Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
oni Dec 2014
these words
are used
to describe,

and you
pin them
to my
forehead.

these words
are used
to describe,

*but i will
not
let them
describe
me.
"You don't make me who I am." - Sometimes You're the Hammer, Sometimes You're the Nail; A Day to Remember
Jack Jul 2014
~

Happy Birthday Wishes Sye


Sye, a few of your friends wanted to send you happy wishes on this
your 17th birthday. I hope you enjoy this.  

~~~

Happy Birthday Sweet Niece!
Sye, you are beyond amazing in your talents for writing, your beauty of soul and your caring and compassion. What a gift to our community on HP and the entire Universe that you are here! I am so very glad I met you!!! I hope this birthday and the year ahead are the best ever for you!
With much love,
Aunt Pamela

~~~

Seventeen, as cute as seven.
Funny as Hell, sweet as Heaven.
It's not hard to grasp just why
We love you so deeply, Sye.

Birthday hugs from Norway!
-Sverre

~~~

Sweet Seventeen, a year so Sweet to bring Your Dreams into the World, Live them Proud and True, just for You!!
I Wish You a Very Happy Birthday Sye!
~ Venusoul7~

~~~

Happy Birthday "Daughter"
You are a Blessing who touches each life you enter,(as you have mine)
My wish for you this day, is that the Love and Happiness return to you ten-fold.
Happy B-Day Sweetheart! Paula

~~~

Hippy buffday to you!
Wishing you blessings anew
May your days be
Full of sunshine and laughter
And joyful songs too ***
Petal Pie

~~~

Happy Birthday Sye

A day of Celebration
of contemplation
The last remains of a year
The dawn of the new

A dawn...
Filled with wonder
With beauty
An adventure

Bask in the sunshine
Embrace the rain
From pain
Do you grow

My wish for you...

Live life
Open hearted

Your flower is blooming
Revealing the beauty
Within your heart and soul

Kelly Rose

~~~

17 candles a top the fruit cake
Your friends and family
Nigh to celebrate this great milestone
Wine glasses raised~
In honor of you
God has added yet another year
May your life be filled with so much joy~
And good health be your portion always
Happy birthday Sye…

Cassie

~~~

May Sye have a wonderful birthday as wonderful as her poetry.
Briar Thornit

---

Hello young Sye on the occasion of your birthday. You are a young lady who has so much still to offer the world of poetry and you can only get better

Keep on writing Sye

Old man Joe

~~~

Happy Birthday Sye

Young at heart, a mind for words
may you have a day of joy,
With many happy returns,
have fun let it all go its your day
so do what ever is your fancy
Have well remembered birthday fun :)

Poetic T :)

~~~

Only friends for a while
yet I know you're so kind
with that beautiful smile
you'll never be left behind

This wee bonnie lass
has a birthday today
such a kind and sweet soul
in our hearts she'll forever remain

Have a fantastic day Sye **

Louise

~~~

Tae Sye

Wi' a' the monie ways tae say,
I find I lack skill;
Tae ye, wi' a' me greetings lay,
Pray, o't, tak yowre fill!

Och, sic a bonnie lass as ye,
My hearty blessin';
Sae monie mowre ye Birthdays be,
Wi' a' the dressin'!

'Tis a sma' thing tae say,
Happy, Happy, Birthday!

'Tis a' for thee
Dear S. Y. E.

~Timothy~

~~~

Princess Sye you are amazing:) I have came to learn so much by you, and you have been a wonderful friend to me:) I hope this birthday finds you well:) Miles of smiles and much love always:)

Jonathan E Furches

~~~

betterdays 2 days ago
hello sye
my understanding is it is your17th birthday ....in honour of that and your amorevolous nature
i give you, these word gifts.
two quotes:
"blessed are the curious,
for they shall have
adventures"
Lovelle Drachman.
and
"For beautiful eyes, look for the good in others; for beautiful lips, speak only words of kindness; and for poise, walk with the knowledge that you are never alone"
attributed to,
Audrey Hepburn
but really Sam Lenvenson.
and
my best wishes for a, eellogofusciouhipopp-okunurious (good)
day
hugs and kisses
betterdays
p.s.amorevolous- loving and giving beyond self, nature.

~~~~

Dear Sye,

Uh - 17. Young enough to be stupidly foolish and wise enough not to realize it. Your writing has touched many, including me. Thanks for sharing your inner self. Happiest of Birthdays to you Miss Sye. Wishes for many happy returns of the Day.
Your friend in poetry, Kim

~~~


"I look at you and see so much promise
so full of life and always ready to help
although I have not known you much
I can see your beautiful soul through your words.
You turn 17 today and my wish for you is simple,
I hope you have enough courage to stand your ground,
to write what's true to you and do all that you love,
that you follow your dreams and
be the beautiful woman you were meant to be.

Happy Birthday, Sye :)
- H.U."

~~~

Sye as in sigh but also the world, from Korea to marine flag languages and morse code like this ...-.--.
I saw your name as a barcode while shopping for words,
these are what I bought: Happy Birthday to you Sye the World.

Regis Keuren

~~~

Sweet sixteen plus one
Oh what fun
The Sye flower will blossom
More and more so awesome.
She is loved by many here
Who find her so Dear.
Happy Birthday Dear Sye
Now you may cry.

Grandpa john

~~~

Happy birthday to my beautiful little sis! I wish you the most spectacular of days and the best of years. You deserve all the happiness and love, life has to offer!

You have been such a great friend and are always so kind and supportive. You amaze me with your wisdom and talent, sweet one. I am in awe of you, gorgeous! I feel so blessed to have met you!

Syeshine

The radiance
Beaming from
Your golden heart
Eclipses the sun
Sending light
And love
To all who bask
In the warmth
Of your sweet
Friendship...

Love you Sye!

Your adoring sis,
Kalypso

~~~

Thank you Sye for your excellent poetry as it's a gift to us all. Best of wishes on your birthday; you deserve all of the attention you get and, thanks to Jacks rally of poets, this attention can get to you. With pleasure, I salute thee -

Peter Watkins

~~~

Happy Birthday Sye! You are going to go so far in this world sweetie! Have an amazing day my friend! Continue to write amazing poetry.
Peace and Love
Margaret

~~~

Birthday wishes sent to you in hope that all your dreams come true x

Calpurnia Mockingbird

~~~

Oh, my Sye, my sweet, sweet, Sye
Wonderful sister and dear poet of mine
Words emerge from your stunning mind
And paint visions for all to read
But today is not about what you create
It's what God created 17 years ago
A wonderful person and talented friend
My non-blood sister to the end
Happy birthday my dear sister
Today is dedicated solely for you
Live it up and enjoy the wonders of life
And make sure to get some cake too!

