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Umi Apr 2018
Whereabout of the heart, where might it be ?
When fury is a feeling which engages your senses, your mind and your soul in a raging outburst of negativity expressed in adrenaline,
Everything seems to be one sided, a loop which only fuels your anger with thoughts of unpleasant, disturbing annoyances, making it harder
Harder to resist, until alike a super nova, you explode in a viscious rampage with knows no escape, so, where is the heart ? Where is it?
A tantrum might be encouraged to grow in size if it's revenge you seek, desire, want to live for to make it expire, with violent passion,
Mercy or compassion, forgiveness and simpathy may be forgotten, within the depths of your burning soul, lit ablaze solely by hatred,
You may lose your mind, oh beauty of a living existence, becoming alike a lily of murderous intent, spiteful, yet elegant and wonderful,
A shivering star, ready to take its opponent down with itself while destroying what used to be so precious, unique and simply sweet,
Blemishing the unconscious without thinking of patience or the chance to calm this nuclear meltdown, unfolding in tragedy for us,
The pure light of your praying palms might help in this regard,
Because his remembrance is what makes furious hearts become calm.

~ Umi
Andrew T Jul 2016
Backstory: A Memoir

For Vicki

By AT

5

While I was downstairs, folding laundry in the basement, I heard my sister Vicki stomping upstairs to the room that used to be mine, slamming the door, and locking it shut.

I was a ****** older brother. And Vicki learned that action from me.
Then, I heard more footsteps. Louder stomping. And I knew, with certainty, it was Mom coming after her.

I'm not an omniscient narrator, so I don't know what Vicki does when the door is locked.

But I do imagine she is reading. Vicki’s been using her Kindle that Mom got her for Christmas. She adores Gillian Flynn and Suzanne Collins. She's starting to get into Philip Pullman which is swagger. I remember reading His Dark Materials when I was in elementary school.

The Golden Compass ***** you into that world, like during June when you're hitting a bowl for the first time and you're 17, late at night on Bethany beach with your childhood best friend, and the surf is curling against your toes, and the smoke is trailing away from the cherry, and you begin to realize that life isn't all about living in NOVA forever, because the world is more than NOVA, because life is bigger than this hole, that to some people believe is whole, and that's fine, that's fine because many of our parents came here from other small towns, and they wanted to do what we wanted to do, which is to pack up our stuff into the trunk of our presumably Asian branded car, and drive, drive, until they reach a destination that doesn't remind them of the good memories and the bad memories, until memory is mixed in with nostalgia, and nostalgia is mixed in with the past.

Maybe I'm dwelling on backstory, maybe you don't need to hear the backstory.

But I think you do.

Life isn't an eternity,
what I'm telling you is already known, known since there was a spider crawling up the staircase and your dad took the heel of his black dress shoe and dug his heel into that bug. And maybe I'm buggin’, but that bugged me, and now I'm trying to be healthier eating carrots like Bugs. Kale, red onions, and quinoa, as well. Because I want to be there for my sister, Vicki my sister. All we got is a wrapped up box made from God, Mohammad, and Buddha.

Soon, I heard Vicki’s door handle being cranked down and up, up and down.

Mom raised her voice from a quiet storm to a deafening concerto.  
Then, there was silence, followed by a door slamming shut.

Welcome to our life.
Later on that night, Vicki sped out of our cul-de-sac in her silver Honda Accord—a gift from Mom to keep her rooted in Nova—and even from the front porch of my house, I felt a distance from her that was deep and immovable.

I sank deeper into my lawn chair and lit a jack, but instead of inhaling like I usually did, I held it out in front of me and watched the smoke billow out from the cherry.

I always smoked jacks when she was not there, because I didn’t want her to see me knowingly do this to myself, even as I was making huge changes to my life. It’s the one vice I have left, and it’s terrible for me, but I don’t know if she understands that I know both things. Maybe instead of caring about what jacks do to my body, I should care about what she thinks about what I’m doing to myself. This should be obvious to me, but sometimes things aren’t that obvious.

