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Claire Waters Dec 2013
i
you say i am honestly not the same person
i say one day i woke up honest
and i do not know how to undo experience
my own eyes and ears and nose and mouth
cannot be undone at the moment
how do you do it?
push that pressure to the back of your mind
like that
how do you all manage to laugh with a straight face
at things that you know aren't really funny
i can't fathom it. where you go
when you are stomping and ripping
and ****** and jeering
and laughing and running
it's exhausting to watch you

ii
i apologize if it doesn't make sense
that i can't play along
but playing along
doesn't make sense
i could never win a grammy
with this tight lipped smile
laughing at the expense of others
makes me feel more like a paparazzi
placating insecurities for currency
leeching off the vulnerability
you may not think i'm smart but
i am smart enough to know this is not 'normal'
and there is nothing wrong with staring at you in the rearview
and saying "i wish that was really sarcasm"
i'll tell you the truth
and you don't have to like it
and you don't have to like me
and i don't have to like you
because if there's one thing i know about myself
it's that i don't dislike anybody
until they show off their callousness
hoping it's the right party trick
to gain respect

iii
we watch comedy tv, and you are worried
by the way my spine cracks
when i let out a uncontrollable laugh
dragging on, beginning to spill, and as i try to quell it
my whole body shakes with the pressure
of it bubbling inside of me
you feel all of this beside of me
a small volcano with a bent back
quaking absorbed by pillows and flowers and cushions
not quite right for you
wondering why i couldn't laugh like this earlier
when we were not alone
everyone is looking for something more porous
more willing to let in effortlessly
and absorb tirelessly
that can simply laugh like a stream bubbles
and let go of the undercurrent
yet we are sharp and uneven and course like logs
and the weight of our actions carries much further
being shunted downstream by tides of gravity
every intention runs it's course
every intention speaks volumes
if you feel that in your core
every day you will uncontrollably think of how
every intention defines the quality of the laughter
stuck in someone else's head
and you will save it for things that are funny
Lin Cava Jun 2013
Renewal

Mother walked into the Sea this morning.
Harkened to the song of Neptune;
the wail of the sirens.
She was called to beauty.

Mother walked into the Sea this morning,
but she did not walk out.
Embraced by the precious,
the irreplaceable, the untouched
she is surrounded now in a balance of beauty.

She travelled long and far
leaving land behind
as a lost memory
a forgotten effort

Relieved forever of the weight
of the fight, of the blight
She has left us to our own devices.
I cannot even cry, "Why?"
For I am aware.

Mother walked into the Sea this morning.
She moved past vast deserts in the Oceans,
fled beyond sea lanes and gulf streams
shedding tears to match the salt of the sea
she cried for the lost coral reefs

She cried for the loss of life
She cried until there were no more tears
...and still she swam to where now she rests.
There is no more she will do.
There is no more she can fix.

She floats past green fronds,
free floating in the brine
feels the mermaids purses hiding there
so few, and less will survive.

Along the way, through dead seas
she sees the remains
of man's most vile waste
drums upon drums, rusted through
once filled with half-life,
spent fission elements
left to decay, left to destroy
left to be forgotten
but Mother, cannot forgive
the damage is done.

She lingers in a place of beauty
beyond words, no language can portray
as she hides among the coral, watches
the colorful fish, tropical life
and cries once more for the death
the destruction, mankind's blight
wreaked upon these special places...

Her heart is breaking
for if the Seas die
the Earth dies.
Better to let the Blight of Man
be left to destroy himself.

She shall gather the gifts of the Earth
Secret them far away from harm
to become the seeds of a new beginning.

It has happened before
Millions of years ago
But an instant to Mother
And after, the Earth came back
full in its beauty
perfect in its balance

Let her sister, Nature, take Her toll upon
the blight of man,
the pestilence of saturation.
There are too many, much too many
for Mother to support.  

She must rest now.  Save what little can be saved.
For the time when she must rise again.
A time when the wind will carry her breath
to  breathe life into what remains.
And she shall rise again.

Renewal.  Mother will rise once more.
And for a while, there will be no callousness
no blight of forgotten crimes
against the lifeblood that sustains her;
Mother Earth.  Only she shall remember
that once, there was greatness in Mankind...

Mother walked into the Sea this morning.
Harkened to the song of Neptune;
the wail of the sirens.
She was called to beauty.

Mother walked into the Sea this morning,
but she did not walk out.

Lin Cava
20-June-2013

As of June 19, 2013 the world's human population is estimated to be 7.093 billion by the United States Census Bureau, and over 7 billion by the United Nations.  Most contemporary estimates for the carrying capacity of the Earth under existing conditions (which is the ability of earth to sustain the population of man) are between 4 billion and 16 billion. World Population Organization has stated that the growth of human populations now exceeds the ability of the earth to sustain them.

*****************­*
Depending on which estimate is used, human overpopulation may or may not have already occurred.  Nevertheless, the rapid recent increase in human population is causing some concern. The population is expected to reach between 8 and 10.5 billion between the year 2040 and 2050. In May 2011, the United Nations increased the medium variant projections to 9.3 billion for 2050 and 10.1 billion for 2100.

Something has to give.  There will be disease, and increased loss of life by natural occurrences because of sheer volume of population alone.  There will be genocide, and hidden agenda's carried out by the powerful and wealthy which will remain secret.  We are so capable of saving many, but just as capable of biological destruction.  Culling of the herds.  It will not be fiction, just as "1984" is no longer fiction...



In the terrain of a barren forest
In the forlorn of a lost ship
In the godforsaken-ness of fate
In the inhospitality of people

Either sides of the dunes

There walks Majnun, in rugged clothes
There sings Meera, in wedded bliss
Both - immersed in the dreams of LOVEz

Both delicate, both innocent
Both pure, both true
Both fresh - like budding blooms

Both living in harmony with Nature
Waiting for Krishna's and Layla's arrival
Knowing their BELOVEDz will come

Both - still intoxicated in LOVE
Half closed, drowsy eyes,
Blurred vision, drunkard steps
They walk, dance, sing and fall
Awaiting their LOVERz call

Don't show complete callousness
Do not wake these LOVERz at all
From their disconsolate state of being
Let a dust-storm or lash of rain
Shake their heart and being
As if Krishna and Layla
Have shaken their soul awake

Startled at the LOVER'z touch
Meera and Majnun look around,
Astonished & glancing everywhere
Searching to find their LOVERz
"Where is Krishna? Where is Layla?"
They run wild - deliriously mad

Until they find a mirage & a silhouette
In the blank space of air around them

There they rest - sit and talk
They laugh and chat in LOVE

Only we realize and know that
There is no one around them

Yet only they can see their LOVERz
Only they can feel their BELOVEDz
To play a colorful game of LOVE

Let Krishna give Meera a kiss
Let Meera twirl one more round
Let Layla peck Majnun cheeks
Let Majnun sing one more new ballad

Thus till date they are remembered
As tragedy folk-lore's LOVE
Our tragic LOVERz-BELOVEDz
Our Meera-Majnun

All these happens on
Either sides of the dunes





Ovi-Odiete Oct 2016
A SOCIETY WRITTEN IN FLAMES; SHROUDED IN DARKNESS

The tears flows in an endless way
Bemoaning the days of yore
Watching with eyes that sparks red,
Sunken and beaten from the tragedies of yore
Helpless and wishing for a relentless call
As tragedy hits her most sensitive part,
Bemoaning the tides,
All her days of glory,
Now a shadowy story