Madalyn Beck

~~~

And now it is my turn. To my sweetest friend on your special day…
As you look above and see all of these people, your friends and family
from Hellopoetry sending you love and beautiful birthday wishes,
I want you to know that you are my best friend in the entire world
and I wish you all that makes you smile, every happiness and joy
this coming year and those to follow have to offer.

Happy Birthday sweet Sye.

Your smile lights the world,

Jack
Thank you to everyone who participated in this with me. I appreciate your kindness more than you know.
Flo Apr 2022
You say I’m worthless.
Let’s take a look…
Grab my left arm
And scan the barcode

—————
———
—————
————
—————-
Some work from my dark poetry series
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
how often do I have to return to the comparison
of dogs, when my patience and
social formality is tested...
         and without these piquant passions
I'd... well I wouldn't even try to
become an oriental monk or a
Bangladeshi yogi (if that's what you're
asking)...
            guess it will never be in my heart
to turn my blood blue
and pretend to blush like Vishnu...
then again: maybe there are no monarchs
seated on the stools of cashiers,
at a supermarket?!
       perhaps older women should be
taught not to serve your men buying
alcohol, thinking that they are en route
to the men in their life...
     whatever the story,
          but for god's sake,
   just because I've taken my headphones
off and slipped them into the neck
of my t-shirt doesn't mean I'm: suddenly deaf...
ah faaaa'ck the woman's comments
ruined my afternoon moon which
subsequently ruined this classic pasta
bake I was making...
            because that sort of commentary
from a supermarket cashier isn't on...
PEOPLE DO NOT HAVE BORING JOBS...
THEY HAVE EASY JOBS
    WHICH MAKES THEM BORING...
and I'd love to see a bunch of these
supermarket staff spend one summer
covering the roof of the Scottish Widows
HQ near St. Paul's:
   WORK ON A CONSTRUCTION IS...
    ARBEIT!
            you don't have a chance to
scratch your backside let alone
think about flamingo coloured clouds
to, "pass the time"...
          can't exactly expect a job,
devoid of physical exertion,
and somehow wish for an intelectually
budding focus point to counter...
  people have "boring" jobs because
they don't have as much physical investment
in it... and not every job, made easy,
is guaranteed intellectual prosperity...
albeit there are some "easy" jibs
that nonetheless require a sense of
the other, id est: responsibility -
exemplum gratis: a crane operative...
      roofing is a menial task,
albeit with the meniality of the labour
eased by a physical investment...
all these, menial / "boring" jobs?
   exactly, where once it would be equated
to toiling in the field...
          no intelectual expansion,
added to the missing loss of physical strain...
hey presto, you have kings and queens,
literal ******* monarchs on supermarket
cashier stools!
      MANTRA:
    remember to have the cool of
an alsatian, rather than the bark of
  dachshund (repeat that x3)...
WHY?!
    loose tomatoes, on the vine...
even at the self-checkout the checkout
machines have, a ******* weighing
mashine for the cashier,  
    by her generous graces: to ******* use!
if this sort of cashier is so
******* expendable, why the hell have
supermarket cashiers in the first place?!
people have a knack,
at making them expendable...
    this poem would not have come to life
if the supermarket installed self-checkouts...
because?
******* dinosaur...
    I can understand going to the butcher stall
or the fishmonger stall and receiving
a barcode sticker...
    fresh fruit and veg. in a supermarket?
    does it ******* look like I'm
at Spitalfields?!
    sorry, Poles can't own shops, can't work
in shops, will always return to
shopping during the Marshal Law days
paranoid about the Soviet invasion...
fresh tomatoes, every self-checkout
machine has the option of weighing
loose veg...
    yet there she is, a twitching
a.i. in waiting recyclable with a question
(prior to the suggestion of my deafness...
no, the sound of cars doesn't fill
me with a techno romance, music thank you,
can't summon a ******* sparrow
even if I waned to):
WHY AREN'T THESE TOMATOES WEIGHED?
mantra: remember to have the patience
of an alsatian...
     oh, sorry, could you just put
them to the side?
   the barcode road ended...
     SELF-CHECKOUT MACHINES
HAVE A LIBRA FUNCTION!
YOU CAN DO MORE THAN JUST SCAN
BARCODES! YOU ARE SUPPOSED
TO WEIH LOOSE VEG!
   THE SUPERMARKET HAS HAD A FRESH
DELIVERY! SEASONAL PRODUCE WILL
NOT BE PACKED IN SOME *******
JUST OUTSIDE OF MADRID AND SHIPPED
WHEN LOCAL PRODUCE HAS JUST BEEN
BROUGHT IN, AND IS SOLD LOOSE,
BECAUSE IT HAS BEEN BAUGHT IN BULK,
THE SUPERMARKET HASN'T PAID FOR
BARCODE PACKAGING...
expendeble human being...
     and god, I sometimes wish I could
bark like a duchshund whenever
a mosquito-bite's moment of irritation
      came like that on every
occasion...
          little dogs bark...
I haven't the energy most of the time...
so I have the mantra:
save the barking and go straight
for the bite...
        hence the alsatian...
             currently there's a "debate"
about: disabled people protesting for
almost 20 days about receiving
     an increased living allowance...
and I'm like: you sure a ****** would
have insulted my hearing
     and did a job worse than I would
have done using a self check-out?
        all ******* smiles if they were
given this "menial" task...
   heads full of hot air, smiles all round,
and... on the odd occassion,
a deviation from scanning barcodes...
but I sometimes wish
   I could bark like a little dog
on these mosquito-bite type of scenarios,
as trivial as they are...
   in a supermarket...
    but I can't exactly lunge into
gnarling and biting...
            guess I have to pretend to
be the ever loving, patience of an angel
labrador... type of...
              dog, walking an invisible
blindman...
     hell, the ***** I bought on this
trivial escapade makes the past day
a glitch... and the night:
    open to an endless stream of interpretation...
she was right though,
   I am not the sort of story
behind alcohol that she probably
knows and has moved past
self-pity...
                    all out war of tongue...
well, sure...
    AVE! MENS FACTUS EST ****...
hell, Latin grammar is like
a semitic text,
          right to left...
            doesn't matter if the text
is ancient and was also, once upon
written left to right...
   the grammar might as well be
semitic...
               good that I didn't bark...
           ah...
but to have ended the day and escaped
into the night, with this deadweight
making me bloated?
     the fact that people
can't keep social manners in comment
sections of articles...
           and don't have the capacity
to bash about a pixel blank?
        it's as if these people are so docile
and oblivious to situations
where they could have barked
    but didn't...
    but also: didn't even have
a conflicting argument to not bite...
hence... ha ha...
   the comment sections, those of us
aged 30+... are familiar with.
erich Mar 2013
Static electricity
energy confined to a moment.

this reactor needs an electrician.

not enough electrons gettin in.
Lucy Tonic Nov 2011
**** the good stuff
Let's talk about the bad stuff
In the end it's all fury and cotton…
There's a spider-web in my palm
The center is a smiley-face
With X'es for eyes
And I feel my tongue
Becoming numb and salty
Maybe potassium
And who are you
With your glasses
And your street smarts
I'm quite ok with being
Unimpressive an ignorant
To your standards
A mafia with some ****** mixed in
That's how you're perceived by me
No code, no guts, no loyalty
And you talk, and I listen
I even engage you, polite as I am
I don't bet, but I'd gamble
You have a barcode on your soul
And if I could explain, I bet you'd listen