4

As we grew older Vicki and I forged a dialogue, an understanding. She confided in me and I confided in her, sharing secrets, details about our lives that were personal and private, as if we were two CIA agents working together to defeat a totalitarian government—our tiger mom.

But seriously our mom was and still is swagger as ****—rocks Michael Kors and flannel Pajama pants (If I told you that last article of clothing she'd probably pinch my cheek and call me a chipmunk. Don't worry I'm fine with a moderation of self-deprecation).

The other day Mom talked to me about Vicki and explained that she was upset and irritated with Vicki because of her attitude. I thought that was interesting, because I used to have the same exact attitude when I was my sister’s age and I got away with a lot more ****, being that I'm a guy and the first-born. I understood why she would shut the front door, exit our red brick bungalow, and speed away in her Honda Accord, going towards Clarendon, or Adams Morgan, spending her time with her extensive circle of friends on the weekdays and weekends.

Because being inside our house, life could get suffocating and depressing.
Our Grandparents live with us. Grandpa had a stroke and is trying to recover. Grandma has Alzheimer’s and agitates my mom for rides to a Vietnamese Church. Besides the caretakers, Mom, Dad, Vicki, and I are the only ones taking care of my grandparents.

Mom told me that she believes that Vicki uses the house as a hotel. Mom didn't remind me of a landlord, and I believe that Vicki doesn’t see her as that either.

I didn't believe Vicki was doing anything necessarily wrong.

She had her own life.

I had my own life.

Dad had his own life.

Mom had her own life.

I understood why she wanted to go out and party and hang out with her friends. Maybe she was like me when I was 21 and perceived living at home as a prison, wanting to have autonomy and freedom from Mom because she was attempting to make me conform to her controlled system with restraints. But as Vicki and I both grow older I believe that we see Mom not as an authority figure; but, just as Mom.

Vicky and Mom clash and clash and clash with each other, more than the Archer Queens of The Hero Troops clash with the witches of the Dark Elixir Troops.

They act like they were from different clans, but they're both on the same side in reality.

The apple does not fall far from the tree. And in this case the tree wants to hang onto the apple on the tip of its rough, and yet leafy bough.
Because the tree is rooted in experience and has been around for much longer than the apple.

But the apple is looking for more water than the tree can give it. So the apple dreams about a summer rain-shower that will give it a chance to have its own experience. A similar, but different one, to the darker apple that hangs from a higher bough, an apple that has been spoiled from having too much sun and water.

3

During Winter Break, Vicki scored me tickets to a game between the Wizards and the Bucks. From court side to the nosebleeds, the audience at the Verizon Center was chanting in cacophony and in tempo. Wall was injured. But Gortat crashed the boards, Nene' drained mid-range shots, and Beal drove up the lane like Ginsberg reading Howl.

Vicki and I both tried to talk to each other as much as we could; unfortunately, Voldemort—my ex-gf—sat in between us and was gossiping about the latest scoop with the Kardashians.

Nevertheless, Vicki and I still managed to drink and have an outstanding time. But I should have given her more attention and spent less time on my smartphone. I was spending bread on Papa John's Pizza and chain-smoking jacks during half-time, and even when there were time outs. When I would come back and sink into my plastic chair, I'd feel bloated and dizzy.
And I'd look over at Vicki and either she was talking to Voldemort, or typing away on her smartphone. I didn't mind it at the time, but now I wished I had been less of a concessions barbarian/used-car salesman chain-smoker, and more of an older brother. I should have asked her about her day and her friends and her interests.

But I didn't.

Because I was so concerned about indulging in my vices like eating slices of pepperoni pizza and drinking overpriced beer. There's nothing wrong with pizza or beer. But as we all know the old saying goes, everything is about moderation.

Vicki scrunched her nose and squinted her eyes when I would lean forward and try to maneuver around Voldemort, trying to talk to her about the game and the players in it. I imagine that when she smelled the cigarette smoke leaking away from my lips, that she believed I was inconsiderate and not self-aware.

After the game, we went to a bar across the street from the Verizon Center, and bought mixed drinks. Voldemort was D.D., so Vicki and I drank until our Asian faces got redder than women and men who go up on stage for public speaking for the first time.

