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The Bleak Poet Dec 2015
What is an antagonist?
The definition of an antagonist is the villain or person who challenges the hero/ protagonist
Which one are you?
Are you a protagonist?
Or are you an antagonist?

I am an antagonist.
But the worst part of being an antagonist is being your own antagonist
I am the antagonist in my story

You would think you would be the hero of your own story
That’s not the case for me
I am my own villain
I am my own worst nightmare

The scariest part about this nightmare is that when I wake up my nightmare doesn’t go away.
It lingers every hour of every day never leaving my side
My nightmare is in my head and I can’t escape it
I am my own worst nightmare.

How can you escape your demons, when you are your own demons?
How can you escape yourself?
Could someone please let me know?
I feel like I’m drowning in my own mind
How do I escape?

When you are the antagonist of your own story
Life isn’t as easy as it may seem
It becomes 10x harder
How can I escape myself?
How do I become the protagonist?
How do I stop living in this nightmare?
When will I wake up and not be afraid of my own mind?
I long for that day.

– Antagonist // F.C.
Ariel Taverner Feb 2015
There are people that have this ability to make people melt in their hands

They walk around  their entire lives finding their prey and engaging them and make them melt

The victim is usually rewarded with a night of rampant *** and is then dumped into this puddle when the antagonist
of this story is done with them

Sometimes it takes days for the victim to turn back into a solid substance
Sometimes it takes weeks
Sometimes they never fully turn bqck to normal and their will be a part of them that will always remain liquid because of the antagonist

Many fall victim to this antagonist

Until the protagonist comes along and upsets the routine
The protagonist cannot be melted
And it is due to this very specific favt that the antagonist ia revealed as the true protagonist of our story

That's usually a goodish enough story line that melts the audience

But people like myself who do not melt sees the true sadness in the lack of melting

We do not melt because we have been melted ao much that we went for an operation and we came out transformed
We are now metal
And I'm sorry to disappoint that antagonist/antagonist who becomes a protagonist
But the best you would ever be able to do to me is to warm my heart
Look to the person on your left
And to the person on your right
And pull out your phone, and look at yourself through the reflection of your screen

Each one of you has been affected by toxic masculinity

If you looked and saw a woman,
You saw a victim, someone
Who's been tied down and told what to do
To stand in the kitchen and do the dishes
While the man stays in the other room with the TV
And has an affair with the sofa

I hear the two of them are happily married now,
In fact, the couch and the man are inseparable

The man becomes the couch, and the couch becomes the man
defiling that once holy entrance to that place you used to be able to call a home

When you were younger, you couldn't have known what the world would tell you you are
But now that you've grown up, you felt the pains and gained the scars
Now you know where the world wants you, and what role you play
On this stage, where the director's decrepit creaking hands come and defile you,
You holy sacred place.

He sits there and pays no attention to the hardwork going on adjacent to him
His thoughts are confined to whatever pretty colors and captivating sounds float across that screen
His eye lids shut only to keep from having a drought because he does not contemplate
He just sits there and waits for you to be done making his dinner for him

And what if he's working in the other room, and you can't see it, is there some sort of redemption for this man?
I cannot say, but he cannot expect to stand to the side of his life, pretending he has no emotions, teaching his sons that this is acceptable behavior,

Stop sinking into oblivion!

And when the woman speaks up and expresses these buried emotions, hurt ones, she is antagonized, like
Isn't this just another ***** with her crazy feelings?
Like shouldn't she be watching so that the chicken doesn't burn on the stove?
Like what happens if I let my guard down and let her in
And acknowledge that she is a human being?

The man says he can't do that
He can't lose his power in the situation
So he tells her those feelings she has are invalid
He makes her feel like the antagonist of the story of this man's life
And the only reason she stays with him is because she's developed Stockholm syndrome
And she doesn't want to be alone
And because if she's heterosexual, this version of a human being is the only one that's so readily available to her,
The kind that treats her like garbage, disposable, unable to have her damnable emotions redeemed

But a critique of something doesn't merit doubling down on that ideology you grew up with,
It merits its changing
So,

Men in the room, hear me now

You are victims too!

You are told to keep it in, keep the tears back
To stand up straight, to provide, to not show any weakness,
But you are most strong when you acknowledge those weaknesses openly
And possibly discover that some of them aren't even weaknesses
They're just a part of being human

And this trend is so hard to break, so hard to crack through stone that was laid 22,000 years ago
But here we are
The buck can stop with us

We can stop antagonizing
We can start acknowledging
We can stop treating people as subhuman when they express emotion
We can start skipping in the streets and holding each other's hands

Because there's nothing masculine
About treating other humans like ****

We can eventually reclaim that word, but first it has to be exposed for all the harm it's done

Look to your right
Now look to your left
And look at your phone again

Each of one you can be a part of the solution
Not a part of the propagation of bad myths
This is the script to another talk poem that I wrote but never published.
Daniel Fowler Dec 2012
Ah, the season of gifting.
Antagonist of year-long thrifting.
Tradition sadistic,
Materialistic,
Four quarters in pockets worth sifting.

This year I hereby proclaim
I shan’t be consumed by the game.
Cycle of curse
Purpose perverse
The namesake, an oversight became.

Christ’s birth did in fact begin,
Holiday distracted by sin.
Misguided it be
To forget idly
The sacrifice He made for all men.