She had been ***** by her very own,
The children she yearned and bled for,
The men she fed and trained,
Where her rain fell full and vast, to soothe their hearts
Where she gave it all, and smiled, hoping that someday, they will realize her sacrifices and sleepless nights,
Her nights of terror and horrors
Where she stood in the midst of the stormy eerie night, shrouded in darkness


It was her ******* they ****** and clunged to,
It was her arms that shielded them from the shadows of the dark,
But when they grew and flew,
She waited still
Praying and wishing they would remember the days of yore


Then the dark hour rolled away,
And when morning came, it was harrowing.
It was harrowing how she waited abandoned and dejected,
As her sons and daughters peaked at the sky,
Trampling her down,
Relegating and belittling her
Painful it were, as she cried from the agonies of the days of yore,
Where she laid all her virtues down,
Giving it all to see her children smile,


It is this dejection that has brought her to tears,
It is this wickedness of a child to a mother, that has made her weep endlessly
It is this tragedy that have swallowed her glory,
As her children keeps flying above huddles, in peace and harmony,
Forgetting her,
It is this callousness, that pushed them to sapping her virtues and enriching themselves with it thereon


What is worse than a child abandoning his mother?
It is this penchant, that drives them
It is the love of greed,
It is the seed of corruption,
It is not an inherited trait,
It is a despicable decision
Like a monstrous shadow,
Twirling the back of the night.
It is the fire that burns within their heart,
The fire to ****, steal and destroy
To take what she can never give again
To live,
To live big at the expenses of others sorrow and agony
It is this evil that has perused Nigeria and has rendered her a roaming wretch
And now tragedy looms,
It booms and blooms,

A society written in flames
Who will save MOTHER NIGERIA?


Ovi Odiete©* 2016, Oct. 31
All rights reserved

Note
Children here signifies the evil politicians and men that has sapped our country dry with their evil penchant
A society written in flames
Alexander  K  Opicho
(Eldoret,Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)


Dear Beloved potential victim to my foul intentions,
How are you today and your family, I covet it most
I am a citizen of Sudan but currently staying in Burkina Faso.
My name is Miss Ngara Deng,24years old daughter of the richest Sudanese
My wealth in prankstery is spilling over the tumbler of truth,

We originated from Sudan the confused kingdom of penchant tribalism
I got your E-mail address/profile through my justifiable slyness
in the internet search from your country of prank victims,
In the national chamber of commercial fraudulence,
When I was searching for a good and trust worthy person
Who will be my friend  even I con him to the apex of my efforts,

And I believe that it is better we get to know each other
Better and trust each other so that I determine your degree of folly
Because I believe any good relationship depends on your callousness
Will only last if it is built on truth and real love of I frauding you,
My father Dr. Dominic Dim who gave birth to me
A universal queen of fraud an pranking
He was the former Minister for SPLA  contraband Affairs
And Special Adviser to President Salva Kiir in regard to tribalism,
As the main virtue of South Sudan.

My father Dr. Dominic Dim Deng, blessed be his name
And my mother including other top Military officers
And top government officials in this game of ours,
Had been on board when the plane crashed
On Friday May 02, 2008. May be Museven Knows
After the burial of my father, all pranks were there,
My uncles conspired and sold my father’s properties
To a Chinese expatriate and live nothing for me.

One faithful morning, gave a twist of fate;
I opened my father’s briefcase and found out the false documents,
Which he have deposited huge amount of fake money in one bank
In Burkina Faso with my name as the next of kin in prankster,
I traveled to Burkina Faso to withdraw the money
so that I can start a better prank life and take care of wiles.


On my arrival, full in arms as you know am a liar
The Branch manager of the Bank, a Burkinabe
Whom I met in person and desire he was my prey,
Told me that my father’s instruction, vicious ones
To the bank was the money is released to me ,
Only when I am married or present a ****** s trustee
Who will help me and invest the money conning guys overseas
I have chosen to contact you after my prayers and ploys.
I believe that you will not betray my trust.

But rather take me as your own sister in crime
Though you may wonder why I am so soon revealing myself
to you without knowing you to be good in pranking,
Well, I will say that my mind of a thief convinced me
That you are the true foolish person to steal from.

More so, I will like to disclose much to your folly
if you can help me to cheat the police  by hiding in your country
Because my uncle has threatened to counter prank me,
The amount is $8.4 Million and I have confirmed
From the bank in Burkina Faso that am only lying,
You will also help me to place the money in heavenly treasure
In a more profitable swashbuckling venture in your Country
However, you will help by recommending to me
A nice University in your country from when I get a diploma
In thieving and frauding,
So that I can complete my studies in this marketable field


it is my intention to dupe you properly
As you get trapped in my rackets;
The balance shall be my capital
In your illusive establishment
As soon as I receive your interest in helping me,
I will put things into action immediately
In the light of the above of the nonsense
I shall appreciate an urgent message from you
Indicating your ability not to sense a lie
and willingness to handle this transaction in foolish sincerity.

Please do keep this only to yourself as it is fortunes fool
You should contact with my prank email ID below;
missngarad@gmail.com
Sincerely yours,
Miss Ngara DENG
we can use poetry to fight cyber con men
Light...
Walking blindly through the dark, hearing no sound. I reach out for you, grasping for your warmth. You’re nowhere to be found. I’m blind and I’m lost. Lost within the dark woods of your soul. I want your warmth, the touch of your hands. The feel of your lips against mine. Yet, I feel nothing. Nothing but the coldness of where you used to be. The coldness of alone. Alone and shivering with the anticipation of finding you once more. But, for now I wander through these woods, fighting the darkness and whatever may lurk within. I will find you, search and fight until my heart beats no more. I sit thinking of you, thinking of the morbid array of thoughts that swim through that beautifully twisted mind of yours. You appeal to me. The darkness of your soul delights me. I love the anticipation of the next sick and twisted thing that will slip through those beautiful lips of yours. The attraction to you consumes my every being. Consumes me for everything I ever have or ever will be.

Darkness...
I savor the flavor of a thousand delights found in one single moment when your twisted smile lights the shadow of time to the core of emotion, leaving me more complete with every instance, and a little less myself each time we part, anticipating every next moment together in madness, lunacy, and contentment.

Light...
I bask in the ambiance of your soul. I bathe in the light of your eyes. I devour each word that falls from your lips. Every moment spent together I die some inside knowing that you’ll never be mine. I’ll never be the one to feel the warmth of your lips, the tenderness in your kisses. Never feel the ecstasy in which I so desire. You shall never be mine, yet the torment of being around you draws me in ever so much more. I may never have you to call my own, so I will satisfy my own needs by looking into your eyes, by hopelessly clinging to every word. Loving someone who never will be mine will be my death. A death I so willingly accept.

Darkness...
So we collide and coincide on opposite plateaus of the same parallel, a product of storms never raged, battles never won, and pleasures never quenched, holding moments passed in equal satisfaction as those that may have been, as the imploding loss of unknowing melds the two into one final entity, more powerful than the feeling of gratitude for all of the powers that be for giving us the one thing no one could ever replace……the penetrating ecstasy orbiting about this world of our own creation, to revel in every moment together, and suffer every second torn apart, in time, and in mind.