I remember this older Asian guy was trying to hit on her.
I took in short breaths. Inhaled. Exhaled. I cracked my shoulder blades to push my chest forward.  

And then, I patted him on the back and grinned. The Asian guy got the message. You don’t **** with the bodyguard.

Vicki had and still has a great boyfriend named Matt.

I guided Vicki back to our table and laughed about the awkward situation with her.

The Asian guy craned his head toward me and did a short wave. And then he bought us coronas. Either, you’re still hitting on my sister, or it’s a kind gesture. She and I better not get... Or am I overthinking it?

But seriously, I wished I had been the one to spend money on her first—she had bought the first round of drinks. Because at the time, my job was challenging and low-paying. Or maybe I just wasn't being frugal enough and partying way too often.

I still remember the picture that a cool rando took of us, drinking the Coronas, and how I was happy to be a part of her life again. Our eyes were so Asian. I had my lanky arm around her small shoulders, like a proud Father. She had her cheek propped up by her fist, her smile, gigantic and beaming, as though she had just won Wimbledon for the first time.
I was wearing a white and blue Oxford shirt that she had gotten me for Christmas with a D.C. Rising hat. She had on a cotton scarf that resembles a tan striped tail of a powerful cat.

My face was chubby from the pizza. Her face was just right like the one house in Goldilocks. The limes in the Coronas were sitting just below the throat of the bottles, like old memories resurfacing the brain, to make the self recall, to make the self remember how to treat his family.
Or maybe this is just a brand new Corona ad geared towards the rising second-generation Asian American demographic? I'm playing around.
But end of commercial break.

Vicki pats me on the back and we clink bottles together. Voldemort is lurking in the background, as if she's about to photobomb the next picture. Sometimes I don't know if there's going to be a next picture.
Either we live in these moments, or make memories of them with our phones. And like sheep following an untrustworthy shepherd, we went back to our phones. She made emails and texts. I went on twitter in search of the latest news story.

2

Before Vicki and I opened each other's presents, I remember I blew up at Mom and Dad, and criticized everyone in the family room including Vicki. It was over something stupid and trivial, but it was also something that made me feel insecure and small. I was the black sheep and she was the sheep-dog.

I screamed. Vicki took in a deep breath and looked away from my glare, looked away to a spot on the hardwood floor that was filled with a fine blanket of dust and lint. I chattered. She rubbed her fingers around the lens of her black camera and shook her head in a manner that suggested annoyance and disappointment. I scoffed. She set the camera down on the coffee table and pressed the flat of her hand against her cheek, and glanced out the window into the backyard that was blanketed with slush and snow.
Drops of snow were plunging from the branches of the evergreen trees and plopping onto the patches of the ground, plunging, as though they were little toddlers cannonballing off of a high-dive.

She turned back and looked at me straight in the eye, so straight I thought she was searching for the answer to my own stupidity.

I cleared my throat and said, “I need a breath of fresh air.”

Vicki bit her bottom lip, sat down, and put her arms on her knees, a deep, contemplative look appearing on her face.

I stormed into the narrow hallway, slammed the front door back against its rusty hinges, and trundled down my front driveway, the cold from the ice and the snow dampening the soles of my tarnished boots. I lit a jack at the far end of the cul-de-sac and counted to ten. I watched the cigarette smoke rise, as the ashes fell on the snow, blemishing its purity and calmness. I inhaled. I exhaled. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach that Vicki knew I was having a jack to reduce my stress, stress that I had cause all by myself. I ground the jack against the snowy concrete, feeling the cold begin to numb my fingers that were shaking from the nicotine, shaking from the winter that had wrapped itself around me and my sister.

When I came back inside of the house, I told Mom and Dad I was being an idiot and that I didn’t mean to be such an *******. I turned to Vicki and put my hand on her shoulder, squeezed it, and smiled weakly, telling her that I didn’t mean to upset her.

She nodded and said, “It’s okay bro.”

But her soft and icy tone made me feel skeptical; she didn’t believe me. I didn’t know if I believed my apology. Minutes later, I gave my present to her.