We naively regard generosity
As holiday’s behavioral piosity.
But if dollars and cents
Are the tools of offense
Over shadow favor luminosity.

Water in Africa is *****.
American child in poverty.
Politics aside,
Convenient homicide,
To enable the ills of society.

In the global economy we flaunt
Wealth by comparison, bitter taunt.
First world problems abound
Pass the turkey around
Central heating and air, what a jaunt!

What if this season we decide
To extend two palms open wide?
Sacrificing ourselves
Rather than stocking our shelves
Dying whispers echo true: “we tried.”

Don’t spend your money on me this year.
Not iPhones, not tickets, not Blu-ray or beer.
Instead know you can
Distribute more than
A snort, a lie, and a tear.

(optional conclusion to assist interpretation of last line)

Snort of derision,
Lies of provision,
Tears, even true,
Hardly subdue
Anguish deprived of tradition’s revision.
Thoughtsonpaper Feb 2018
If a girl is hopelessly crying in a forest and no one is around to hear her, did she actually cry?

All that you’ve heard about Rapunzel is pure lies.
She had jet black hair, that was darker than the midnight sky.
Entirely broken inside, waiting to end her life.

Ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you what really happened tonight
Grab a delicious treat and something sweet to drink.
Before I wish you a goodnight’s sleep.

Once upon a time there was a young girl named Rapunzel
Since the age of ten she had been locked away in a monstrous tower.
Kept in chains by her demons all day.
They liked to play games with her mental state.

One of the games included, Simon Says.
Simon Says, cut a blade through your wrist.
Simon Says, bang your head against the brick wall,
Until you begin bleeding and start to fall.
She hated Simon Says,
But she always obeyed what they said.

Mother Gothel was an antagonist; a myth.
Rapunzel made her up in her mind to have someone to blame,
For all the wretched pain which she endured everyday.

Loneliness became her closest friend
As she sat alone in a cobwebbed den.
Listening to the clock ‘tick tock’ in her head
Over again like a broken record.
Making her want to rip her hair out to shreds.

The voices screaming in her head made her psychotic.
No one cared about this depressive girl,
More than they did about summer rain.
They all couldn’t see her suffering, so it didn’t matter.
Instead they threw her in a tower, an architect built.
So her mind could rot in tiny pieces, lying still.

One day a boy named Flynn came into the mix.
He loved her with all his heart; they could never be apart.
When he was around, her eyes light up.
Forgetting the misery that came after dark

Tomorrow came along.

Rapunzel was found sobbing in her fragile pale hands.
“Leave me alone!”, she screamed in terror with her eyes closed shut.
Shaking uncontrollably, while the rain and tears flowed as one.
Just like the river she wanted to drown herself in.

Flynn gently helped her to her feet in panic.
The electricity still flowing through her entire body.
“I love you.” he softly whispered into her ear.
“I love you!” he says with passion and honesty.
Her breathing slowly came to a halt, after hearing him speak.
He made her believe that life had some meaning.

Her soul now feels at peace
She looks at him with pure sincerity  
He whips her tears away, “I’ll never leave you”.
A promise he can never keep.
“I love you too”, she says with ease.
Their eyes meet together, as they laugh in unison.
Lips softly meet as one; the night has just began.
This is the happiest Rapunzel has ever been in years,
Too bad it will all suddenly disappear.



It was all an illusion.
Rapunzel suffered from Schizophrenia.
Flynn was a figment of her imagination.
An escape from her cruel reality she faced.
The townspeople didn’t want to deal with her mental illness.
So they washed her away, to be left astray.

People hate what they don’t understand,
So everyday for eight years she sat freezing in sorrow.
While her demons devoured her spirit.
Incapable of love and affection.
With a hollow chest where her heart should be.

In order to cope with the ‘life’ she was living,
Her mind made up Flynn.
Though they were madly in love; he was a fairytale.
As years went by depression ate her whole.
She died alone, in a pitch black room.
No light seeping in, with nobody to love and hold her.
To tell her everything will be okay,
And keep her heart beating in place.

If a girl dies alone in a tower, where everyone hates her, and no one is around to witness her death: did she actually exist?
The End.
I dedicate this poem to my childhood self. You deserved and deserve better. For all the sunny days people shattered with grey clouds.

I hope this poem means as much to you as it does to me. Don't stop until your reach "The End". I promise you won't regret it. I swear.
Helen Feb 2014
escapism*

the tendency to seek distraction and relief from unpleasant realities, especially by seeking entertainment or engaging in fantasy.

Hello

I'm just a un pretty face
in an ugly place
I can pretend
with the best of them

I love to paint pictures
that make no sense
except
inside my head.
on canvas?
they are just literally
uncoordinated twitchiness
a need to put colour
back into a world
of Black and White

I like to write stories
the antagonist being
just someone
who lost,
the heroine
fleeing
from a simple world
so complicated
it's hard to cast
two beings that are so
ill fated


and so the story goes

That poetry saved me
I can't tell it
for truth
It makes a difference
I suppose

But honestly?