Light...
We wander through the dark, hand in hand. I feel your supple lips brush my cheek. I turn to look into your eyes once more when I realize you have changed. Your soul has become dark. Your eyes have become cold. I’m afraid of you now. Afraid of your touch, of your love. I try to turn from you, to get away, but you hold on tight. Your grasp on my hand sends shivers up my spine. I need to be free of you, to get away from you to save my own soul from being lost into the new darkness which has become you.

Darkness...
I’m lost within the shadows cast by every inner demon, unraveling their chaotic waltz to the symphony of my pain. I turn to whisper my deepest secret, my lips trailing the ghosts of my heart’s desire upon your cheek, and realize it can never come to pass, turning before the very words can die upon breath now sustaining me in suffocation. I grasp your hand more tightly, magnifying the tremors in my own, as the fear of losing myself without you intensifies. I need to be free of you, if only to save you from the darkness now contaminating the waters of my soul, for how can you be my heart’s salvation if it means the damnation of your own soul as you descend with me into oblivion? How can I whisper when shouts of madness waver upon my tongue? How can I speak my heart and my fear when such a morbid chorus drowns out my sanest of thought, turning my emotions into a chaotic lesson in confusion and eminent danger? I see my future, far more clearly than my past, for every memory made without you is one I would give my soul to forget, knowing I would die in vain, for the memories we favor the least haunt us more vividly than the happiest of moments could ever dare imagine. The choice between fading alone in unending torment and dying with you by my side, suffering in silence as I scream absurdities upon the dying wind is simple. Living without you is my eternal hell. So easy to fall in love. So hard to stand alone.

Light...
Only always is what you told me. Only always will you be there. Only always will you care. Only always will you only have eyes for me. Only always do you lie. Only always do you cause me pain. Only always do you inflict such dire emotions in me that I can no longer bare. Only always will I die by your touch. Only always, my love.

Darkness...
Only always will I be so calm in my insanity. Only you will always be the one to draw the best from me. Only always will I dare to drown in nothingness compared to every thought you only always bring to mind, each time I stare into the void that lies between what’s real and only memory of things that only always never come to pass between the glass refraction, only always cutting swiftly to the bone, condemning me to hold on to words that only always go unspoken. Only always will I be broken, bleeding upon the foundations of souls forever seeking completion, only always incomplete. Only always alone. Everything I've tried to find inside a dark and weary world, I find in your eyes, within your words, within your soul. The interwoven feelings of contentment and deprivation cradle me in confliction as I hold opposing worlds within my grasp, watching as they collide in euphoric tragedy, spawning chaos amidst a field of hauntingly menacing desires, blooming like undead roses from the devastation that my life once was, empowering loss with hope and regret, and the knowledge that, even though never to be mine own, such a thing, such a feeling, does, indeed, exist within a world so heartless and corrupt. Mine to behold, but never mine to hold for more than just a picture of what life can be...perfectly imperfect, and still possible for me.

Light...
You slowly caress my soul with the diseases on your tongue. How can one fornicate such passion within the heart of a beast like me?

Darkness...
You stir within me the echo of desire, reverberating ironically throughout my every thought, as the deepest part of me quivers with satisfaction.

Light...
A satisfaction I so desperately yearn for. The very essence of you makes me quiver in this ironic state of bliss. Your body has become a metaphor of emphasis for me.

Darkness...
I remain intoxicated, imbibing wine flowing from the beauty of your soul, captivated by the fire tearing through my veins like molten glass with every beat of my tormented heart, counting every second spent dreaming in vain into its unrightful place upon the skin of eternity.

Light...
With nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, your words haunt my soul; haunt every fiber of my being. Drown me in a flood of emotion that I cannot seem to waiver. Your words flow through my body as the disease which is you spreads to my core.

Darkness...
The very thought of the object of my idolatry imprisons me in thin air, levitating over balance and corruption, wrestling two demons at once: that which damns me with morality, and that which delivers me with the anticipation of every mistake, crying to be born, to thrive, to be obeyed. Take my hand. Set my heart free. Burn with me in depthless passion, void of conscience, bursting at the seams with long suffered lust come to fruition, calming every shrieking moan of absolution, losing our souls as we have lost our minds, with violent denial, giving way to complete and total gratification of knowing that although we suffer so well amidst all that drags us further into hell fire, we suffer willingly in the greedy embrace of mutual condemnation.

Light...
        The words that flow from your fingertips flow through me and reverberate through my mind into my soul. My soul which you are such a dire part of. You who lifts me up when I am within inches of knocking upon Hell’s hollow doors. You are the one who comforts me when I am mere inches away from taking my last breath. I will love you until the end of time. As you contemplate if I truly care, now that my heart pulsates on this flaccid plane of existence, and that you will always be one of the many reasons my heart will continue to thump its many beats.  I reach for you, finding nothing but the coldness of where you were. This atrocity of life haunts me, ridiculing me for ever having loved you. The beast within me screams your name to no avail. I’m lost and alone without you near. Time has lost its meaning. I’m trapped in a void of nothingness. Wondering ever so much when you are going to set me free. Why won’t you set me free? Crying amongst the pain you cannot feel. Tears disintegrate into the harshness of the rain. The validity of your words go once more unspoken. Hence once again the darkness has become the only reality in which I thrive. I mustn't relive the days amongst your lies. The lies you have spit at me with such callousness. The unspoken realm of my reality has become so clear, so vivid. I must be rid of you. Must free my soul from the snare you've captured me within. Yet the fire within your eyes has compelled me once more. For why must I fall into the depths of you?

Darkness...
        Yet pain I do feel, for every time that I draw close, you drift further away even as your heart reaches for me. It is the rain itself that disintegrates into the harshness of the tears I shed in longing for the day when you understand that my words are pure and not some greedy guise, for the darkness wherein you dwell is but the shadow that your doubt casts upon your weary heart. If it had all been a lie, then why do the memories that so torment you ring so true, more savagely with every second that passes in which we are not drowning in each others arms? It be not untruth, but frustration that empowers my words, for the very thought of life without you is only the precursor to my living hell. The reality of all is that you are my life and you are my death, sustaining me and suffocating in equal measure, imbibing my heart with your very essence, and rending it asunder with every tear you shed in unbelief. If you must be rid of me, then do so quickly, and have pity upon my tormented soul, for I wish not for you to fall into the depths of my sorrow, but to fall with me as I fall into the undying beauty that is you.
This was an ongoing creatively descriptive collaboration between myself and a fellow writer and one of my dearest and best friends, Jonnie Shelly Steffens Back, about an angel of Darkness and an angel of Light falling in love, and the conflict of differences and misunderstandings in doubt heeding such an ironic union. My character was Darkness, and hers, Light. I acquired her permission to post this, otherwise, it would not be. It may still have more to flow, and there may very well be a play written from this at one point when we are able to work together again.
c quirino Nov 2010
and then i am left,
at the upmarket stretch of sand
straddling this most unremarkable state,
quietly flicking my thumb against the blue lighter.

but it's too windy, at the water's edge
in an unremarkable state,
where no one recognizes me,
that bagpipes start playing

the wind acts against my fingers,
they are too delicate, too feminine,
no callousness ever affixed to these,
my ten silken extremities.
© Constante Quirino
Yenson Sep 2018
Listen to the slivering  paths of the Autumn breeze
The coming velvety skies drenched in ink reflecting silver stars
Wave goodbyes to the elusive flawed brown stone with pensive eyes
A heart will gasp years ahead for callousness past shown now in tears
Remember those golden sunsets for now woeful days are never azure
Watery eyes and wrinkled mask lament a time you could have shared
A King's ransom at your feet twined with an  honest heart assured