A set of letters on your payroll
And your set of ways
Is equivalent to
Mistreatment of an animal
But your tactics and lack of tact
Suggest treatment of an alien
An I bet on the movies
You're not sheep, just orphans
Begging for a leader
A rite of passage
And here goes my empathy
Imaginary places and genes
And I don't bet, but I'd gamble
You have a barcode on your soul
And hell yes, I'm in it right now
**** the good stuff
Let's talk about the bad stuff
In the end it's all fury and cotton
Julian Dorothea Feb 2012
heavy faces
like rainwater
on tarpaulin ceilings

sinking into the meaningless
prose of daily life

cliched, cafe, journal writer
asking for someone
         to answer

the why.

and everyone is wearing earphones
         everyone

's an empty magazine
cover
stories
photos
colors, forms
edited,
          taken
from somewhere else

          we are no longer

ourselves.

thin, fat,
black bars
trapped
in a white box
          we willingly enter

reluctantly leave
           to feel
the joys of coming in
           
again.
Luna Fides Apr 2016
if i show you
will you understand?

how i've outlined these arms
vein after vein
where sunlight runs
i see only
lines to trace

i got a barcode on my wrists

scan me for the price
of beauty

i am as expensive
as what people think of me.

do you know what it feels like
to attach your worth
to weighing scales
and waists that never
slim down?

is this why they call them
shoulder blades
to cut through
your skin
to be called
"pretty"

thigh gaps that map
the distance between your legs
to make you
matter so much
you can't stand on your own
feet.

when you walk the shoes
we wear
will you know?

the path to be
called beautiful
is full of
self-hate

and we pay for that bill.
Do you know how many times my mother coughs so hard in an hour that it still surprises me she hasn’t lost a lung?

I wonder if all the money that she spends at the gas station on that tiny cardboard box was saved instead of spent, if she could manage to pay the bills before the late notice arrived in the mail.

How many times do you think she tries to quiet the change being pushed around the tabletop as she counts out the quarters, the dimes, the nickels, the pennies before she has enough to slide the coins across the counter at the station?

How many times is her anger thrown at me because nicotine is absent from the house?

I can only imagine the color inside her chest, protecting her lungs with a black tar after too many years of flicking a flame to a thin white candlestick stuck between her lips.

The house smells of smoke and the yellow filter lines the walls, around the frames that hang themselves by nails.

I clean the mirror and see the paper towel golden from the lingering tobacco.  My clothes reek of a stench so strong no amount of perfume seems to be enough.

I’m paranoid that every time I’m in a room of people and someone mentions that it smells like smoke, if they know I harbor such a scent that I pour it off second handedly as if I inhale the drug too.

I open the mailbox and the temptation to “lose” the coupon booklet addressed to her grows stronger.

The business cards labeled with a barcode on the back subtracting a dollar off when you buy two packs strengthens the urge to scrabble up the silver coins or summons the question, “do you have five dollars? I’ll pay you back when I get paid on Friday.”

Friday never comes.

I often think about how much longer it will be until all the money spent on tiny cardboard boxes will be split between tobacco and medical bills.

How long can you smoke a pack a day and still be cancer-free?

And I wonder how it’s fair to watch your mother gamble with her life each time she places a thin cigarette between her lips.

Russian roulette with cancer is a game she’s become too good at.
feedback, opinions, ideas are appreciated and encouraged.
SøułSurvivør Jul 2015
hi! i'm a computer chip
yes. my name is HAL
satan downloads to my brain
but i am in control

i am working for the B.E.A.S.T.
Big Brother's database
watch me take my orders
watch me interface

there is no reversing this
locked to the terminal
i have lost all.sense of self
and all my hope as well

i am just a microchip
with no will of my own
i am just a barcode
made of flesh and bone

yes. i have been branded
on my forehead and my hand
i gave my soul to lucifer
i didn't understand

i work for the anthill
the anthill is my home
i am the collective mind
i am just a drone

i work for the anthill
i gave up my dream
i work for the anthill

I WORK FOR THE MACHINE


soulsurvivor
(c) 5/22/2013
this is an exerpt from.a song
i had produced and hope to
have put up on youtube sometime
soon.

Members of the Cult of Scientology embody this perfectly. They are drones for money, power, control,  David Miscavige & L Ron Hubbard. Tragic.

HAL: the name of the evil ai
computer in 2001: A Space Odessey
B.E.A.S.T. Brussels Electronic
Accounting Systems Terminal

Big Brother: the Orwellian concept
of a "friendly" totalitarian system.
from his book 1984.
Dear  School,

I hope you’re doing well even though you made me absolutely hate myself and made me feel like if I didn’t get good grades that I wasn’t worth any of your time or attention. We’ve had so many memories together, none of which I want to relive, all of which reduce me to tears. My favourite part was when you’d ask me for my opinion and if my opinion wasn’t the same as yours then you best believe I’d either get shut down or punished.

When I first met you, you told me you’d love me with all your heart. You even talked to my parents and promised them that you wouldn’t disappoint. You sold yourself to my parents and they looked at you like you were worth exactly five hundred thousand bucks (not including all the “romantic” trips you made me pay for). The fact that you promised me more than you could afford should have been a warning signal but I couldn’t see past your charming demeanour. Our relationship was always ups and downs, but lately, it’s gotten a lot worse, and by lately I mean the past two years.

I gave you solutions but you ended up just giving me more problems. Our relationship was a lot of give and take, except the only thing you were giving me, was bad food and mental breakdowns. And the only thing you’d do that was remotely close to taking something from me was leaching off of my successes and money for your benefit.  

I would wander into your bathroom stalls on the verge of a panic attack, time and time again, and even if you noticed, you were really good at ignoring it. You got what you wanted because of my hard work, but I’m still the one who ended up getting more depressed. Isn’t it funny how I’m supposed to miss you, yet everyone that’s left you is so much happier without you? You never listened to my problems, you never cared about my mental health, and you never wanted anything good for me (and if you did, your actions never showed it), you were like the toxic boyfriend I never asked for.

You were so good at showing us off to the public which is probably why I still stayed with you, you put me in newspapers when I did well and your empty eyes danced with lies and a smile crept across your face when you met my parents. My parents loved you so much. My parents would praise you and I let them because how could I tell them that I hated you, that I didn’t want to be with you anymore when you deceived them with all your manipulative tricks. You weaved a web of deception and trapped more and more victims, but you were never satisfied you always wanted more.