I wake at the crack of dawn
I yell at the dog for barking
I take a minute for myself
Then wake the kids
it's starting
Getting ready for  another day
is like petting a lion
begging food as a stray
I collect the mail
sort the bills
pretend that money
is an option, not a price
then sell myself to another
for a day
so nice
Feed, clean, wash
make sure no one is missed
How was your day dear?
Well, it's like this
as they wander away
to their own adventures
and I'm left
to my own devices
eventually
To paint a picture
Write a book
Or expel my life's pleasures
into poetry
and all I really hear is
What do you mean, is that about me?

Umm no, it's about me...

And tomorrow
I'll wake up
to do it all again

Hello

I'm Helen
and I'm so glad to meet each and every one of you here :)
Steve D'Beard Jul 2014
There's this guy who constantly gives me grief online
as if I need a reminder that I am not funny or smart
that I am incapable of posting any story without his remark
as if he should impart and bestow all of social media
with his divine and seraphic academia:
what is with that?

He posts comments about how illiterate my poetry is
how it doesn't follow the rules; the do-nots and the do's
pontificates how its not properly punctuated
as if I should give up altogether and just shine shoes
and forget trying to construct sentences
just wander in the carousel of nebula's
eternally seeking the tentacle of enemas:
what is with that?

This guy enjoys winding me up like a persistent hobby
the reverent devilment of sadistic entitlement
pushing my head under water for a digital baptism
that I should thank him for his rhetoric enlightenment
as if he was blessed with a correspondence talisman:
what is with that?

This isn't even a poem.
I am letting off steam like an overused kettle
fed up of his mortar forever rammed in my pestle
the temples are raging and my brain is just draining
to explode on cue on the next digital heckle
the cracked and broken vessel
into a vengeful steam-driven projectile:
what is with that?

This, < here > , is my only escape
and creative cathartic vent
I'll post this lament
with the stench of discontent
and tag his name and then just wait
for his feverish malcontent
that I should dare to
prevent his God-like dissent:

memo to self
to a digital antagonist
and his verbose verbal cyst
and the keyboard of twists
when you push
sometimes you get
a big shove back
so don't be surprised
by my riposte
and this poetic attack.
I don't hate people, but there's this one fellow who takes great pleasure on putting me down, on everything, all the time. I found it a cathartic release to vent my frustration on here.
And then I returned to clean it up, and make it flow better.
I hope you like it.
Alyse M King Mar 2012
Last night I dreamed
My life as a comic book.
An intermingled mess,
Those who have not read
Every single issue,
Cannot begin to know.
A brightly colored spectrum
Of unexpected blows.
Amidst all the villian’s
Unrelenting throws
Of powers no more
Than planting
The seeds of self doubt,
I stood armed to fall.
As each seed landed
Upon  my head,
I fell to watch
Each punch line
Read only
“Bam!”
and “Kapow!”.
The plot never thickened
And never came to save me.
In a story
from the villan’s head,
Perpetually trapped
Until the hero returned
to write her portion
of my tale.
As the seeds grew
Into absolute fear,
A twisted feeling
Took hold of my gut.
Who is the antagonist
and who the protagonist?
The hanky he was sobbing into was crusty,
*****, unwashed, unclean; yet strangely comforting to a little boy,
as he cried he made his way to a culvert behind the school,
some place the other kids couldn’t see him crying,
it was more comfortable being near rocks
-next to that watershed for some reason?

He looked down at his antagonist,
the scaly-green feet,
they made him cry harder,
he lamented…

“Why have I been tormented so?”

“Who gave me these feet? Who made me this way, lizardly, scaly, an animal no?”

“What class am I, what species? Are those toenails, claws or a disease?”

“The way I’m treated makes me sad. Where is my mommy, where is my dad?

“Did I come from an egg? Didn’t we all? Why do they pick on me, make me feel so small?”

“My feet are reptilian even I can see that!”

“Am I part lizard? Are there horns on my back?”

“I can’t hide in sneakers ‘cause the claws tear them apart.”

“Not great at math, language or art.”

“They always pickin’ on me, today it’s in the schoolyard.”

“That is why I sit here on the rocks crying with my ugly feet and sullen heart,”

“Cannot run fast so no baseball, basketball or soccer…”

“The other kids tried to stuff me in my own locker…”

“One mean little girl even threw a dead mouse at me!”

“But I’m only part lizard as far as I can see?”

“My English teacher says that my words are like a bird song”

“If I talk like a birdie along with monster’s feet, no wonder I don’t belong!”

“Even still, to be so mean to me, I know that it is wrong…”

“ONE DAY I WILL SHOW THEM ALL, THESE FEET THEY HAVE A PURPOSE!”

“MY WORDS OF SONG AND FEET OF MAGIC COMBINE A COSMIC CIRCUS!”

“I am no freak of nature, no forest Pan or Satyr…”

“It is not the way I look, my clothes or feet that matter…”

“It is what is in my heart and mind, the things I do that truly count…”

“For those things that make us different, for they are tantamount…”

“Seven heads, seven stages, seven fables, seven sages”

“Seven stars and seven wonders and seven heavens that we’re under…”

“And all those things they say are great and marvelous about us…”

“Will one day be written in the book by Great Old Uncle Taautus!”
Children's rhyme. Scylla represents the rocks near shores who rend ships to pieces that venture to close to them.
purple orchid Aug 2014
In the darkest corners you lurk with teeth snarling,
unleashing your claws to tear at her fragile skin.
The arrows of your pent up
anger never miss their target, her.
Time between dusk to dawn
filled with ink stained air,
You dug your paws on her once fragile mind,
excavating the emotions she
boxed and buried.
Tears she shed when you mined her heart with crass hands,
Shot daggers with your eyes,
Stained countless sheets of paper.