Hear the whisperings of the mockingbirds and muted cold choruses
Rainbow starlights betrays pots of gold hidden never to be found
Maidens dance retro and the harpist pluck for painters with brushes
By sunkissed shores blends of contrasts joyous in customary ponds
Smiles pure from honeyed caves same when as waxed spears plunges
Save me a place in the delights of Troy and tell Helen to send a sound
Bring me home to peace and love, rescue me from lions in golden cages




Copyright@LaurenceA.19thSept2018Allrightsreserved.
Francie Lynch Aug 2014
After all, we're not savages. We're English.
And the English are the best at everything.
                                                     ­       (Piggy)
The hovelled huts
Near  school house ditches
Hardly sheltered starving children.
Emaciated, pale and ghastly,
Three million lost.
Exports defined them,
Imports denied them,
The world was told their hunger
Was the wrath of God.
For seven hundred years
Untolled Rachels wept;
Twice as long
As Jews were kept
Enslaved in pagan Egypt.
This was Ireland,
Not Auschwitz.

Beneath the banners of
Labour and Freedom,
Toiled the innocents.
Eyes burning from hot peppers,
Bodies weak and wrecked
From boarding;
Skin separated by flogging
Thousands of Cypriots.

Over soup and sandwiches
A demarcation's drawn,
So Hindus now face Muslims
Seeking their new homes.
Three million displaced
During lunch,
Brain salad served up on a hunch
By a line
Drawn by one man.
This wasn't Treblinka,
But Pakistan.

Millions fenced in labour camps
In what they called  
The Dark Continent.
The torture was horrendous,
With random executions.
Think the worse, you're still not there,
Think ravenous dogs and mutilation,
**** and human degradation.
Eyes gouged out, ears cut off,
This was Kenya,
Not Warsaw.

Sir Winston wore
His crocodile shoes,
Feigning the blues,
While blocking friendly supplies;
Letting three million hungry die.
His callousness was cruelly matched
When delivering Mahatma's epithet:
“Has Gandhi not starved yet?”
This was Bengal,
Not Dachau.

Their ****** count adds up.
Their new policy was errant:
Imprison all the peasants.
It was racist to the Nth degree,
A million desperate detainees
To exile when they're freed.
But half died on their knees
In Malay,
Not Buchenwald.


The Boer War and Apartheid
Were blessed with Royal Assent.
In Amritsar Brits opened fire,
To cut down Innocents.

This isn't just in history,
It's happened all too recently.

Argentina's watery graves
Gurgle from The Belgrano,
Sunk by Royal torpedoes
For a rock of sheep.
Such was the work
Of a band of brothers,
To fly their flag
Over Falkland waters?

There's no denying
The atrocities
Of her maternal
Ferocities.
The Spinners
Wrapped their glories
Furled in Jack's war stories.
The winners
Have detoured their crimes,
Enjoin us denouncing
**** times;
But the sun hasn't set
On Empire fires:
China, India, Kenya, Aden,
Ireland, Africa,
All invaded.
All degraded.
Imperialism is not benign,
The legacy lives on
In Palestine.

Under pretence
Of flag and king,
The English are
Best at everything
.
I removed this earlier in deference to some who found it offensive. I've re-considered.
A callous self deprecating emotion
springs to life inside me.
The recognition that I can be swept
aside, buried beneath the all
encompassing societal rug
berates me.
A callousness sparks inside me.
A hunger for the flammable,
the all too metaphorical
combustible agents flutter
just outside my incendiary
thoughts, my actions.
So for only a fleeting moment
the intensity of our conglomerate
fire may be perceived, and
paralyze the darkness.

This callousness has caused
imperfections, markings, scrapings,
defacing the beautiful vehicle
I fly upon.
Carried by its wings, its divine
focus there isn't a second to
notice.
Resting only to refuel,
the weight, the burden are too
much for one spirit to
hold.

So where's the love?!
It too is found in this irreplaceable
callousness. A fondled idea writhing,
weeping like an infant, whose
mother can be seen, but not
touched.
Restraint illicits too much
confusion.
Bottled hypothesis' shaken
until the contents are so wound
up they beg for release.
To explode, exposing their teeth.
An earthquake rips through
their vehicle, making new
formations where old ones
have long since eroded.

A callousness festers in me,
for inaction is the norm,
and this weathered vehicle
has been thinking, not doing for
too long.
So with each new word,
a step forward, a destination set,
a redefining of the unrefined.
Broadsky Feb 2022
dust has collected in this once filled room of my mine

it's floated and settled on the last few things left behind

spellbind

windchime

now i can say this empty space is all mine


8 years of pacing this room

8 years of shouting at the moon

8 years of sleeping til noon

just to ignore the fact I meant nothing to you


so much anger has made home in my bones

the way you used to speak about me felt like being casted with stones

I used to try and drown out your tasteless, colorless tone

you type "she's dramatic" in a text on your phone


I expected this feeling of indifference to feel free with no stop lights

yet this empty space

and this empty mind

coincide

with what I've known this whole time


that all too familiar feeling of restlessness has come to an end

and even though there are still memories burned into my head

I don't believe I have anything else left unsaid


I envied your callousness

I despised your self-righteousness

and i ached at your lack of consequence

what caught your eye was never my elegance

but rather my callowness


as the ice in your drink swirls and melts

and you're blaming me besides everyone else

as your anger starts to swell

just remember it was me who wasn't treated well


we can keep our heads down while our eyes meet on the street

while you pretend I don't resemble meadowsweet

and that we never danced in my kitchen with me on your feet

but

to be honest

in the end

we were always offbeat

when you chose to secede

I found you to not be an aesthete

if you could agree

to be without me


this story is begging to no longer be told

so maybe I'll revisit this time of my life when I've seen how my life will unfold

til then my king is fallen on this chess board

my feelings are buried far past the sea's shore

and I've finally

stopped keeping score
Edward Coles Dec 2015
Ground zero again. Ghost ties to old moods
now that you have found happiness,
or at least the line of best fit.
Lips interlocked incessantly on the astral beach,
over the September permafrost
where I held up the chains of my cell
just long enough to kiss you.

Chambers of blue blood, of blue feathers
interspersed in the lining of our pockets:
I felt I could fly when I finally met you.
Heard the callousness, the human history of suffering,
when the chains overwhelmed,
when I fell back to the ground.

You were my fortune in the wishing well,
but now our tongues are rearranged,
all passions now platitudes,
another name or witness to wish me well.
Ground zero again. The foundations exposed
on what might have been love.

Monoliths of steel and scorched earth.
Broken vessels sail by in the night, influence of wine;
words are tempered but the intent remains.
You remain. Extinguished shadow in the skyline,
phantom limb of loving arms. I cannot find the stars.
I cannot reach out to anyone in the space you left behind.
C
So should a seed
does grow must leave
its home:

Earthly walls,
empty shells
he covers himself with.

In nakedness
must Adam gather up
sewn up leaves.

While surrendering
into the dark
and foreboding earth:

Miles wide and miles deep.
Alone, into the sweltering
and blistering heat of the sun.