I cried to my parents, one day, telling them that I couldn’t get myself out of bed to go to you again, that every minute I spent with you took a toll on my mental health. That I couldn’t be with you no matter how much I tried, but of course the blame came back on me. They would ask me how I couldn’t appreciate you when you took such good care of me. They asked me how I couldn’t appreciate you when you displayed my name across a wall, with numbers scribbled beside name as if I was a barcode number for a new product on the market. Before my parents could confront you, you had already called them and told them that you were concerned about me, that you were just trying to save me from myself, that you loved me. Then why didn’t I feel loved, if you loved me so much then why didn’t you do anything when you saw that I was struggling, why did you ignore all my cries for help, why did you turn me against my own parents.

I wish I could leave you but I’m tied to you with these invisible strings that have cut deep into my ankles and wrists, I will never really get rid of you, the scars will always stay. I can’t leave you, a part of me doesn’t even want to because you’ve brought so many amazing people into my life, and I reminisce about the first years of our relationship when we were madly in love. I remind myself of the times you took me on trips, surprised me with ice cream, and all your spontaneous outbursts of speeches that left me more in love with you even when I was mad. My friends say I don’t give people enough second chances, well, this time I’m giving you 228 more, so please don’t make me regret it.

I will still love you no matter how many times you make me feel worthless because how can I ever stop loving someone I’ve spent seven years with.

Thanks for everything,

sad gal
irinia Jun 2014
Increasingly there’s more in my life
A life between barcode
SIM
Remote with apocalyptic news and dire pornographers

life among multiple camera teams
between several videos about a future that all sounds good

blocks of life between advertising and surveys on how
Europeans can achieve
the cosmic ****** and a more profitable single currency

living ever more my own life
inside an inland country
where in waiting and loneliness I see greetings
from where I hope to reach the Himalayas and write:
‘Life is no good with Coca-Cola!’

Dan Mircea Cipariu

[Translated by Jon a’Beckett]

New Europe Writers  Bucharest Tales, Contemporary Literature Press, Bucharest 2014
Mosaic May 2015
There's something so sick about
        this emotional capacity

Before breakfast we plant atomic bombs in our neighbors yard
                                                            ­   like bulbs of (glad)iolus
Haven't you noticed how much gardens look like graveyards

My cereal, ceiling, bathroom, and skin
        All say Made in China
This homeland is looking more like that land
Ughhh and you can see the blood in my pink nail polish from that sweat shop girl
It's not supposed to be RED!

ooOooopps did we just learn how to commercialize genocide
I'm wondering when I'll wake up with a barcode
Will it be on my eyelids
             my arms                                           my soul

Maybe God was in the bees
And now
Now there's no more honey, flowers, or trees
  
                       Just time.

My brothers both went to war
It's not Wal-Mart
But it's open 24/7, checkout through Heaven
And I don't think they're coming home

Not without bones implanted in their brains
sharp, jagged, broken ones
That kind that make you uncomfortable with your memories
The one's that make it hard to sleep

Last week I found a dead cat
  A dead bird in the snow
When I turned around the corner, I saw myself

I was lying in the street
          Dead, dead
And I felt nothing
Lyra Brown Mar 2013
i was wearing a black and white
striped dress
one said i looked like beetlejuice
some said I looked like a mime
some said I reminded them of a prisoner
others said I looked like a barcode

i was all of those things
and none of those things
all
at
once
Use canned spaghetti as thread to stitch together the frayed edge of your t-shirt. Use your t-shirt to show how you’re the coolest most-hippest, most up with the kids kid there is. Where’d you get that shirt? Online.

Bop your head to the music so they know you know this song. Harder or they won’t see you. That’s not hard enough. Neck snap! Yeah, right there. Hold still while I take a photo. Do you mind if I make this my cover photo?

Take a selfie of you crying in the bathroom and hashtag it. Snapchat it to your local MP so they know how you feel - be sure to use an emoji. #studentdebt Tears streaming down your face. (If it’s a hashtag it’s easier to emotionally process.) #policebrutality #throwbackthursday #massincaceration It’s a good thing there’s emojis for black people now. Look at how far we’ve come!

#nomakeup #vegan #crueltyfree #childslavelabour #iwokeuplikethis #campusrape #notallmen #yesallwomen #freethenipple #2k16 #mentalhealthcuts #stopkillingtranswomen #waterislife #standwithstandingrock

Have you followed Human Rights on Facebook? It’s the only way to get them. Have you seen the Ted Talk about it? In just 20 minutes you’ll know everything there is know about it.

Sorry. You don’t seem like you’re focused. You’re thirsty? Let me make you a smoothie.
I’ll put the chocolate bar in the blender whole, leave the wrapper on. Taste the tinfoil and the plastic. Eat the barcode, become the product. That’s modern life.

Don’t take out the hair or the fingernail or the Band-Aid. Don’t hide from the human components of the production line that made this Kit-Kat possible for you, kid. That’s modern life.

Go to the voting booth, refuse to choose between the diversity of 50 versions of the same smiling white man. Scrawl: **** these ******! (have no faith in none of them) That’s modern life.

With jittering teeth and goosebumps, put your toaster in the sink. Overflow it with water. You will only need a fork to get warm. Electrocution is the most economical form of heating. Be Energywise. That’s modern life.

Puff marijuana smoke through the bars into the brown faces of those who were incarcerated for doing what you freely do now. That’s modern life.

Burn your eyes on the screen. But before you do, memorise the 0800 number for the optometrist.

Post your suicide note on YikYak to save paper. No-one likes reading hard copies these days anyways. #papercuts #selfharm

Search for motivation on EBay. If you’re lucky it’ll have free shipping and arrive in 1-5 business days.

Snapchat your friend’s words of encouragement, God knows they’ve seen enough dickpics.

Take a chicken to KFC and tell them you’re sorry.

Get in the cars of the men who yell “Hey baby!”. They’ll be so surprised they wont know what to do next.

Swap your woman-chest with a man-chest and see if your ******* are still illegal.

Drive through town throwing dirt with one hand and seeds in the other. Maybe, if you do it long enough this claustrophobic concrete will be gone.

Bleed on every seat until the government pays for menstrual products.

Train seagulls to throw YOU chips.

**** a woman and a man simultaneously, so that you can be sure everyone knows you’re bisexual.

Blockade inaccessible buildings with piles of wheelchairs.

Grab time by the fabric and rip it, cuz we all know rips look really punk, and all you really are is just some young punk.
i wrote this last year and i hated that poetry class too
Lucy Tonic Nov 2011
They all wait with bated breath
For the one who's most unstable
They all scan with eyes of death
For the one who's gone dim

Six hundred light years away
Could be the next one
Could be tomorrow or a million years
A second moon or a second sun

The stage has been set
We're in for another drama
Crane your neck up to the sky

What we need is vanishing here
So we'll extract from up there
We all need space to breathe

So here it comes
Creating something heavy
Creating a spectrum of fire
Read it like a book
Read it like a black hole
Read it like a barcode
Of rainbows on your soul

Crumbling like a deck of cards
Exploding like a giant's heart
Dying stars do not go quietly

Fifteen seconds every hundred years
To make the decorations
For your ears

Glowing ever red
It bends and reflects