Remember:
*Nothing Builds Character More Than An Antagonist
Ottis Blades Dec 2009
I am the catalyst of this cataclysm
the catastrophe that impaled
the atmosphere
of this vagabond heart
that is shaped like a sphere
and an uncertain future
being build out of fear
that gets bypassed product
of my cynicism.
 
Secluded in my lab
concocting a potion for this illness
and when all else fails
call me the alchemist
nothing more than an
angst-ridden antagonist
my apologies to the pessimist,
my excuses to the optimist
I was born to be a *******
with a heart made of silver.
 
Buried in my bunker
trapped in someone else's lore
which in turn makes me the catalyst
of my own downfall
I was baptized a Catholic
without ever being asked
turn me into a Cyclist
and I'll pedal real far
turn me into a Scientist
and my lab coat will leave my side
turn me into a labyrinth
and you won't be able to find
traces of me, of who I was
or who I never came to be.
JK Cabresos Dec 2018
Distance
is the antagonist
of our story,
but it makes me
miss you even more
than usual,
it hurts so bad
that I would
travel the universe
just to see you.
Copyright © 2018
Mikaila Dec 2013
In the short story, "The Rocking-Horse Winner" written by D.H. Lawrence, the young boy, Paul, associates luck with wealth and bets large amounts of money on the soon-to-be winning horses. His family is extremely wealthy but can barely afford to keep up to their title. What is one thing that society does not know yet the children do about the mother? They know that their mother does not love her own children. She gives them everything they need and want except for one thing. And that one thing they do need is love. One knows love by the look in their eyes. It is much more difficult to lie with eyes than with words and actions. She is materialistic and adores money and extravagance. I think we all agree that the mother is oblivious to her situation. How are we not like the mother? The truth is, we are exactly like the mother. She doesn't realize that love is not a number, money or products but that love is looking into one's eyes and showing true affection. We are in complete illusion that wealth leads to happiness. We think the same thoughts when the more we have, the more successful we may be however in reality, it is false. A perfect example is Black Friday. Companies, businesses and customers all decided to cut the Thanksgiving holiday to purchase more "stuff" to make them "happy". They decided to cut the time to spend with family, friends and relatives to spend for themselves and others. Who is the villain in the story? Most believe villains are a something or a someone who prevents the "good guy" from achieving their goal, also known as an antagonist, however the villain in this story cannot be seen, touched, smelled or even tasted. It can only be spoken and heard of. It is an imaginative villain. It is merely the manipulation of the mind of the misconception that luck is associated with wealth. This begins the entire issue with obsession and materialism. I'm sure we all agree that luck is something that happens to you without you possibly deserving or expecting it. But what is luck when others are given it? For example, if a random stranger gives your friend $100, another $1,000, but gave you only $20. Would you still feel lucky? Well, in all honesty it all depends on our circumstances, which then determine our values. Shouldn't it be reversed where our values determine our circumstances?

In the end, over the many years of bets and deference, Paul has been riding his rocking horse to find the true winner and to find luck.
Only to come so short.
This Antagonist


I’m straining and squirming in pain

In a tangling , unescapable, womb-like prison, with my favorite antagonisy

its humid, its nauseating, it’s cold

It’s so so loud

My holiday are the days it gets numb

I’m always caught on something

Is this just a part of “growing up”

Being pushed and pulled and shoved every which way

But throw aside and away and left alone only when I need someone to hold me

Pick a ******* side

Pick a ******* side


Internally,

It’s something with no diction

No commentary

Just pain sometimes and I can’t escape it

This only antagonist


People use the ocean to describe it

I think it’s the instinct of fear of the unknown

Well I’m sinking , my body is paralyzed

I look still, calm, serene , dead , if you will

I’m screaming , as beautifully disgusting as I can

And it just loves the sound, and it just dulls the sound

The gripping antagonist


But the ocean gives you so much

It has so much to offer for all it takes away

I’m anchored to this honesty that Yes,

I am afriad that this fight and useless struggle

This antagonist has swallowed me up

This is me now and if I loose it I might as well fade into non-existence

This antagonist
Fayre Jun 2018
Her mind became
the antagonist
of her own being,
pursuing the sadness
that followed her treachery.
My mind empowers the person I am.
Roberta Day Jul 2013
I do not like this scene
or this chapter in my book
My fingers have failed me
as my thoughts evade me
I can’t write this for you
though you’ve done so much
You’ve written me into existence
and I want to edit myself out
It’s easier to put words
on a page that you can rip out
than to speak them to you
and watch the venom bleed
through the cracks of your tired skin
I’m so hurtful, like the edges
of dry, fresh cut paper—
sharp enough to cut,
too dull to scar—
only ever thumbed through
never perused—yearning to
be read and understood
and remembered
Max Neumann Aug 2021
splinter of existence creepin' thru skin
when judgement day is scarin' ya guys
temples beatin' 888 beats per minute
as dreams of shelter be passin' by

remember merciless bob, the hyena?
used to shoot bullets like rashid stoogie
always mind da project's family tree, b
watts to frankfurt via lima, diz how we be

brothaz, almans, multihood, escalade in chrome
osmans *** some, naber abi, bana parayi ver
you won't survive the massacre of greed
palms grow inside frankfurt's wildlife