Her face brightened up with a smile. It was a gradual and cautious smile, a little too gradual and a little too cautious. She hugged me tightly, as though my earlier outburst hadn’t happened.

She opened the bank envelope and inside was a fat stack of cleanly, pressed bills that totaled a hundred. Being an arrogant, noob car salesman at the time, I thought it was going to be a pretty clever present. I could have given her a Benjamin, but I thought this would make her happier, because it showed my creative side in a different form.

I remember seeing her spread the dollar bills out, as if the bills were a Japanese Paper fan. Vicki told me not to post the picture I had taken on insta or Facebook. I smiled faintly and nodded, stuffing my smartphone back into my sweatpants pocket. I understood what she wanted, and I listened to her, respecting her wishes. But I also wasn't sure if she was embarrassed and ashamed of me. And maybe I was overthinking it. But again, maybe I wasn’t overthinking it. Social Media, whether we like it or not, is a part of life. And in that moment, I actually wanted social media to display this a single story in our lives. I wanted to show people that Vicki was the most important person—besides my parents—in my life. Because I was so concerned with how people viewed me and because I lacked confidence, lacked security, and lacked respect for myself

Vicki's present to me was a sleek and blue tie, a box set of mini colognes, and refreezable-ice-cubes. I think she called it the car salesperson kit. But I knew and still know she was trying to turn me into an honest and non-sketchy car salesman. And you know what, I was genuine, but I also couldn't retain any information about the cars features—to reiterate my Grandma has Alzheimer's, my mom writes down constant notes to remember everything, and I forget my journal almost every time I leave the house.

After Christmas I wore the tie to work a few times, but the mini colognes and ice-cubes never got used by me. They stayed in the trunk of my Toyota Avalon. I should have used the colognes and the ice-cubes, but I was too careless, too self-involved, and too ungrateful.

1

Back in the 90’s, when we were around 3 and 6 years old, Vicki and I shared the same room on the far left end of the hallway in our house. She had a small bed, and I had a bigger bed, obviously, because at 6 foot 1, I was a genetic freak for a Vietnamese guy. I read Harry Potter and Redwall like crazy growing up, and I would try to invent my own stories to entertain her. Every night she would listen to me tell my yarn, and it made me feel that my voice was significant and strong, even though many times I felt my voice was weak and soft, lacking in inflection, or intonation.

I had a speech impediment and I had to take classes at Canterbury Woods to fix my perceived problem. I wanted to fit in, blend in, and have friends.
Back then Vicki was not only my sister, but my best friend. She used to have short, black bangs; chubby cheeks, and a dot-sized nose—don't worry she didn't get ****** into the grocery tabloids and get rhinoplasty. She wore her red pajamas with a tank top over it, so she looked like a mini-red ranger, and her slippers
Dedicated to my baby sister, love you kid!
GraciexJones Nov 2018
Diving into my insecurities,
Replaying the same mistakes
Unfolding memories from the deepest crease,
Mesmerizing the unforgettable words
Reminiscing over faint situations
Tears trembling down my face,
A wave of nerves tip toe down my spine,

Tearing my mind into pieces
Thoughts are scattering around,
Blemishing the good thoughts
Peeling away the flesh of my sanity,
Revealing layers of my anxiety

Losing sight of what’s right
A misunderstanding of my identity,
A willingness to be distant
From the people I love dearly
Ishita Mar 2015
How beautiful is the life
With all its vibrant colours
The colours which define its creativity
Life is colour,colour is life
Shades of translucent rainbow
Casting his grace on embellished life
The allured tints of the moring sun
Captivating the vivacity in people's life
How abhorent the nature be
Enchained,restricted without the colours
Blemishing the ornamentation garnished from heaven
But suddenly the grandness breathed for its life
As colours started to play an illusive vibe
Awakening the sluggishness in one's life
Unfolding the colours honesty with ecstasy.
My 2nd poem which was published in a magazine.
When a
Remorseful convert,
Astray that had gone far
Blemishing his /her soul
With Sin's tar,
Puts a broken heart
On the altar,
By far,
S/he could enjoy
God's grace
Or even
Win a higher place
In His face
Than a devotee,
Taking pride
In his/her deed,
Who oft mount
A spiritual war
Devil's way to bar.