Armed with but
a leaf for Mercy!
cries his clothelessness to the wind.

So must a flood pass
once, twice, over and endure
in callousness and tenderness.

(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / August 5, 2014 - Bulacan)
I am a caricature of humanity
- a picture of its seething bowels.

I am its sloshing,
quivering, yet wholly earnest intestines
made manifest - I am,
the inside-out freak show
we all crave
dancing before your eyes
oh, and what a feast of eloquent gizzards you witness!

Feast your eyes, my friends!

I am what you wish you weren't
yet know you could be
as you yearn to be as free as me
all your shame and volatile desires
all your sadness and madness
all your dreamful bliss
I profess it daily
in an ode to you, my fathers and mothers,
in an ode of love for absurdity,
I am the cartoon character made free of its stage
the puppet made free of its strings
the loon, made free of his rage,
a benign insanity,
not capable of harming a germ.

Don't pass by
by all means
gawk
it's my pleasure that you do so
breathe my callousness in
shudder at the thought of being so exposed
having all your human nature bleeding there
like my crying eyes
as I tell you of all my past loves
and how I still love them
yes
even the meatloaf
still eating it
that baby towel
still snuggling it
that algebra homework?
Still completing it
and there's a missing grade somewhere
in a dusty book in a warehouse
imagine
how I'd creep in,
decades from now,
hours before my death,
open that tattered grade-book,
pen myself an A+ for my immaculately completed work
- fist pump the air!
Take that Ms. Cramsworth! I may not have beaten algebra,
but I beat you!

Die right there
in that warehouse
amongst all the other freaks.
There's Bigfoot, who slipped accidentally one day, got impaled by a branch, then called 911 - he had no health insurance, that's all she wrote. Bigfoot's just another disenfranchised-American statistic now. Bigfoot's last painful hours were spent taking selfies with holocaust deniers and people fashioning MAGA hats - some with rifles for effect - it was then Bigfoot regretted voting for Trump and only then. You were just rudely-awakened from having sympathy for Bigfoot, weren't you? Poor baby. Save our souls.
Then there are the cryogenically frozen heads of the Illuminati we're all worried about - they're trying to sleep until humanity can make them superhuman bodies.
A flying saucer that was alien in so far that it was actually a time-machine from our distant future that brought people back to warn us of an all-consuming genocidal calamity, but they spoke a language we didn't understand, had genetically surpassed us, and therefore were unrecognizable to our labs, and we took their highly-advanced babbling as acts of war when they tried to **** the Illuminati heads - killed the so-called aliens then, so tragic - ate their gizzards for research. Now we're all doomed to die... Their bodies were lain next to the Illuminati heads. Centuries later, the same couple, now janitors from the freak warehouse, see themselves, find the time-machine-saucer, and start the time-loop again... inadvertently causing the end of humanity because they messed up the timeline.

... and that's exactly why I never did my homework.
Humanity is doomed to die in some distant future caused by the doom-couple and so I refused to put a brick in the wall. I refused because all I was was a...nother brick in the wall and I hated it.

Because as fascinating as I am.
As absurd as I am.
As much of a human marvel as I am.
I don't matter. I matter the least.

And so that's why I had to die in that off-the-books warehouse,
full of priceless and unmentionable artifacts.
They wouldn't ever put me there, but I had to die with the legends.
I had to give my life meaning somehow.
If I can't live a legend, I will die one... by the way the janitors put me in the trash out back anyway.
I end up in an east-Asian landfill somewhere, kicked in the face by barefoot sweatshop kids who just so happened to make the sneakers on my very feet. Isn't that poetic justice? What a send-off!

And so isn't that all a satisfying and cathartic end,
giving closure to the most absurd poem,
with the most random details,
wasn't that fun?
Just have to bust out a mad-****** like this every once in a while.
Seems an important part of my writing process and growth, LOL.

Enjoy!
-DEW

Find me on Twitter @TheGreatWilson where I write most often these days :)
Come say hi!
Zabava Jan 2014
there were things
i had never imagined
i would understand
be; experience
and gape bemusedly at my
unbelieving ambiguous eyes
in the unnoticeably clear
smiling mirror of the bathroom.

things such as
being a creep

the creep whose wandering eye
wanders just a wee bit longer.
A microsecond length of
the not-understood, the suspicious,the dubious
the curious sometimes,
but really mostly nefarious lunatic, perhaps...?

the creep whose teeth clench into a
smile.
the lips parting
but only
Mendaciously...perhaps..?

the creep who peers into me
like a god
scouring my precious little secrets
my hurt points,
my loci of scandalous innocuous things
meant to be inside of me
for my self.

the creep who infringes
on my warm bed
of Safety.

***
*******
erectile dysfunction
sneer
******
*****
me
father
mother
weirdity
all the complexes

that make you Feel

like a spider
whose web is shattered with
but an uncaring finger.

power.
Uncaring Callousness

terrifying in it's brutality
intent ,
and things beyond .

the creep peers in.

but i was only trying
to make friends.
a bit too hard , perhaps...?

oh the creeps of the world
i understand thy plight
the fact that you never understand
what you are
doing
but only after it has passed
that the black hole irises
of un-understanding visages
come to you
to inform you
that you have been
a creep, the Creep.
a bit too Freudian ,I see.
now reads to me like an abuser's ode to self.
but i really was just talking about harmless staring.
Sofia Aug 2010
there is a great yearning to draw closer to my God
yet theres been so much bombarding me constantly that i turn to instead of You
meaningless, everything, all these things are meaningless
not one is more worthy of my time than You
i let these thoughts sink in, penetrate me to the bone and depths of my soul
but it doesn't seem to make a difference
i am drowning in my own ocean that i have jumped into at my will
Grace, i am so undeserving
you're there, you care
but how could you give a forty-third, or maybe two hundred and-seventh chance to a lonely, desolate girl so desperately trying to repent and release from the sins of her life
for these wounds remain deep and i know the error of my ways
but i can't let go of the world thats pulling me in
down, down into the pit, the smooth rolling path to darkness
and i succumb
"Delight in Giving! do not Give grudgingly or out of necessity, but out of the joy of your heart and the love of God manifested in you, and what you give out, you will recieve back the same measure!"
the simplest words, the hardest actions to carry out.
i act in anger and callousness to the ones i love most.
i just harshly the ones i don't know at all and the ones closest to me.
do i ever go without judging anyone?
i love so deeply when i do love, and now it seems to lead to my demise
i love the ones who are wrong for me
the ones who have dragged me to this empty state


haven't i heard the words before? haven't i been taught the way out?
haven't i grown up in the house of my Father where all my life's guidelines were laid before me with lovingkindness and vision for the future?
when will i learn?

i feel like you're so far away and i'm here stuck in this wretched state of mind and spirit.

the narrow road seems to small for me to enter
or maybe its because im trying to squeeze the bags of ******* i'm carrying through it at the same time.

the act of letting go

help loose the vices, help cure my diseases
this seems too much, i fail unceasingly
there seems to be no hope for me
although i know you're on my mind all the time
i continue to hear words of wisdom from others, even though they're not directed at me
all i need are signs
all i need is to know you're going to get me through this
i'm holding you to it
you can't let go, it will be the end of me.

sin is the anchor holding me down

isn't there an easier way out than this?