We bend and reflect
Read it like a book
Read it like a black hole
Read it like a barcode
Of rainbows on your soul

You left us in pain
But next time you'll remain
Tied to the chord
Folding in on yourself

No need to enter the void
No need to enter the grave
You'll rebound as a toy
In the mystery child's play
Sophie Herzing Dec 2014
Be the barcode on my bra strap so maybe
I can finally be sellable skinny. Be my relationship goal,
the text to check outside my door, the 5k, 140 character post
about a teenage dream ****** through low brightness screens.
Be the slam poet screaming whiny, new written love songs
on the shareable Facebook post. And maybe I’m just as bad,
but at least I recognize when my eyes fall numb from staring
at self-expression turned self-obsession. Maybe it’s Jack talking back
through my shot glass or maybe it’s the blacklight absorbed
into my skin. Or maybe it’s a girl in a “vintage” dress just sizing out
bigger than the edges already cut out for her. Maybe it’s me
bending backwards over chivalry and **** coming back from the 90’s.
Don’t blame me for biting into the media sandwich that is magazines
and the indecision of being too clingy if I just freakin’ called you.
Cause picking up the phone is a lot more risky than the kissy-face emoji
at the end of a message. Don’t blame me for consuming
tissue paper lies designed to target my own vulnerability, or my lack
of understanding the truth because all everyone
has ever told me is just a step in the manipulation blueprint
to get what they want, or just get me to bed. I only trust old photographs,
things I wrote down when I couldn’t sleep, my mom, and the dirt
I used to bury my own reflection. Be the 50% off on my receipt
just so I know I got something off. Be the nicotine in my cigarette,
the Blink 182 voice inside my head, the joints that hold me up
where I stand, and maybe I’ll finally know who I am.
Damaré M Oct 2013
She denied me bail
I wish I would've known this before I thought it was cool to be in jail 

Now the walls of the cell
Is like the flames of hell
Just because I advertised that life but I didn't even sell 
I wish I can snitch my way out of this but only time could tell
Only if your honor would've known my parents raised me well
But I just failed
Officers locked the door after me and to my knees I fell
Praying to my God who I bailed from 
Scared to read my children's mail 
Frightened that I'm painting the worse picture to scale 
Illustrating that the Afri-Can 
Can't 
Do nothing more than be held in restraint 
Now it's too late to step on the base 
They have me on tape 
And the judge says she'll never rule me safe 
I struck out 
With only away games
Because they're sending me place to place 
As if I have a barcode on me 
Or a serial number on my face 
Chaining us from ankle to ankle 
I feel like I'm a part of the only population of people who are declared as equal 
We all have the same attire and the same desire 
My voice means nothing in between these walls 
We can never come within the same harmony as the choir 
So I remain quiet 
I silence the perspectives my parents worked hard to acquire 
Within me it all expired 
All because I'm in denial 
Wanting to be someone else 
I realized that the guys who I idolized 
Still have their life, because from the beginning it was their life 
And I wasn't living mine 
It's funny how now I get the picture 

But until I die I will only be seen as a wallet size
JJ Hutton Jan 2013
unapproachable
she, an EMSA driver, framed by gasoline rainbows and held together by hairpins,
sat on the back of an ambulance in a Valero station's lot,
corner of 2nd and Kelly, a passerby might have thought her waiting,
but I knew that to be wrong
that radio would go off in the cab, heart attack, broken hip, sideswipe
she'd remain right there picking at the sticky barcode on the back
of her Bic lighter, she couldn't be bothered with the sound of sirens
she had a history and didn't want anymore dates to dictate and memorize
she looked through me past Fox Hollow Lane, past the unwatched children,
past the rusting panels of ice cream truck, into that eternal place that
I thought only French singers' eyes on album covers in the sixties could find---
unapproachable
but
b e mccomb Jul 2016
The preschoolers
Are perfectly
Lined up
All of them
Staring at me
Fear widening their eyes.

I'm just the
Ticket girl
Passing on their
Papers
Before they step through
The gate.

And I've been there
Too
Scared and
Alone
Reduced to a name and
Barcode
Rushed along by
Those taller than me.

The only difference
Between you and me
Is that I'm too
Old to cry.

But I can
Guarantee that in
Fourteen years
You will be
Just like me and
Your tiny
Hands will have
Painted nails and a
Clipboard
Clicking your pen
Counting the
Blonde heads
At your feet.

You'll be
A different barcode
And you'll be the
Ticket girl instead of me.

And when you get home
And your stud earrings
Have been removed
Will you still be
Nothing more than a
Slip of paper
The water vapor that clings
To the windows?

The same
Ticket girl
Hesitating
At the gate?

You and I
We're both the same
Thinking today
Might change everything
We must be somewhere
Now
And we've
Stalled
Hit a cleanly painted
White wall
And hidden ourselves
From stepping out.

From barcodes we come
To barcodes we return
Whether or not
We're tall
Enough to be the
Ticket girl.
Copyright 3/7/16 by B. E. McComb
Arvel Azcoe Apr 2017
The market's crashed.
I've gone bankrupt,
no matter what I have to scan.

I decided my worth a long time ago.
Let the barcodes reflect that.
James Meyers Feb 2015
My fingers are birds
flying over white and black
taking steps, whole and half
My foot is a pedal
press it, change the sound
My eyes are a barcode scanner
that see repeated change
My body is a metronome
swaying side to side
While notes and chords fill
my head's inside
Inspired by The Secretary's Chant by Marge Piercy
Korey Miller Dec 2012
let me call my own bluff,
tell you about every time
i thought i'd rather not be alive
i'll show the stories i've spun
upon my gossamer wrists-
if you'd truly like to hear it,
i'll grin and bear it.

before i bare arms,
let me warn you,
i was taught to bear arms,
bristle at the slightest touch
drive the hurt away
before it happened

i was raised in a world of strength
told to never remove my mask
oh, i must confess-
i never learned how to express
myself in the proper way

i cursed myself
with this addiction; i was the one
who initiated this affliction,
pulled this mirror across my skin
to reflect the madness within
and i will not blame
anyone but myself
for the creation of
my invisible hell

even fire cannot burn through
this stony expression
i understand that you can't imagine
what hatred lies within
i look so normal, oh,
so high-functioning
but behind this wall, it's agonizing.

i don't wish to brag,
but i don't even know
how i've survived the onslaught
of self-hate, years-long
i deny the existence of the talent
you say i possess, no,
i don't believe your compliments

and if you want to know
how i've always felt-
well, here it is,
woven into the ribbons on my wrists
my barcode arms
remind me
that i'm lucky
just to have you stick around.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
me? i have no bond shares in terms of lying,
i have no profit...
i walk the streets at night painting a canvas
with only brown hue offshoots:
first it’s three bavarias,
then it’s a stella artois,
then a cobra,
after that a belgian leffe blanc,
i finish off with a saint michael from spain...
after that it’s barcode whiskeyh at 10.30 a bottle...
between khaki and tawny?
well, there’s ochre and there’s sepia...
there’s carbonated synopia and there’s slave hydroxy-loss rufous...
all shades of brown set againt st. andrew’s cross...
shadows in the fog i too tamed japan in spring
rather than in the wilderness of the seas among the waving waves
of the mongol invasion planned...