It is with
A broken heart
The culprit
Hanged by the right
Of Jesus Christ
Got to Eden's garden First
Though Adam,Moses,
Abraham, Job
And others were
Top on the short list.

It is by the virtue of
Their determination
Sinful ways to quit
Zacchaeus and
Mary Magdalene
Were seen fit
Than the hypocrite!

It is this line
From genesis
To revelation
God labours to bring
To our attention
So with conviction
Let us pray for
Our soul's resurrection.

Of course, no doubt,
Our devotion could buttress
Our chance to enjoy
His mercifulness!//


                      Who the Devil is Alem Hailu

He is an emerging  Ethiopian poet,translator and author of all literary genres in the medium of English language.
He is penetrating the global book market stamping a foot print on the firmament of literature.
If you peruse his work you could note ,with poems of local touch and national sentiment like 'Come to Ethiopia' and 'Great Tiding' , he is playing an ambassadorial role in several international poetry blogs from Australia to America .His poems have proved trending.
He has achieved global presence via
www.poetrypoem.com
www.hellopoetry.com
www.poemhunter.com
www­.allpoetry.com
www.writeoutloud.com
www.novelcollective.com / Australia
www.poemabout.com
His books  and posters showcasing the knack of an Ethiopian author are cracking open publishers from Europe to America(www.united -p.c.eu ) (Austria),www.lulu.com(America), www.trafford .com America)
From the publisher  or amazon and the like, you can order for his books aiming at entertaining,edifying,style-showing,seeking an outlet to east African voice,finding a niche to Ethiopian authors in the global literary scene  and teaching the English language.
Specially schools,colleges,universities and libraries, people running stationer,book malls and cultural unites of different embassies could benefit from making his works available on their shelf.

To foreigners his work could serve as a window story.
His works include

1) In the Vortex of Passion's Wind

A poetic Drama on the Wrong Turns of life *** and AIDS
It is also meant to serve a language teaching material and Higher Learning Institutions and Preparatory Schools
A useful input  for performing artists
By Alem Hailu G/Kristos

ISBN:978-3-7103-2109-2
www.united- p.c.eu
Austria

2)A Boon of Classic Poems

(Translation in Amharic)
A collection of selected  classic  poem
By Alem Hailu G/Kristos
ISBN:978-1-312-94998-0
www.lulu.com,America

3) A Vent to Stifled Emotion
A debut collection of poems
By Alem Hailu
ISBN:978-1-4907-5675-2(sc)
978-1-4907-5674-5(e)
www.Traffor­dpublishing.com
America
4) The Truth and Dawn
and Other  palatable Short Stories
of both mix: Art for art's sake and life's sake
By Alem Hailu G/Kristos
IBN 978-1-329-43915-390000
www.lulu.com
America

5)Pupil's poem(Full Color)

Rhyming poems for pupils and learners of the language
Systematically selected words and expressions to upgrade the language proficiency of students.
Inspires pupils to read as well as write poems.
Lulu.com ,America
ISBN:5800111090472

6)Hope from the Debris of hopelessness

A Novel with the theme “Disability is not inability!”
By UnitedP.C is in the pipeline
ISBN:
After I heard a preaching about soul's resurrection.I t drove home the repentant have a better chance to paradise
Left Foot Poet Aug 2017
~For Eleanor~

<•>
don't
believe in fate or luck,
never won no lottery,
even the next word of
every poem word, product of hard earned
stolen lust affairs

me desiring,
of acquiring
the infamy
of saying it & making you believe it,
all new (ha!)
while reusing worn-out words,
stolen from unknown predecessors,
lovers and prophets

but then, read you,
a-believing now that only princesses
may have the magic powers to do,
to sense, the incongruence,
of the most ordinary lives,
the ways we-hide-in-our-underbellies,
the faces of our elven selves,
that we are desperate to see anew,
without the blemishing scars of experience
writing it morning fresh from dream filled sleep

so my sinner summer sun dying requests
you to be reminded:
even a prince, only has just so many
golden opportunities,
so quit stalling,
shoot out your next from your
handgun mind

yup, no luck, good fate, for me
held in abeyance for
the next first date, maybe

as I write  
Katy Perry
is ear-worming in my head,
ignite the light!

do you see us
awaiting in the shadows
for the definition of your words?