this must be why you said, "few will find it."
well i'm going to press in
and i'll find that gate to the smallest path
the quiet way that the world looks over and never notices
and when i do i hope you help me through
all i want is to see your kingdom
many are called but few are chosen
i was chosen before i was born,
but as ive learned,
birthrights can be sold. for meaningless treasures.

tell me i haven't made the deal, tell me my soul is still recorded in your book
i need life after this
i need joy and unspeakable relief and love for eternity, not unfathomable pain and torment and blasphemy forever

tell me it's not too late

clean me up, show me how to live

take me out of this dreadful ocean of apathy and despair
the willingnses to let go is something i need now more than ever


my heart feels far from yours
take notice of my feeble hands
hold them, hold me close, lead the way, carry me Grace, across the ocean of doubt and despair.

i'm asking for your forgiveness
for my lack of faithfulness

i'm asking
for your
forgiveness

such a lack of faithfulness

rock bottom feels too apathetic
where do i go

only you know the thoughts in my head and can speak to me the perfect words i need to hear
work your glorious ways and show me i'm not alone
tell me there's something after this trial
what is this trial anyways?
am i complaining about something that's not there?
or should i be concerned?
to regret, or not regret?
choices have lead me to this point, but what if certain things i've done i wish i could take back?
is it wrong?

you know me inside out
now please, take these prayers from a lonely, apathetic, graceless girl,
who needs love, who wants love, who wants to show compassion and hope and joy and giving and mercy wherever needed.
the spirit must manifest in me at some point.
in due time
you circle the sky and wait for the greatest moment to set in

i hardly know the thoughts in my own head
i hope some are Yours

thank you for paying attention

when i feel no one else does.

when i feel like no one cares,
you look down on me and smile.

all i need
is a little

perserverance
08/06/2009
Andrew Rueter Nov 2017
I'm not trying to be needlessly edgy or ****
But can we lay off Kevin all up in yo Spacey?
I know it seems wrong
But I feel I can understand
Or at least relate
Because when I feel too much love in my heart
For somebody younger
Who is a guy
I start doing crazy ****
Like projecting my life onto his
Maybe he's scared
Maybe he's alone
Maybe I could save someone from that
I have to remind myself that was just me
And that there is no such thing as salvation
When your mistakes are supercharged
Because of the scandalous homosexual element
Yet there's no one to turn to
Because nobody understands
So your actions become louder to drown the silence
The stakes of the mischief grow
There's tens of thousands of dollars in property damage
That can be attributed to my sexuality
You have to find a way to push past that
The only way I found
Is to be open about who you are
Because until then the fear will consume you
You fear they will laugh, mock, judge and hate you
Until you wish they were silent again
And they will do all these things
And you will wish all those things
But you'll be able to face it with strength and honesty
Because your fear is more powerful than their callousness
But more importantly it's better than the alternative
When people discover your nature
Through a mistake you've made
And unleash the wrath of God
They will never give a ****
About how they contribute to these moments
They're only there to throw gas on the fire
They say it's a mistake to ****** a minor
They say it's a mistake to be a whiner
And there's no one who'll ever take your call
Expecting them to understand
Well, that's the biggest mistake of them all
Pearson Bolt Aug 2015
we labor under an oppressive thumb
not realizing the very leaders
we exalt will use that power to
hold us down

we've armed them with
the greatest of weapons
blind conformity
empty apathy
unquestioning obedience
what we believe in is a puppet

as our so-called democracy devolves
we increase in callousness
masses designed with a singular purpose
to extinguish original thought

accept or die
embrace or be ostracized
belabor the point
that your purpose is to labor forever
another slave along the chain
another cog in the machine
bent-kneed
stooped before some
corporate conglomerate
a faceless superpower
pulling the strings behind the scenes

politicians bought and paid for
shouldering the burdens of the
Fortune 500 companies
who helped them purchase their office
beholden to back alley deals
and smoke and mirror gimmicks

artists traded rebellion for comfort
now they ply their craft for profit
to appease the brainwashed masses a
morally—and financially—bankrupt populace

they catalogue our every thought
metadata ensnared in the dragnet
mass surveillance a tool to bend the whims
of the people to their rulers

we **** black kids in Ferguson
as they walk down the middle of the street
shoot 'em down as the snack on skittles
and sip Arizona ice teas
they forbid us to feed the homeless
lock us in a jail cell if we dare to disobey
city ordinances designed to keep the
City Beautiful looking beautiful
but i see beyond the thin facade

expose war crimes
thanks for your service
Chelsea Manning
that'll be 35 years in federal penitentiary
hack a surveillance network spying on
activists and protesters
can't have that
that'll be 10 years at State
Jeremy Hammond
blow the whistle on the panopticon
thanks Edward Snowden
but we've grown to adore our own shackles

fear
24/7/365
fear this fear that
fear god fear death
fear Muslims fear blacks
just don't fear the rich white straight
males in their 4k suits and crooked smiles
pay the white-collar Wall St. Bankers no mind
the 1% who've left us all behind
as they lurk in the shadows
ruining everything

a fearful electorate will bow to the
whims of its masked dictatorship
and march without thought to the beat
of the war drums

**** them
**** all of them
ISIS Pakistan Iran Syria
all the Muslim savages in countries
whose names we can't even pronounce
render weapons to tyrannic despots
so we can pretend we
don't have blood on our own hands
torture extrajudicial assassination
extraordinary rendition drones bombing
civilians in record numbers
all cards we've stowed up our sleeves
in a war that is designed to never end
fight terrorism with terrorism
revenge not justice
but if our army is abusing children
then who the **** are the bad guys

confront the ambivalence that
roars like machine gun fire
violence is never the answer
and i refuse to stand by and watch
as we wreak havoc upon this earth

our leaders are liars
our gods are frauds
we're going to have to save ourselves

the answer does not rest above
a utopic afterlife in the clouds is a farce
we've been led like sheep to the slaughter
obedience and reverence have crippled us
if we want heaven
we'll have to raise hell

stand in solidarity with our brothers and sisters
in direct action cooperatives
nonviolent civil disobedience
insurrection against the State
anarchy is the answer

beat your swords to plowshares
and seek peace
i
no less than two hundred souls lie
        clustered along the shoreline
        lowland they call a town.
there where the hilltops look
        below, where salty waves
        in unending sequence
        lap the rocks.
the foam floating still is fading
        and the icy gloom of night is gone.
the tug-tug of the diesel engine
        interrupts the balmy silence
        of the sleeping town.
perchance,
        here is a variant
        (or is it?)
        on new island soil
        tread one another foot.

       ii
away now from the busy hum of
        factory, from the hurrying trucks,
        daredevil drivers, the unwelcomed
        whistle of the morning train,
        from the strained scream of the
        lumpia vendor, from the sophisticated
        melody of nightclub music, from the
        alms-begging cries in crowded sidewalks,
        from pretending graded glasses seeking
        sheep-skin, high-pressured ticket seller.
        away form the honk-honk of waiting
        limousines, the haste of presses
        accommodating headlines, the cackle
        of the radio announcer.
        it takes a sea to part the two,
                and many others more, yet the
                watery distance do mend the broken
                piece-part of the broken whole.

      iii
broken by the water barrier, part of
        the broken scheme – a stray mass
        the grown untamed.
blame it on the ills of war, a frenzied
        sickness, a cancer-growth.
        a callousness undisguised
the city’s pleasure is a farmlife’s
        leisure and these
        in different garbs exist.
not even mindful of the worms
        that eat up the human heart,
        like a rotting fruit.
with colored goggles
        the hue is blood-red and shady black.