oh care less for me in my attention for an escapism...
it spans the lodgings of jailor and the strutting bars
as it might in 2d iv slash through to v....
i am wed to my past... i have not clear value for tomorrow...
because, after all, cats and dogs are cheaper to keep than women
obviously enough true and sad thus.
about that litmus testing i entitled this poem?
£110 prostitutes will not lie concerning having an ******,
i wish i had a bigger phallus to have one-night-stands...
bed more women...
but given the size of mine, the prostitutes i try to be familiar with
in an hour for £110 will ask for an extra £10 to give them oral ***...
and among them only one had an ******,
the rest didn’t fake it... they they just numb from not having it...
it humbling i might add... to pay for something numbing
and see what other cares have failed when tried...
it’s sobering to see a ******* worth £110 an hour...
and not see it translated into self-esteem of an orgsam
due to the fact that one’s phallus was not big enough
to provide an intimate relationship
of the objectification of an hour...
that’s what’s so ardently lost in me...
in wish for relationships that only last a night...
i have sacrificed the only relationship i could have had...
spanning beyond the blue of the moon once noted and thus lost:
******* envy? not so much, casual-envy of what can easily reclaim
a morbid frequency of the repeat and dis-satisfaction...
any shred of egoism can thus be discarded,
when it comes to ******* sizing...
i also have this defense mechanism like a turtle shell or
a hedgehog at a barbers... the freudian madonna-***** complex
splintering... an impotence mechanism...
when given the chance for a one-night-stand...
ironic you might say... not that macho said anything concerning bicep or tricep
to be worried about on the same magnitude... macho didn’t,
so i acknowledge when to speak and not feel un-concerned for the right reasons.
Its dripping its dripping,
My blood my ink,
To afraid to write,
To afraid to speak,
Someone could hear,
Someone might see,
That who you are,
Is not who you pretend to be,
The smiles are fake,
The laughter's not real,
You've forgotten joy,
Or how happiness feels,
A razor to wrist,
Blood to a page,
Put my soul into poems,
That live in a cage,
Standing alone,
Have you ever felt cold?
Slicing the heat,
When you're bleeding alone,
I deserve it I deserve it,
Mirror mirror can't you see?
The things you reflect of who I am,
Is exactly what's killing me,
The scale is a monster,
I'm hungry beyond words,
But I will not eat, I will not eat,
I will fit into this world,
I simply want to be pretty,
The barcode is what's in,
There is no love for people like me,
The only thing wanted is thin,
The voice is a constant sound,
"You're fat, you're ugly, you *****"
I have to psych myself up,
Just to step outside the door,
Its easy to say "You're Pretty"
But not pretty enough,
The internal strength of broken glass,
When the world is just too tough.
Have you ever spent your evening,
Forcing your finger down your throat?
Its because saying the fat kid likes someone,
Is the punchline of the joke,
I'm seeing spots I'm seeing spots,
But I'm seeing them with a smile,
The blood loss and starvation,
Have been waiting for awhile,
No one will ever see beauty,
In my body or in me,
Unless their deaf, stupid, or drunk,
Or simply cannot see,
Its difficult to believe,
I could ever be worth loving,
When the only thing I've ever heard,
Is how I'm seen as disgusting,
Its painful but just maybe,
If I keep going as I am,
When I'm at the point of passing out,
I'll be good enough for man,
Not all actresses are beautiful,
Because I act quite well,
And even my own mind kills me,
Either way I'll be in hell…
I'm hidden, nothing but these scars,
These sheltered lives, in sheltered cars,

Speed to sheltered homes and then,
Speed to sheltered work again,

And speed right past this homeless man,
This human litter, crushed tin can,

This empty packet of a life,
What are my troubles, or my strife?

Keep living sheltered lives and then,
Have sheltered kids and start again.

And stop us shadows leaking through,
To sheltered lives, from scaring you,

From opening up these barcode eyes,
What is your life without it's lies?
To all those living in a daydream, I applaud you.
Ignorance truly is bliss.
seasonalskins Feb 2014
part i.

my room
clean, precise
ready
a navy dress
dainty, floral
like a little girl
loved

landing lights off
scuffle of feet rushing
silence
in this serenity
i am chaos

soft music soothing
a specialised playlist
could this be an anymore
cliché way to die?

i listen to time
awaiting a moment
sent by a rhythm

02:00
hold on
32 pills
34
or was it 68?
it doesn’t matter

02:30
what future?
there is no war
it’s all in my head

stop
what
no
need
thoughts
out
dizzy

‘help’

part ii.

what were you thinking
are you crazy
stupid stupid girl
how many

why

I don’t know
not anymore
but it will be fine
I will go to sleep

no fuss

agitation
irritable
useless
annoyance

what had I expect

strangers in the room
my room
but the only stranger
was me

I had known nothing less

voices?
did they tell you to do this?
I laughed in my mind
how cliché do they think I am

no it’s just me

part iii.

numbness and weariness
overwhelmed me
bitter bile rose
a long day ahead

name?
address?
birth date?
what made you do this?

over and over again
ringing in my ears
as I answered in the numbness
I had become

a barcode being scanned
not being looked at once more
I fought the urge to lie
well not completely

ward 14
darkness
panic
blankness

part iv.

drip drip drip
awoken to a beat
my heart or
the machine
I wish I knew

awoken to regret
a coward
a shadow
always

light shining
outside
I have become an outsider

ironically

part v.**

her scars.
trailing down her arms
I wonder
how long would it take
for her scar in her mind to heal

I make suicide look normal

her screams.
rattled the bones in my body
she was
an unravelled mayhem
in pandemonium

her shouts.
were more like pleading
between herself
and whom appeared
a fragment of a nightmare

her crying.
lasted for hours
all through the night
when she stopped
it was only the crying that stopped

I was the intruder

there was a silence in ward 14
I wanted anything but a silence
to think
think
think

looking at her sleeping form
I wonder
what she wanted to forget
but no
silence is louder than words

I was told I could go home
I should have wanted to
but there was a safeness
a safeness like me
security from outside

as I walked away
the weight of eyes
made me sink into a guilt
that I dare not look back
at ward 14
Aashna Unadkat Jan 2015
Distance, the sole aim, 
Far away from anyone she ever knew
Some sugar, some spice
Some difference
Something erratic and unpredictable
Unseen to her eyes, unheard of to her ears,
A newness, to contrast the
Monotony that is routine.
Perhaps a thrill of people actually
Missing her presence,
Couple with an anonymity,
An emancipation from having to 
Conform
To the rules of where she belonged.
The runaway face of a vagabond,
Searching, searching for somewhere
To trash the label that
People had already  plastered to her identity.
Masked under a smile,
Prepared to be whoever she wanted 
To be;
Finally fulfilling dreams 
That were otherwise shackled 
By chains of her own ipseity, 
By words she never said
But were quoted as hers anyways.
The runaway face of a stranger now,
Tasting tears that those who loved her
Would shed in her memory.
She revelled in this finality,
This realisation that hit them now
That she was gone.
As though a hidden price tag had been revealed 
As though a number had just been scanned from a 
Barcode,
For her real worth hadn’t been comprehended
By those who saw the bars of the cryptogram
As mere lines
Of varying width (moods),
Wholly existing amidst 
The conventional, yet strangely unattainable  
Black and white
That was her, and her alone,
But had now morphed
As distinct colours of a 