GBS, TPB, LA MINA, HOLZI, NORDI, BOKI
dey be too fierce for dem knocko boys
no jammin', silver colts in montenegro
special forces, dejan, heroine, grenades

choki predicted da richness, we be floatin'
ari goldman tower, sandstone, platinum coke
yugos, habibis, moruks, almans, pashto
marokks, habeshas, albans and kurds

man bites dog, anti-traitor, snares
lacerated cable, flashdeath in red and blue
palermo, cosa nostra, secret shipment
da antagonist be chained 'gainst ya brain, bro

we tear up pavements since we rule da planet
massacres, new age, 36ers, crenshaw, headrush
day of vendetta bros, senait forgot how to *** back
street dust be what ya smellin' in da projectz

bent body, similar to deceased city doves
her soul be glintin' among da 5-0 sirens
large scale operation, silverblack corpses
black dots in front of ya eyes, sista

harlem river houses, homeshadows, dough
the ghetto raises fierce and bloodthirsty men
2 for 60, flip it into 90 and mind the cut, kwame
ya peeps gotta eat, and don't forget youse momz

let's build towers from all dem stacks, luv bellywood
our camouflage be immaculate like 90% pure
rides on champagne in times of evil blood
we light up the night and rightfully keep turf

our home be 36 souls away, slums and the hamptons
in the kitchen, da fiend's addiction is boiling
e guitar sounds, we overrun ya people
and don't ya fear jail, we reign institutionz
NvrMnd Sep 2015
I'm battling the toughest enemy
myself, that i couldn't carry
Everyday i want to bury
my heart that's always teary

Arrogance sometimes arising
Selfishness is encircling
Desolation isolated me
lack of passion come free
My ambition is so high
without persuasion I die
Alone in high tones
come without high hopes
Negativity are all in my system
each day distressing perfect scheme

My toughest enemy is not you
from the start it was me, and always it’ll be
Fighting every inch of my piece
yearning to defeat the fiercest antagonist.
-the enemy is within-
From A Heart Sep 2015
Forgive me, my love
My numb heart beats too fast
It twisted your words into lies
It turned your intentions to motives

My foolish heart makes me doubt
And you have gotten closer
Mend it, if you please
But make it quick

My deceitful heart will fool me
Its lies will be truths
And may never be honest again
But then neither will you

So please hurry,
Save my heart from freezing
For you're turning antagonist
Becoming stone
just in case
Jellyfish Apr 2012
When I decided to write my first poem, I thought back to the days,
when we were studying poetry and the teacher would amaze,
she'd make me write down words and things, I'd be chasing praise.
But looking back at my book now, I know what I should do,
and so here follows my glossary of things I'll write for you:

I have - Alliteration, Antagonist, Allegory and Anapest.
Characterisation, Complication, Convention and Connotation.
Elegy, Elision, Epigram and Exposition.
Free verse, Falling action, Falling meter and also Fiction.
Literal language, Imagery, Lyric poem and Irony.
Rising action, Resolution, Rising meter with Recognition.

Acatalectic, Anacreontic, Amphimacer and Amphibrachic.
Cliché, Common Measure, Couplets and Catalectic.
Deconstruction, Dispondee, Dialect Verse with a Dictionary.
Iambic Meter, Incantation, Impromptu with Inspiration.
Laureates and Limericks, Light Verse poems and Linguistics.
Metaphors, Mock-Heroics, Middle English and Movement Poets.

Oh gosh that seems a little worse, than I had it made to be,
I was expecting just to write a poem 'bout my cat and me.
I guess it's harder than it looks so I'll just give up now;
I'll let those big brave poet people, write them all somehow.
Just my thoughts on education's version of poetry, I rather enjoyed writing this one.
Larry Potter Aug 2016
So much for superheroes saving the day;
Every good guy's epilogue is a cliche.
Tedious compulsory celebrations
For all their mundane actions.

A villain's portrayal is what excites me.
Ever since a kid I could already see;
Creativity in all those gimmicks,
Geniuses of ***** tactics.

It is never easy to become the antagonist.
The object of all hate and blacklist;
The one that is destined to fail,
To fulfill a comic's holy grail.

Yet the bad guys do most of the heavy work,
Perfecting their schemes with an evil smirk;
But every time they're about to win,
The plot will smash their plan to ruins.

They say some people are destined to be heroes;
It's a fate preordained a long time ago.
But the truth is that everyone needs a villain,
To finally uncover their life's meaning.