<•>


^divergent communication:
pattern in which the sender gives conflicting messages on verbal and nonverbal levels and the listener does not know which message to accept.

read https://hellopoetry.com/eleanor-prince/
~
How did a dead man in Reno
come to be a field of ink
in the Martian salt flats-?

It only took a whisper

An addicted civilian
driving the metaphor machine
the last man to voluntarily fly
asleep and well hidden
writing about his life
without survival techniques

Autopsy report says
he slipped at the hand rail
blemishing his planet
in riding time's escalator
a longing to see the stars up close
and give them new names
it's the future grim repasts
of cullen shores
from a cancelled earth

That silently floating figure
was a human all along

~
Emelia Ruth Jan 2015
The jagged pebbles poked and dimpled my body
as I sat on the shore of Aleutian Alaska.
Each rock was dusted with patches of grass like an old man’s tangled toupee…
Not that the epic beauty of nature should be compared to
something so artificial and ugly.
The air was so cold and crisp that its fresh purity burned my peeling nose.
I am not a Native Alaskan.
I feel like an alien spectator, blemishing this astounding autonomous habitat…
But I am trying not to disturb the locals.
I haven’t seen any grizzlies yet, which maybe I should be happy about.
I wouldn’t want to be anyone’s meal-

What was that?
A puff.
An exhale.
A lingering ghost waltzed atop the water and faded.
Further down the bank I saw more dancing vapors.
Is that what it looks like when a whale comes up for air?
I have never seen how their breath shoots up the water like that.
The mist is like a ballroom dance class
swaying and skirting about the glossy, smooth surface.

Speechless…


Do you remember in elementary school how you knew everything about animals?
What was who and who was where and why?
I forgot a lot.
I forgot that whales are mammals, needing air just as I do.
Obviously, they can hold their breath longer… But I still try to hold on.
I guess those fun facts that you collected as a kid fade as you grow older.
All those little things get whisked away,
And waltz until they dissipate in the wind.
Against all reluctances,
We inhale.
We exhale.
And we forget some things along the way.
Emanuel Martinez May 2011
Oceans of blue wash my tears away
Pain, torture only implores
Voids inside tearing up the seams
For emptiness has insufficient space

Languishing screams in their silence
Deafening to thoughts they threaten to be
Sadness, endless strokes blemishing the soul

Tie my dreams and drag them down till they drown
Heart halt in your meandering, not another blow
Love my wicked, don’t torment my youth

This face is becoming hallow and grave
All I want is stillness and peace, but alas it cannot be
Time is stealing everything from me
RC Feb 2015
To this day I smoke cigarettes in their names
a collection of men
admittedly women
that after settling too long
sit somewhere between memories and strain.
I don't burden myself with the weight of their names
though a few of their impressions have become deepening stains
bruising, blemishing the favorite spots on my brain.
Earliest versions of the story have found personal inches on my skin
before I grew up I learned to let it leak in
sluicing through veins
burning the moments of where I had been
in attempts to remind myself of what remains.
Madison McEnroe Apr 2015
Dear Mr. Big bully,
I wish I could understand fully,
The depth of your rage,
But i'm stuck inside your cage,
Blackened, blue,
Torn to pieces by you.

Dear Mr. Big bully,
Do you think of all you’ve done?
The amount of wars that never had to be won?
Blemishing people’s sanity.
Ruining Humanity.

Dear Mr. Big bully,
My depression has come,
Does that mean you’re done?
Will you stop the belittling?
Hitting and name-calling?
Will you stop the whispers?
Will you stop picking on the lispers?
The “Mr.’s”?


Dear Mr. Big bully
You’ve corrupted my mind,
Telling I have nothing left to find,
Among this avenue of life,
So I bought myself a knife.
No, not for you,
Just say goodbye to Sue.