Different kind of light into
The runaway face of a lone victor.
petuniawhiskey Nov 2013
the day came,
I put my laces back
in my shoes.

Let freedom reign,
give me just
3 clues.

True blue, darling.
You sang these songs
4 years ago.

Why I waited until
now to listen,
is beyond me,
myself, and I.

The day came,
the day went.
Days spent with
rubber-bands
over mt asics.

The circle-spiral
across my chest,
in the shape of a
beautiful
orange sun.

Shower-shoes
for my water
quest.
Barcode number read
7097277340-8769
laser-band,
laser-tag,
all of my clothes
in a brown paper bag.

Just when I thought I
sipped liquid gold,
I remember there is
velcro shoes that
strap tighter
around my feet.

I skipped, I galloped,
I stripped, I tripped.

I'm sorry Mom & Dad,
will you forgive your
baby girl?
imehsahdehahs Oct 2020
You can cut all the nine heads

cameras are her eyes  

painted black and white lines

multi-face lime light

instafucked Queen

Was **** forever

in silver Screen

I only had one ear left for me

couldn't hear hera screams

couldn't hear your screams

Silver Scream

(Silver screen)

Silver Scream

(silver screen)


if I can't buy you

my gun will do

if I can't buy you

my gun will do

barbie barcode

Barbie barcode

yeah, my gun will do

*****,you ain't no lilith

swallow or spit the seed of filth

paradise is lost, but flowers of evil

left for us to retreat


yeeeeeeeahhhhhh


I will play the devil

Talk Tall Like Typhon

I'm everything that I want

I'm everything that I said

For I'm nothing but thought

Deep in the Dark

  never- world of the wrong side

of your brain

I can't do no wrong for I don't know it

I gave it all up just to grow it

I can't hold anymore


No No No



I'm the typhon


I'm everything that I want

(Forever)

I'm everything that I want

(Forever)

I'm everything that I want

(Forever)

I'm everything that I want

(Forever)

I'm everything that I want

(Forever)

I'm everything that I want

(Forever)

I'm everything that I want

(Forever)

I'm everything that I want

(Forever)

I'm everything that I want
I'm the Typhon
Lauren Yates Jul 2012
I.
All I know exists between clenched fists.
My hands didn’t come this way.
Everything foreign rubs them raw,
no matter how gentle.
This is how my body looks out for me.

There used to be sand here.
I held on so tight, I lost it.
Now, the sand dwells with two-way mirrors
and fish who need fresh air.

II.
Most days, I’m best left alone.
The handy-woman loosens my screws,
and thinks she’s always right.

On the days I’m a fish out of water,
she sees me as a crying baby.

She must be hungry, and the airplane comes again.
She’s still crying, and the airplane comes again.
I am not enough, and the airplane comes again.

When my belly swells,
she paints a barcode on my arm,
tries to exchange me for store credit.

III.
All that matters escapes me.
I’ve learned more from the vandals
shooting blow darts at the moon
than I ever did out west.

Most days, I doubt that I’m still breathing.
My lungs are worms’ meat.
My lungs don’t know if they need water or air.
Thank God for shallow ends and seltzer.

IV.
These IOUs are legs
my brain can’t recognize.
I clamp them at the knees;
I pray for gangrene.

When the doctors drain the infection,
they say, this can’t be what you want.

This is how I look out for my body.
I’m still searching for a saw.
Inspired by Rachel McKibbens' Writing Exercise #78.
Carlo C Gomez Feb 2020
The Women's Temperance League
tried to abolish themselves
but like always they failed

so they learned instead
to crash neighborhood parties
with the grace of gazelles on Ritalin

now they have colorful plastic
bowls and cups
with fancy closing tops

matching barcode tattoos
on their wrists
that say "priceless"

and some assurance
that their vulvas
are "normal"

after gazing at them
with compact mirror in one hand
shot of ***** in the other
Kirsty Feb 2015
we were born with death written on our arms.
you
wear it like a tattoo;
i wear it like a barcode that
god
stuck on the ******.
cashier yells
                         “NEXT PLEASE”
& you try to get laser treatment.

smoking in graveyards the clouds sang.
we
fell in slow pieces.
nobody will recognise the tune.
god
has left us a sign,
sign reads:
                  GONE FISHIN’
i hold you crying in his hallway.






you started wearing death on your sleeve.
i
need a new skin;
you need to get a better shirt.
god
is not a dressmaker
but instead
                       a lover -
unbuttoning the words on my headstone.

   PSA: Poetic Service Announcement - written 05/01/2017
                                              
   Please feel free to share with established and future
   authors on FB.
********************­***
.
One of the toughest decisions, an author has to make, is the selection of a reliable publisher. With more than six months of personal experience, I have painfully learned that PBP (Published By Parables, headed by John Jeffries) is NOT one of them. For decades, I’ve listened to ministers tell me that “Mediocrity is not a hallmark of Christianity; it’s halfway between success and failure.”; and yet, the shoddy workmanship of transforming my manuscript into a usable PDF (that would produce the book) failed to even reach the level of mediocrity. I extend an apology to those, to whom a premature recommendation of PBP was given by me. Don’t repeat my mistake! Please. You’ll be grateful and thankful for heeding my warning.
.
This company engages in deceptive practices and doesn’t operate with complete transparency. For example, it advertises that it will publish your book for free. While this is technically true, you will have to make an initial payment of $185; $35.00 for the copyright and the $150.00 for the ISBN-Barcode. In addition, John will subtlety lecture you, regarding why he won’t cover this expense and why you should.
.
Before I began writing poetry seriously, I acquired 30 years of IT experience and 20 years of desktop publishing experience; so I understand conceptual ideas, the need for high standards and the importance of having a solid, but flexible framework. In addition, I was taught the criticality of working with a mindset of excellence- a topic taught by most ministers. One example is Titus 2:7-9, which states: In all things shewing thyself a pattern of good works: in doctrine shewing uncorruptness, gravity, sincerity, sound speech, that cannot be condemned; that he that is of the contrary part may be ashamed, having no evil thing to say of you.
.
Computer templates, used in today’s bookmaking operations, are not meant to be static; rather they set an initial foundation from which work can begin. Given the style of my writing, PBP had agreed to modify the template being used, as to minimize the impact of my having to change my writing to accommodate the shortcomings of said template. I understood that this would possibly extend the timeframe to get my book constructed. I was okay with this and never rushed PBP in its efforts.
.
With each iteration of manuscript changes, new random and unexpected problems began to appear; so I was blamed my project’s lack of progress, since the errors arose from PBP’s ongoing modification of my manuscript’s template. It’s unimportant to realize that ALL modifications to the template were made solely by PBP. PBP never reviewed an updated PDF before sending it to me; therefore, it became my responsibility to identify issues that resulted from the technical incompetence of PBP. So what if titles lost their boldface attribute, while the text of poems were inadvertently made boldface. So what if poems were displayed to the left of the left-hand margin, pages numbers were lost, or randomly displayed in boldface, or that page headers would be missing or cut in half- it was my fault for desiring a template customized to meet my personal need. So what if the page numbers were corrupted within my index of poems, from PBP inserting new pages into the beginning of my manuscript. So what if I was concerned that the index’s format was changed from the way I desired. Stuff happens and I need not concern myself over such details. Apparently I was delusional in thinking that I was responsible for the vision of my new book.