What the world generally calls as criminals,
In reality are just misunderstood equals.
They taught me more about the cruel life,
Better than any superhero's strife.
Auss May 2014
Dear society,
       I followed you so blindly.
 You did not treat me kindly.  
Left alone yet taunted.  
I was dead yet haunted.  
You filled me full of pain.
It provides you no gain.  
Then you drew up these bars.
And you let me carve these scars. 
 If it takes a community to raise a child. Well then I would prefer to be wild  
Society, the center of hypocrisy.  
The reflection of vanity.  
The meal for Gluttony.  
The provider of adultery.  
The one we envy.  
The antagonist that makes us angry. 
The couch for us to be lazy.
The seller to the greedy. 
Oh society, you will do us in.
You and the 7 deadly sins.  
                 Hate you,
MnM
Thus did he speak, and they all held their peace throughout the
covered cloister, enthralled by the charm of his story, till presently
Alcinous began to speak.
  “Ulysses,” said he, “now that you have reached my house I doubt
not you will get home without further misadventure no matter how
much you have suffered in the past. To you others, however, who come
here night after night to drink my choicest wine and listen to my
bard, I would insist as follows. Our guest has already packed up the
clothes, wrought gold, and other valuables which you have brought
for his acceptance; let us now, therefore, present him further, each
one of us, with a large tripod and a cauldron. We will recoup
ourselves by the levy of a general rate; for private individuals
cannot be expected to bear the burden of such a handsome present.”
  Every one approved of this, and then they went home to bed each in
his own abode. When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn,
appeared, they hurried down to the ship and brought their cauldrons
with them. Alcinous went on board and saw everything so securely
stowed under the ship’s benches that nothing could break adrift and
injure the rowers. Then they went to the house of Alcinous to get
dinner, and he sacrificed a bull for them in honour of Jove who is the
lord of all. They set the steaks to grill and made an excellent
dinner, after which the inspired bard, Demodocus, who was a
favourite with every one, sang to them; but Ulysses kept on turning
his eyes towards the sun, as though to hasten his setting, for he
was longing to be on his way. As one who has been all day ploughing
a fallow field with a couple of oxen keeps thinking about his supper
and is glad when night comes that he may go and get it, for it is
all his legs can do to carry him, even so did Ulysses rejoice when the
sun went down, and he at once said to the Phaecians, addressing
himself more particularly to King Alcinous:
  “Sir, and all of you, farewell. Make your drink-offerings and send
me on my way rejoicing, for you have fulfilled my heart’s desire by
giving me an escort, and making me presents, which heaven grant that I
may turn to good account; may I find my admirable wife living in peace
among friends, and may you whom I leave behind me give satisfaction to
your wives and children; may heaven vouchsafe you every good grace,
and may no evil thing come among your people.”
  Thus did he speak. His hearers all of them approved his saying and
agreed that he should have his escort inasmuch as he had spoken
reasonably. Alcinous therefore said to his servant, “Pontonous, mix
some wine and hand it round to everybody, that we may offer a prayer
to father Jove, and speed our guest upon his way.”
  Pontonous mixed the wine and handed it to every one in turn; the
others each from his own seat made a drink-offering to the blessed
gods that live in heaven, but Ulysses rose and placed the double cup
in the hands of queen Arete.
  “Farewell, queen,” said he, “henceforward and for ever, till age and
death, the common lot of mankind, lay their hands upon you. I now take
my leave; be happy in this house with your children, your people,
and with king Alcinous.”
  As he spoke he crossed the threshold, and Alcinous sent a man to
conduct him to his ship and to the sea shore. Arete also sent some
maid servants with him—one with a clean shirt and cloak, another to
carry his strong-box, and a third with corn and wine. When they got to
the water side the crew took these things and put them on board,
with all the meat and drink; but for Ulysses they spread a rug and a
linen sheet on deck that he might sleep soundly in the stern of the
ship. Then he too went on board and lay down without a word, but the
crew took every man his place and loosed the hawser from the pierced
stone to which it had been bound. Thereon, when they began rowing
out to sea, Ulysses fell into a deep, sweet, and almost deathlike
slumber.
  The ship bounded forward on her way as a four in hand chariot
flies over the course when the horses feel the whip. Her prow curveted
as it were the neck of a stallion, and a great wave of dark blue water
seethed in her wake. She held steadily on her course, and even a
falcon, swiftest of all birds, could not have kept pace with her.
Thus, then, she cut her way through the water. carrying one who was as
cunning as the gods, but who was now sleeping peacefully, forgetful of
all that he had suffered both on the field of battle and by the
waves of the weary sea.
  When the bright star that heralds the approach of dawn began to
show. the ship drew near to land. Now there is in Ithaca a haven of
the old merman Phorcys, which lies between two points that break the
line of the sea and shut the harbour in. These shelter it from the
storms of wind and sea that rage outside, so that, when once within
it, a ship may lie without being even moored. At the head of this
harbour there is a large olive tree, and at no distance a fine
overarching cavern sacred to the nymphs who are called Naiads. There
are mixing-bowls within it and wine-jars of stone, and the bees hive
there. Moreover, there are great looms of stone on which the nymphs
weave their robes of sea purple—very curious to see—and at all times
there is water within it. It has two entrances, one facing North by
which mortals can go down into the cave, while the other comes from
the South and is more mysterious; mortals cannot possibly get in by
it, it is the way taken by the gods.
  Into this harbour, then, they took their ship, for they knew the
place, She had so much way upon her that she ran half her own length
on to the shore; when, however, they had landed, the first thing
they did was to lift Ulysses with his rug and linen sheet out of the
ship, and lay him down upon the sand still fast asleep. Then they took
out the presents which Minerva had persuaded the Phaeacians to give
him when he was setting out on his voyage homewards. They put these
all together by the root of the olive tree, away from the road, for
fear some passer by might come and steal them before Ulysses awoke;
and then they made the best of their way home again.
  But Neptune did not forget the threats with which he had already
threatened Ulysses, so he took counsel with Jove. “Father Jove,”
said he, “I shall no longer be held in any sort of respect among you
gods, if mortals like the Phaeacians, who are my own flesh and
blood, show such small regard for me. I said I would Ulysses get
home when he had suffered sufficiently. I did not say that he should
never get home at all, for I knew you had already nodded your head
about it, and promised that he should do so; but now they have brought
him in a ship fast asleep and have landed him in Ithaca after
loading him with more magnificent presents of bronze, gold, and
raiment than he would ever have brought back from Troy, if he had
had his share of the spoil and got home without misadventure.”
  And Jove answered, “What, O Lord of the Earthquake, are you
talking about? The gods are by no means wanting in respect for you. It
would be monstrous were they to insult one so old and honoured as
you are. As regards mortals, however, if any of them is indulging in
insolence and treating you disrespectfully, it will always rest with
yourself to deal with him as you may think proper, so do just as you
please.”
  “I should have done so at once,” replied Neptune, “if I were not
anxious to avoid anything that might displease you; now, therefore,
I should like to wreck the Phaecian ship as it is returning from its
escort. This will stop them from escorting people in future; and I
should also like to bury their city under a huge mountain.”
  “My good friend,” answered Jove, “I should recommend you at the very
