring and truly caring- you need to learn the difference between those two things. I am not nonessential. You think you know me inside and out, but you don't have the right credentials. I try to understand your motives, but your thoughts are cryptic and confidential. I am not unnecessary. You make yourself into two faces- the object of all my affection, and my greatest adversary. This situation is just a coal mine- your treating me like I am these things is the canary. These things are what I am not. I should be paramount in your life. Through your own actions you've proven these are all I am to you, You've unsheathed a backstabbing knife. I am here to stay. Though you've nonchalantly tried to toss me away, you will learn someday, that I am not disposable.
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Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
Disposable
With every breath that escapes your lips Another soul collapses to its knees in shock With every touch you attempt to place upon purity Leaves the tears that fall to freeze into loveless icicles In the wake of your presence Mother Nature asks for peace Roses beg abundantly for forgiveness in gentle tones of suffering Though being the criminal you are you don't possess a heart And if you do it remains covered in shadows of narcissism It must get extremely lonely living in vain memory of your existence Without hesitation you impose your chokehold of tasteless agony Around the delicate throats of the angels that attempt to help you A cold, grim grin spreads across the surface of your wounded cheeks Entertained by witnessing humans be stripped bare Their bodies serving as the canvas to your steel blade In the air you wave your hands just like a magician Sliding the blade back and forth across their skins Carving death upon their foreheads The echo of your laughter being the pistol That pierces their skulls with fierce pressure As they drop dead with cowering fear Fuming from their lifeless corpses By Glenn McCrary © 2011 Glenn McCrary (All rights reserved)
0
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 10:44 AM UTC
Lovelorn Adversary
genuine anger, that implodes? kinda makes         you sleepy. been listening to too much      lindsay ellis: drinking... in vino veritas verbatim...      ghost writers?! you have to be kidding me...       kovalski! - yes sir! inquire about the *bookovski           method*! - the hyphen is counter to the concept of a prose narrative in paragraph form, translated into poetry: fwee! fwee!      jittering away, like a sparrow might! **** me, does anger make you sleepy... if anger implodes...      that's like...    the...                  ultimate          sleeping pill; it's a friday? some *****      taking place in central london? thank god i'm not thinking about picking up and marrying the scrap-heap of counter incels. all i seriously wanted was to become a bus driver, the route 5...                        **** anger is so exhausting when it implodes and does, but "doesn't" have an outlet...                you don't teach kids martial arts by kicking one of them in the *****         and watch them curl up like an oyster exposed to electricity asking, or rather, demanding: is there a kojak, a liver, a brain, and an altogether in there?!    like an echo into a cave... imploding anger:   makes you sleepy...      like the adversary of adrenaline... or the emperor's throne room scene music... oh look...                            yet another yawn attempting to lodge itself into the gob of a chimpanzee - caught on camera, "supposedly" laughing; then again... it would refer to the: bankrupt broadcasting corporation, given: sheeee shaville; well... a sort of... oops?! don't worry, you have ******** it's like the new niqab... seems a bit... pointless to ********** if you've been circumcised.
0
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 9:51 PM UTC
anti-aphrodisiac
genuine anger, that implodes? kinda makes         you sleepy. been listening to too much      lindsay ellis: drinking... in vino veritas verbatim...      ghost writers?! you have to be kidding me...       kovalski! - yes sir! inquire about the *bookovski           method*! - the hyphen is counter to the concept of a prose narrative in paragraph form, translated into poetry: fwee! fwee!      jittering away, like a sparrow might! **** me, does anger make you sleepy... if anger implodes...      that's like...    the...                  ultimate          sleeping pill; it's a friday? some *****      taking place in central london? thank god i'm not thinking about picking up and marrying the scrap-heap of counter incels. all i seriously wanted was to become a bus driver, the route 5...                        **** anger is so exhausting when it implodes and does, but "doesn't" have an outlet...                you don't teach kids martial arts by kicking one of them in the *****         and watch them curl up like an oyster exposed to electricity asking, or rather, demanding: is there a kojak, a liver, a brain, and an altogether in there?!    like an echo into a cave... imploding anger:   makes you sleepy...      like the adversary of adrenaline... or the emperor's throne room scene music... oh look...                            yet another yawn attempting to lodge itself into the gob of a chimpanzee - caught on camera, "supposedly" laughing; then again... it would refer to the: bankrupt broadcasting corporation, given: sheeee shaville; well... a sort of... oops?! don't worry, you have ******** it's like the new niqab... seems a bit... pointless to ********** if you've been circumcised.
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So it's us against ourselves. The mind is the adversary. And what is that? A mere dream within a dream. What does forever mean? Some hazy lines... A blur of self, A little talk, Between you and me? *A heart lost in translation is in me, while forever is to be free of wonder. Humans hungry for home and hopeful for hunger. Life is one long plunder For the lost ones of Silent thunder.* Are these lost ones so lost? Or will these sons of thunder Flash like lightning? How far do you have to go Before no one understands at all? *As far as the fog found clouding the light that sits quiet in the souls of the stormborn. The light that breaks the beaten barriers of sound and gives life to the lifeless.* That distant light called Hope by some; A hope that may only protract disharmony. A skillful prolongation To the battered. It is said that hurt is proof of love, But what's left to prove When the uncalmed storm Engulfs us? *By light I live, but by love I die. Pray to every god that we are left in the eye. The only proof we need is meaning, something bold to live by. But we crave happiness, and there can only be one, So what could anyone do but try and cry?*
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Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
souls in a storm // joseph paris