  iv
o city of pain,
vineyard of desire
o burial ground
        where lay bedfellows
        they who came, stayed, gone,
where stumps and leafless trunks
        are bare to the sun,
        breathless and devoid.
while fingers are busy
        counting metallic coins.

  v
no, not a flood shall cleanse
        this wild and wanton fleshliness,
        nor upturn the barren farrows,
        not the rise of the tides
        nor the fury of the winds
        not even the whiplash of a strong hand.
the deluge in every clayey figure
        in the farm and furnace.
the going up beyond the worldly
        watermark of the passing tide
        that is man.
the man
        the self
                is the starting point
                from which the line
                        of the circle revolves.
                        and in our chambered brief hours
                                of aloneness, shall speak
                                a shrill deep-seated voice
                                to which we shall be all ears
                                        and shall tremble.
david mungoshi Apr 2016
grilled stamina spiced with arrogance
marinated egos in bitter gall source
a touch of pickled common pride
a suggestion of mashed personality
served generously with indifference
on a platter of wonderful ignominy
going like hot cakes in these sad days
of lies emblazoned against night skies
hurry my man while stocks last
and before the merchants of doom
begin their desperate auctions of ethics
done with cynical glee and callousness
held together by a spread of mediocrity
enhanced
Dr Peter Lim Sep 2015
MAN’S INHUMANITY

There’s so much anger around
tolerance is a long-forgotten word, sadly-
and I begin to wonder in the silence of my heart
whether there’s any hope in humanity

anger, rage, frenzy, then hate
the will of  such people must be obeyed
society stands on shaky ground
compassion and charity is dead

to what are we humans born
but that we should kindness show?
goodness no longer rings in ears
  the world is ruled by endless callousness and ego

what took wisdom many a century to build
hate can demolish in a moment of frenzy
everywhere we hear the cry of pain
and sense the demise of humanity.
Ady Oct 2013
There was nothing in this vast landscape of delusions, only illusions.
A flower, a friend, a gift, a betrayal, a tear, a shattered mirror and perdition.
The music of the euphoric nothingness enticing the darkness,
calling for the shadows, everlasting, never ending.
I know, I deserve this. Always threw the stone and looked the other way,
the sin, the penitence, the lament, the void, the shallowness, the meaningless.
Living each day a moribund marionette moving through the crowd an empty mess.
The ticking, the hunger, the instrument, the mending of the ending,
but then came you. An unexpected gaze wondering through my maze.
Navigating each passage as if though you knew the way, a hindrance.
Let me corrode here please, go away, I thought. I never said it.
You remained here almost an embodiment of the hope I sought for so long,
Perhaps this is another of my creations, a desire from the dire.
Your hands are tepid, driving the frigidness away, maybe it's real?
An hour, a day, a week, a period of time slowly passes.
You are hope, my hope, my desire, my wish, my light and gentle day.
I found the impatient clock fast-forwarding each hour until the time had come,
to see one another.
Your world was intriguing and vivid everyday was fun, every night a pain.
Without a warning you brought the richness of the paint in to the callousness of mine.
The sky once again blue, the birds with songs, the grass now green my world anew.
Mere words such as “i love you” can't paint paint the picture, for it was more.
And yet here I am again. Alone.
Alive, not dead, back on the path to my journey.
Collecting, standing, walking and eventually running through the paradox.
Anew, exhumed, hope plastered once again against my chest,
and as I cry, tumble, fall and learn;
Each days is new, each meeting a joy and each moment thanking you.
Good-bye! I bid farewell to you, let our past be remembered beautifully,
and the present lived and the future build, as once again;
I construct, destroy, collapse, laugh and dream.  
As today the ticking resumes and I commence from where I stopped.
Dada Olowo Eyo Feb 2019
Looking at the heart wrenching image,
Moved my whole being to tears,
Laying lifeless, bloodied,
Entry wood to her temple;

The husband craddling her head,
Tearfully looking down,
At the love of his life,
Never again to cheer his home;

She left the home that morning,
To oversee elections,
To serve her fatherland,
To contribute her own quota;

But all she got,
Was a bullet to her head,
The robbing of her life,
Abrupt end to an unfolding story;

Two children have lost their mother,
Parents have lost their daughter,
Sibblings have lost their kin,
And a husband his confidant;

Would she like many others,
Be a little statistic,
Some unfortunate incident,
Lost to unending callousness?
A woman was killed while working as an electoral officer in one of Nigeria's bloodthirsty states in 2019 elections. She has left two children and a husband. What's next? SAD.
The anticipation is heavy within me,
Clouding my every thought
I feel light headed as you
Shut off the flow of life
Around me as nothing else matters,
I can savor the hesitation
Between the airlock
Of our lips,
And then it's a vertical wrestle
Across the floor
Shucking off clothes
And then we stop,
That millimeter
Space between
The contact
Of our bodies,
I can almost feel
Your delicate suggestion
Of hairs rise like static,
Electrifying
The first beads of sweat
As our skins graze
Like the first seconds of an ice cube
When barely you acknowledge its temperature,
The first sip of summer's cool lemonade;
Or is it the very finest of wines,
That's no longer here nor there
As I cling onto your body
Pleasurable friction,
Solid yet malleable
Against the bed trestle
And every other strong surface,
I feel the smoothness of you
Against the rough callousness of my hands,
And I feel I could never let go,
No questions words or thinking,
Just heart, need, and want
And crave, and hunger
Salt lick,
I want to deplete you of air
And replace it all with passion;
Sweet, our bodies shivering
Like crack fiends,
No athlete could keep up
In this heat feel
The slightest caress of a breeze...
APAD13 003 - © okpoet
John F McCullagh May 2012
A simple kiss upon your cheek,
A gentle, loving kiss.
Not amorous or passionate,
Not connoting love remiss.
Thirty years ago
we were an "item" as they say.
I broke your heart
with my callousness
when, hurtfully, I strayed
I'm not proud that I hurt you.
Sad that it comes to this-
To kiss you like a stranger
feels like the Judas Kiss.
I am surprised to see my old lover in a social setting that requires a certain greeting.
Char Oct 2018
watched in her cage with blazing eyes,
a casket was hidden
with hurt and blame
within the hearts of two

She braced
the words and actions of callousness,
the usual,
disrespect

he flamed a stem of anger
in her patient heart
and carved collected wounds
in her bleeding heart,
cloaking her sunlight
within a kaleidoscope

With every fight,
their heart spoke like titanic ships,
screaming chords from broken strings
in sunken seas

with every fight,
she poured her heart and soul to him (once more),
bearing her heart
with unscripted honesty,
reflected in apologies and thought.

with his words spoken,
"I love you. We will fix this,"
tears stream down,
unbroken
but she wonders if the truth is faded
with empty promises,
no action
But for now, I will keep believing in him.
P.S. Critiques on how to improve this would be greatly appreciated! i think i stumbled at the end and it's probably quite confusing
Tommy Johnson Mar 2014
The ones we hurt the most
And the ones who hurt us the most
Are ours
Parts of us

Our beloved boomerang admirers
And they’re the ones who love us more than anything

Yugoslavian aggressively panhandling for depositions from unrelated denizens of the gin joint