moment when the people from the city are watching the ship on her way,
to turn it into a rock near the land and looking like a ship. This
will astonish everybody, and you can then bury their city under the
mountain.”
  When earth-encircling Neptune heard this he went to Scheria where
the Phaecians live, and stayed there till the ship, which was making
rapid way, had got close-in. Then he went up to it, turned it into
stone, and drove it down with the flat of his hand so as to root it in
the ground. After this he went away.
  The Phaeacians then began talking among themselves, and one would
turn towards his neighbour, saying, “Bless my heart, who is it that
can have rooted the ship in the sea just as she was getting into port?
We could see the whole of her only moment ago.”
  This was how they talked, but they knew nothing about it; and
Alcinous said, “I remember now the old prophecy of my father. He
said that Neptune would be angry with us for taking every one so
safely over the sea, and would one day wreck a Phaeacian ship as it
was returning from an escort, and bury our city under a high mountain.
This was what my old father used to say, and now it is all coming
true. Now therefore let us all do as I say; in the first place we must
leave off giving people escorts when they come here, and in the next
let us sacrifice twelve picked bulls to Neptune that he may have mercy
upon us, and not bury our city under the high mountain.” When the
people heard this they were afraid and got ready the bulls.
  Thus did the chiefs and rulers of the Phaecians to king Neptune,
standing round his altar; and at the same time Ulysses woke up once
more upon his own soil. He had been so long away that he did not
know it again; moreover, Jove’s daughter Minerva had made it a foggy
day, so that people might not know of his having come, and that she
might tell him everything without either his wife or his fellow
citizens and friends recognizing him until he had taken his revenge
upon the wicked suitors. Everything, therefore, seemed quite different
to him—the long straight tracks, the harbours, the precipices, and
the goodly trees, appeared all changed as he started up and looked
upon his native land. So he smote his thighs with the flat of his
hands and cried aloud despairingly.
  “Alas,” he exclaimed, “among what manner of people am I fallen?
Are they savage and uncivilized or hospitable and humane? Where
shall I put all this treasure, and which way shall I go? I wish I
had stayed over there with the Phaeacians; or I could have gone to
some other great chief who would have been good to me and given me
an escort. As it is I do not know where to put my treasure, and I
cannot leave it here for fear somebody else should get hold of it.
In good truth the chiefs and rulers of the Phaeacians have not been
dealing fairly by me, and have left me in the wrong country; they said
they would take me back to Ithaca and they have not done so: may
Jove the protector of suppliants chastise them, for he watches over
everybody and punishes those who do wrong. Still, I suppose I must
count my goods and see if the crew have gone off with any of them.”
  He counted his goodly coppers and cauldrons, his gold and all his
clothes, but there was nothing missing; still he kept grieving about
not being in his own country, and wandered up and down by the shore of
the sounding sea bewailing his hard fate. Then Minerva came up to
him disguised as a young shepherd of delicate and princely mien,
with a good cloak folded double about her shoulders; she had sandals
on her comely feet and held a javelin in her hand. Ulysses was glad
when he saw her, and went straight up to her.
  “My friend,” said he, “you are the first person whom I have met with
in this country; I salute you, therefore, and beg you to be will
disposed towards me. Protect these my goods, and myself too, for I
embrace your knees and pray to you as though you were a god. Tell
me, then, and tell me truly, what land and country is this? Who are
its inhabitants? Am I on an island, or is this the sea board of some
continent?”
  Minerva answered, “Stranger, you must be very simple, or must have
come from somewhere a long way off, not to know what country this
is. It is a very celebrated place, and everybody knows it East and
West. It is rugged and not a good driving country, but it is by no
means a bid island for what there is of it. It grows any quantity of
corn and also wine, for it is watered both by rain and dew; it
breeds cattle also and goats; all kinds of timber grow here, and there
are watering places where the water never runs dry; so, sir, the
name of Ithaca is known even as far as Troy, which I understand to
be a long way off from this Achaean country.”
  Ulysses was glad at finding himself, as Minerva told him, in his own
country, and he began to answer, but he did not speak the truth, and
made up a lying story in the instinctive wiliness of his heart.
  “I heard of Ithaca,” said he, “when I was in Crete beyond the
seas, and now it seems I have reached it with all these treasures. I
have left as much more behind me for my children, but am flying
because I killed Orsilochus son of Idomeneus, the fleetest runner in
Crete. I killed him because he wanted to rob me of the spoils I had
got from Troy with so much trouble and danger both on the field of
battle and by the waves of the weary sea; he said I had not served his
father loyally at Troy as vassal, but had set myself up as an
independent ruler, so I lay in wait for him and with one of my
followers by the road side, and speared him as he was coming into town
from the country. my It was a very dark night and nobody saw us; it
was not known, therefore, that I had killed him, but as soon as I
had done so I went to a ship and besought the owners, who were
Phoenicians, to take me on board and set me in Pylos or in Elis
where the Epeans rule, giving them as much spoil as satisfied them.
They meant no guile, but the wind drove them off their course, and
we sailed on till we came hither by night. It was all we could do to
get inside the harbour, and none of us said a word about supper though
we wanted it badly, but we all went on shore and lay down just as we
were. I was very tired and fell asleep directly, so they took my goods
out of the ship, and placed them beside me where I was lying upon
the sand. Then they sailed away to Sidonia, and I was left here in
great distress of mind.”
  Such was his story, but Minerva smiled and caressed him with her
hand. Then she took the form of a woman, fair, stately, and wise,
“He must be indeed a shifty lying fellow,” said she, “who could
surpass you in all manner of craft even though you had a god for
your antagonist. Dare-devil that you are, full of guile, unwearying in
deceit, can you not drop your tricks and your instinctive falsehood,
even now that you are in your own country again? We will say no
more, however, about this, for we can both of us deceive upon
occasion—you are the most accomplished counsellor and orator among
all mankind, while I for diplomacy and subtlety have no equal among
the gods. Did you not know Jove’s daughter Minerva—me, who have
been ever with you, who kept watch over you in all your troubles,
and who made the Phaeacians take so great a liking to you? And now,
again, I am come here to talk things over with you, and help you to
hide the treasure I made the Phaeacians give you; I want to tell you
about the troubles that await you in your own house; you have got to
face them, but tell no one, neither man nor woman, that you have
come home again. Bear everything, and put up with every man’s
insolence, without a word.”
  And Ulysses answered, “A man, goddess, may know a great deal, but
you are so constantly changing your appearance that when he meets
you it is a hard matter for him to know whether it is you or not. This
much, however, I know exceedingly well; you were very kind to me as
long as we Achaeans were fighting before Troy, but from the day on
which we went on board ship after having sacked the city of Priam, and
heaven dispersed us—from that day, Minerva, I saw no more of you, and
cannot ever remember your coming to my ship to help me in a
difficulty; I had to wander on sick and sorry till the gods
delivered me from evil and I reached the city of the Phaeacians, where
you en
JK Cabresos Jan 2012
The clouds will be the shed
of my fears, my feet will walk
across the horizon; no one
can defy me beyond these boundaries
for here in my life, my story
I am the protagonist.