Dear Mr. Big Bully
Today my life was counted among many,
The Headline read,
“The Death of Jenny”
I joined,
Four-thousand-four-hundred and twenty.


Dear Mr. Big Bully,
Do you still think it’s funny?
This is based upon suicide due to bullying. And the Number of lives lost because of the inability of the human race to be excepting
ujala Aug 2014
The world surrounds the in’s and out’s,
the truth in the authentic locus,
Millions of people move the scouts,
in order to increase their focus.
The corrupt world,
induces to follow the tradition,
Creaming the beneficial fold,
making the submerging the verification.
Contempting the placid,
that none other would do,
Blemishing the bracket,
elaborating the déjà vu.
Alteration is necessary,
and a proximate change we need,
Admitting the weary,
was a very doltish deed.
Trepidation should be removed,
the coercion it had built,
Destroying its aged bedrock,
and the selfish guilt.
Resuming the rejuvenate change,
the mutate we devoir,
Establishing the new welkin,
and the heavens we desire.
Commemorating the new holy,
we partage our obligations,
Rectifying our contemporary folly,
by deciphering our bygone praxis.
on the field of battle
blood soaked youth lay
their once sparkling eyes
extinguished in gunshot spray

men who gave command
wear no blemishing mark
yet these dreadful deeds
defy description so stark

war is wretchedly vivid
numerous are history's columns
mankind learns few lessons
war is ever solemn
Pedro Garcia Jan 2015
It's times like these I wish you could see me work so I could stare at that smile that I love so dearly, but it's alright that you can't be here since I know you're busy and besides, I can still envision your image so clearly.
It started with that smile, those gleaming teeth which sought to keep me infatuated for a while.  
Then it moved on to your eyes, the twinkling sapphire treasures which cannot escape my visage despite so many tries.
Slowly it became your face, with every glance it was quite apparent that your looks were blessed with every charm and grace.
My brush quickly moved onto your gracious golden locks of hair, untamed yet silky and unbelievably fair.
Next it came to include your neck, coupled with your head it would be a wondrous bust perfectly chiseled and shined to be free of any blemishing speck .
Outlining your ******* and your shoulders, you'd be mistaken for the fair Helen whose famed looks were fought over between Greek and Troy soldiers.
Brushing in your stomach and hips, the beauty of your image arouses and I cannot stop the involuntary quiver of my lips.
Strokes which create in my composition your arms and your hands, there's an unveiling of beauty like winds uncovering a pyramid hidden in the sands.
I pay special attention to drawing in your well- formed thighs, your slender legs, capturing the natural attractiveness of your delicate feet; myself as the artist witnessing the creation of a masterpiece ready to be unveiled to the world, and for myself reserved the very best seat.
A deep breath, a last stroke, a moment to regain composure.
My heart a drum, my hands made of cement, my eyes shutters that won't open, and my mind not ready for closure.
The thought of you is unbearable, I'm in a panic and I dip my brush in the darkest shade of red.
Enlightened by your love yet scarred by your memory, doting upon all the questions unanswered and the words I should have said.
Nights like these, where my body is limp and my head becomes heavy with fear and dread.
I slash this blood red across you with tears in my eyes and a delirium to submit to.
It's times like these I wish you weren't dead.
Poetic T Feb 2018
Though the sentence may end,
                       the ink carries on.
The cartridge seems vacant of
                                    wanton metaphors.

Exhibiting reflections on  soiled paper cups,
                wanting to be filled
with drinkable dictations of
                              what is spelt out in stains.

But I spilt that void long ago,
                          blemishing my shirt
with what meant to be drank upon.
        A decolouration of meaning read differently.
Jamie L Cantore Jul 2016
OF all who applaud thy existence as the morningtide-
all to whom their truancy is the night-
the blemishing all in all from the afterworld, the holy star-
of all who, wailing, bless thee constantly for the tunnel light-
for Life. ah! above all, Life. for the awakening of
deeply concealed Faith in verity-in virtue- in Mankind.
of all who they are, on Misery's unholy cradle, lying down to wither  -have suddenly come to Light-
at thy soft words spoken now --- a prelude to their eulogy ere the ending of this thing Life.
Ffion Jones May 2018
The worshipers gather in droves
at her feet like a clamouring congregation,
Desperate to begin the ceremony of the
giving and taking of love;
A burning love which only she can radiate.