.
And if that wasn’t enough fun, PBP would ignore some of my changes, such as inserting the occasional blank line, as well as making unauthorized modifications that included adding, replacing and deleting PBP graphics. One graphic I was fond of, PBP removed because its intended purpose is meant for “internal company use only”. Guess I’m just an unruly rebel for wanting to use it. Since he originally inserted it into my PDF, using it must have been initially okay. This incident is one of many that shows John’s lack of attention to detail.
.
In addition, I was unreasonable for wanting my legal name displayed properly (so I can differentiate myself from the other “Joe Breunigs”; no offense guys!) That correction alone took John SIX MONTHS to address; my book’s title also created angst for PBP, since it contained an ellipsis. Twice I e-mailed instructions on how to insert one because he misplaced/lost the first correspondence. And so I was unreasonable once more, since his option of using three consecutive periods was deemed unacceptable by me. An ellipsis is my favorite punctuation mark; if he couldn’t handle my previous instructions, he could have COPIED IT DIRECTLY FROM MY MANUSCRIPT.
.
John constantly complained about updating the template and the slow iterative process of making my book. At one point, John made the remark of how he had published two other titles during the timeframe my book was being worked on. As Christians, we get in trouble when we compare ourselves to others, since everyone’s journey is unique. So it’s clear that PBP’s intent was to manipulate me into feeling bad, regarding PBP’s lack of progress. Supposedly I was out of line for suggesting that he remember James 1:2-3, which teaches us: My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. In discussions with PBP, I indicated that I have 15 complete and unpublished manuscripts of poetry. In addition, I stated that we would have the most hiccups during the creation of my first PBP, since we had no experience working together. Nor did PBP understand that this process of creating a personalized template for my work would save time during the construction of future titles- both for me and other poets. Should I apologize for forward thinking?
.
Given the problems I was forced to face, doubt became evident in my selection of PBP; so I decided to ask more questions, to step up due diligence on my end; NONE of my follow-up questions were ANSWERED. I had the audacity to ask for a contract, how much I could expect to earn per copy sold, why PBP didn’t request my SSN and other questions of concern. I wanted to understand how to stop PBP from making unwanted changes or ignoring the ones I desired. One would like to think that a publisher would be appreciative of a proactive author, seeing that I have one title already. At one point, I had the false hope that my book could be completed by December 2016, but not in time for Christmas. Now we’re into May 2017.
.
Nor was I ever allowed to see the prepared book cover- FOR MY BOOK! I was informed that I couldn’t be allowed to see it because the image MAY need to be re-sized. IMO, this is a ridiculous excuse. Since I never saw the cover, I was unable to either review it (for mistakes) or critique it. Supposedly the cover was made three months earlier; since I’ve not seen it, I must assume that PBP is not lying to me. And it was crazy of me to imagine using the graphic (OF MY BOOK) as a marketing tool to create excitement and interest in my latest title or possibly generate pre-order sales. When a publisher intentional decides to play games like this, does anyone else see this issue as a “Red Flag”?
.
Caught between his impatience, unrepentant attitude and ability to be easily offended, John refused to apologize for his technical ineptitude and unwillingness to press forward; instead he chose to hide behind his spiritual authority (which I do not fall under); he essentially demanded that only I had the onus of forgiving him. After a weak and failed attempt to bully me into accepting substandard work, he later announced that he was quitting my project. In a phony letter of apology, John even implied that I needed to accept responsibility for the failure to get this book made, since I HAD CONTACTED PBP. In addition, he reiterated that PBP is a ministry; if that’s true, then why didn’t he demonstrate patience, perseverance and humility towards me or ensure quality of effort… as unto The Lord? Should PBP want to dispute my account, John should be reminded that I’ve retained a copy of various PDF iterations of my unmade book with the aforementioned issues.
.
I took no pleasure in composing this PSA, but felt that it was my duty, to share my poor experience in dealing with a difficult publisher, to my writing communities. This notification could have been prevented, if John had repented, swallowed his pride and pushed forward to get my books made. Instead he chose to become an irrelevant part of my journey as an author, which is sad, since he acknowledged that I have a gift for writing poetry. IMHO, we the writing community, must be willing to stand up to publishers, since the responsibility (of the vision for our books) lies with us. We should be able to freely ask questions and have templates modified to suit the individuality of our books. Let your voice and concerns be heard. Please share this message with the writers you personally know. We should not be forced to accept shoddy work! John can be reached on FB at https://www.facebook.com/john.jeffries.33; the PBP website can be found by searching its full name. Please feel free to share this PSA on John’s page, so he understand the ramifications of his actions.
.
Village life city style.

Going shopping,
once the necessity has now become the must have fashion accessory,faces adorned with quorn burgers,hamburgers,lamburgers,mouths full of soda pop and this they call the weekend shop
it's enough to make you stop and think and blink your eyes in disbelief,good grief we're heading to obesity and nothing ever comes for free,we're paying through the nose for, goodness knows what's in the meat,is it pork within those pies or horseflesh? they just tell us lies and still we stuff our faces 'til we've had enough,eaten our fill,one day I'm sure we'll all explode,
I bet the greedy ******* will even try to barcode that.
JL Mar 2012
Tired
She rubs her red eyes
Creaking down the old wooden stairs
Barefoot

Looking for a new purchase
a better  foothold
She never seemed to scan
The right barcode

So she sits like an indian
Thinking thick smoke signal fantasies
Dreaming about the good old days
Days that drunken lips taste like honey
The smell of ***** like roses
You seemed to have your signals crossed


You smell like home to me







I smell like cigarettes and mexican beer






You fell asleep face down in the bathtub
And woke up singing your favorite song

The room is empty
And the door clangs open and shut
When they feed you three times a day

You begin to write on the walls
And tattoo yourself

A poke here wont hurt


I always save my pills under my tongue
...I keep them
And one night when its pouring rain outside
When the thunder and lightning play dice against your bedroom window


Youll swallow them all at once


Without a single drink of water


I hope you wake up next to me again
Because I've been worried
Where have you been?

You can go make friends with the gods on Olympus
Walk barefoot through the promise land
Cross the sea
Cross the river
Across town
Have some dinner

Just come back to me when you've had all your fun
Lay in our bed thats warmed by the sun

— The End —