The rivers will dry. But dreams
will never falter, for if love
is the nuisance, I shall bury
it deep in the ocean. Then without guffaws,
I can vacate freely to the aspired place.
I whine. I cry. I fight.

Everything will be colored so perfect
except my shadows (beautiful lies
are my only enemies). In this
borrowed time, I will ratify myself's
journey to be better than the best
for my choice is my destiny,
for I am the protagonist.

People. I let them criticize me.
I let them purchase my real worth.
I let them discover the other side of my being;
I will bring tomorrow today, and rainbows
shall stand still in the midst of frozen rains
for here in my life, my story
I am also the antagonist.
-Lhordyx
© December 31, 2011
After dark
While the world is sleeping
So no one could hear us.
Good girl by day
Rebel without a cause by night
Cuddling close to you,
The enemy
But enemy is friend by night.
Luridhope Jan 2012
Acerbic antagonist alliterates agonizing accusations,
blasting ******* backbiter butting beautiful bombastic brainy blond bomb.
Cumulative cranial casualties cease caveman's cognitive coherence.
Doom digger derides Daddy's dangling dire dreary ****.

Eclectic esoteric eccentric egotistical estranger;
Forthcoming fathoms fetch faithless fleeting father.
God given goblins gather gossamer ganglions;
Hell's hairy harlot harpies hover heeding Hyperion.

Ignatius imbibes irrevocably insisting,
"Jesus juggles justice's joy jarring jams."
Kindness kindles Kilimanjaro;
Malicious mountains melt, Mmm, morning marjoram.

Nothing negates Neanderthal ninnying.
Overt obsessions obfuscate original object of
purest passions, paltry past pinings,
quickly quieted, quelled,
resisted, relinquished, readily, ruefully, roundly
saturated, suffocated; surreptitiously silenced,
terribly torturing the thrashed tamed tormentor:

Ugly, ungrateful, unapologetic,
Vanity,
woefully wallowing, wailing, "Where's
Xanadu's
zeitgeist!?"
Fey May 2022
night has befallen your eyes agleam,
iris casting shadows on those unseen -
falling, falling deep; darling, dearest
my gaze will catch you from the darkest pits - you
crestfallen, asleep - weaping on the tower's peak.

© fey (27/05/22)

— The End —