Shamelessly they lie there,
Basking in her seductive warmth
Blessed at her selflessness while they
selfishly adorn themselves with her splendour,
Taking and taking until she cannot bear it anymore.

Soon she scorns them to the point where her
red ire is clear for all to see,
Blemishing the golden happiness she bestows upon them -
A burning love which only she can turn to pain.
Zane Sep 2021
i can feel the weight of the world pulling me down
all around with its blemishing frowns
how i once saw life so full of glee
now it's naught but fragile mystery

all these lives crossing endlessly
will see things that i'll never see
who can say how my end will be
i just pray that it's mercilessly
Dr Peter Lim Mar 2018
It would not be for want of words
that I regret but my reckless superfluidity
I pour them out in mindless torrents
betraying their trust and blemishing their purity--

hushed,  silent, solemn, reverential
I should learn to be in this my journey
perchance the Grand Council of Words some day
would grant me a second chance to write poetry.
Daisy Ashcroft Nov 2019
Does the moon know?
That people seek it for support,
For hope and companionship?

Does it know that to us,
It's much more than just a ball of
Rock floating in darkness?
It has existed for billions of years,
Orbiting us ever loyally
Always the faithful servant dragged around by gravity
And yet it does not know
That the people who trampled on its skin
Blemishing its once-spotless soil,
The people who pierced its flesh with a flag
Of arrogance,
Vanity
And conceit,
Look to it for guidance in their selfish,
Mediocre lives.

But now imagine if it did know.

If it had feelings like the ones we pride ourselves in having - or not having.
Would it look to us for assurance too?
Feeling proud that it can reach such a deep level of 'understanding'?

Would it love our mysterious glow, created not by
The Sun, but by our artificial light and rivers of blood?
Would it feel pressure, always having to help us?

Or would it soak up our love
Delighting in our mostly undivided attention
Secretly knowing that even though it is..
Small,
Uninhabitable,
Lonely,
It will live longer than us
And the technology that was never meant to be in the Universe's gift that is Earth in the first place?
What do you guys believe it would think if it knew? Why do we look up to it so much?Why is it so assuring to us that it's always up there?
Poetic T Apr 2017
Hillsides of evergreen where the breath of nature
weaved within the branches, kissing every leaf
they bowed in sensibility of this moving.

Below magnetic in its roaming, barks of trees
caressing its need to scratch needing of relief.
The pack awaiting for there brother to join again.

Playful in there roughing up of others, but never
blemishing a brothers flesh, always looking out
for each the alpha always feeing first respect earned.

When the seasons linger between lucid hues of
decay and the white washing of scenery they,
Playful times are less, hunger is there regress.

White lingers as tears of life's wine saturates,
the need of the many feeding on the fallen
motions of there prey, living for another day.
Michael Marchese Nov 2020
Obsess over stressing less
Under duress
Like necrosis relentlessly
Rotting my flesh
When appearances
Have to impress
And express
The exact opposite
Of the unhappiness
Ugliness
Beast within
An abomination
Imperfection abounds
On his blemishing skin
Seldom seen
But still beauty  
Bemoans self-esteem
Low beholding
Its movie’s
Illusory dream
yin Jan 2020
once i was within a dream forgotten
once only i saw myself with eyes bright
not unlike spring blooms and
a smile glowing like starbursts
blemishing the midnight sky
only once i saw myself so whole
so uncaring so at peace and only
in a memory so long ago it feels
like a lie deception
like watching myself watch secretly
another person reminisce
Dr Peter Lim Jul 2020
For the unreachable
I don't aspire
there's a limit
to what I desire

that which is
too much
will lose
its essential touch

add no more
to the rose in perfect blooming
even if you were a painter
or poet-- that would be blemishing

its beauty-- humility bids
a clear boundary I should draw
my distance I should know how to keep
not to venture for what's beyond my door.

— The End —