A panoramic view of a wire tapped room with a lunatic with latent panic that is undisturbed

Hoarded handouts
Admissions
Acceptance
Embarking on a new flight of stairs

Pitter patter of foreign fitted shoes

Coming across label makers
“Jew”
“******”
“******”

Steer clear

Then those who memorize banned books and recite them
Who question the validity and relevance of tradition and old fashion ways

Finding things in common
Tastes in music
Fondness in wine
Alike minds that crave astonishing world widening writing
And thought provoking art

A libation to the collision of the alive and living

A somewhat scary visionary who breaks the black and white patterns of a wheel of fortune and misfortune with a lance of optimistic disregard

Stealing kisses and sipping on top shelf liquor

Smoking mystic cigarettes from Indian mountains

Idioms and vernacular

Dedicated guardian angels who hang their heads and rest their faces in their palms in puzzled disappointment

New visions
In music
In literature
In technology

But actually in
Self-expression
Communication
And progression

Stab a knife into the stuffy conservative dollar sign chasing guard

And let the prisoners of self-doubting overlooked misunderstanding go free

The complex complications of cement commitment

Walking out on an infant
Walking away in an instant
Instantaneous fear
Spontaneous combustion

A noose
Legendary
No
Not yet

Sing it to me
Play t

Lay morality to sleep
And raise yourself up
And proclaim a new way today

A jumbled viewpoint
That is brilliant and completely sound

Have a sip

Your hatred, look deep
****** it and rip it out
Then let it go

Busting up regulations and requirements

Creating an image that cannot be simulated
That is originated from the imitation out of respect from the innovative minds

Slow it down
Go
The lust
The envy
Two ingredients for a new story
All that’s left is the spilled blood and you’re done

Drift and go on a dimly lit trek into the subconscious and give birth to underived works

The world may burn, melt, freeze and shine

Surrender, transform, standstill then ascend

The ones in need fall into our laps along with the decision we all must make
To help them
Or pass them by

Click clack goes my keyboard
Revisits to the times before

With the aid of chemicals and inspiration
Mixed with ******* and crazed obsession

The feeling of being replaced
Like lying in bed on a cold night
Without a blanket that has some place better to be

My dear naval, nautical nincompoop
I miss you, you’re fighting pirates
Soon terrorists

You know it’s useless
You don’t want to be part of this nonsensical unholy fuckfest of political unrest

You’re a poet, you don’t write
Your life is your poetry
It’s beautiful, you want to live
Not just exist

Be wary, I have foreseen the pandemonium festering in your heart
You are lucky in your naïve exile in paradise
You’ve been hurt
Looking for love
Live, lend
And all the above

Fool proof plans
And ideal daylight

The suicide of the farmer’s daughter
California sushi roll
Burning embers
Red hot coals

Best of luck to you

No elegy
A eulogy
See it to the end

Distract them
Steal the vital piece
Then proceed to take what you came for

It’s okay
Forget what you’ve been spoon-fed your whole life
The greatest caper committed

Jam the doors
Skeleton keys
Skull and cross bones on the bottles
Take whatever you can carry

No man left behind

Leaving a not, imprints
For them to see
And know why we did
What we have done

Phony fame
Upper hand
Inclined
Shame

There is a time and a place for treason
When all is ugly and bigoted

For you will only be this young at this very second and never again

Shoot from the hip
Fly high on the seat of your pants

Grungy soap dish
Domestic disagreements
Empty reflections
Rapping at the window

Go away
Please
For your sake and mine
It’s insane

I expunge your from my life
Not in hate
But in agony
We both know it’s for the best

Don’t be spiteful
I hate being used
Just a tool to b left behind

Extraordinary shallow callousness

Let’s take a walk around the universe

I see two lovers showing their vulnerabilities to each other
I see a man and a man making love so pure
I see my friend traveling the world
I see an amateur addict about to take their first step into a lifelong dependency  
I hear the screams of those about to be murdered
Does that quench your thirst for reality?

Aiding and abetting
Guilty by association
Confession of guilt
Squandering money on bail

**** that
There’s a rat
*** wrap
****** wrap
Saving you from yourself
Following, no matter where you go
Always

       -Tommy Johnson

Others fail you
But you must never fail yourself

Drop
Down
Drown
Die

So many futile attempts
****** submissions
Preponderant talent

And that’s about it
Lin Cava Oct 2010
When tenderness turns away,
Hope breathes a final sigh.
Life reverts to shades of grey –
Love, once fluid, turns brittle and dry.

Zephyrs that often piqued an interest
And brought exotic dreams to fore –
Die as doldrums, unimpressed;
To leave one haunted, wanting more.

If Passion is Love's celebration,
The verve and spirit of its vigor -
Then Tenderness is its reflection –
In absentia; brings callousness and rancor.

In the quiet times, when passion sleeps -
Touch me softly in tenderness-
Delicate wonders that Love's company keeps
To remind me again with sweet gentleness.

Alas, when tenderness turns away,
Lost to deaf ears, that final sigh –
Love is loathe to wait or to stay,
Hearts cease to beat and Love does die.

Lin Cava©
Creative Commons Copyright
Cailey Weaver Jan 2022
Today is my first day without you, like really without you.
Before, there was always a chance, always a hope that things would be okay and that we would work out.
But today is the start of a new chapter, where you and me don't exist, and there is no us, maybe, or one day.
I am free of the lies you told, the mistreatment, and the disdain.
I'm free of the inconsistency, callousness, and pain.
There are no more chances, no forgiveness, or apologies to accept.
There or no more talks, or possibilities, or "just want to catch up"s.
Your power is gone, the one you held over me like a grim reaper, waiting for me to falter.
The worst kind of monster... Welcoming me with open arms, only to lead me down the spiral of insanity.
I'm done, and I'm ready, but I'm not yet okay.
But I know that now I can work towards feeling that again one day.
And it hurts, but maybe that's the pain that I need.
Perhaps it's just that which will finally break the cycle of awful, maddening repetition.
I know some days I will move forward and some days I'll fall back, but at least you won't be there to remind me just how much.
I will never again hate myself for letting you in.
This is not the end, and I'm so ready to begin.
So today I will celebrate your absence, as a never-ending holiday.
I am so thankful that I chose not to let you stay.
Because none of this was worth it, and if I could I would change so many things, and wish all of it away.
So goodbye, my love, the one haunting my past.
The one who appears in my nightmares, including the one I live every day.
Who's there to remind me that I'm weak, and I'm broken, and that no truer words have ever been spoken, except...
I'm more whole than you'll ever be, especially now you have to live without me.
An African sunset has once again,
not outlived darkness of its own sunset,
but the legacy of its poetry will soon
Set forth the new dawn in full brightness
Of the phenomenal African woman
Whose desire to sire human freedom
Irritatingly sings and will ever sing like
A bird in the cage of oppressor’s ploy
Singing the songs of freedom for all,
Invoking ears of the heart in mental realm
Of prejudice and bigoted self-exclusion
to see the self in the face of otherness.


I mourn Dr. Angelou Maya who passed on,
On the black Wednesday of may 2014,
A doomsday of dooms-month of dooms-year,
That extended the invisible tentacles of death
To curtail the breathes African daughter,
At the Wake Forest University, in land of the Yankees,
At her only ****** age of 8 and 6 compartments
Of twelve months swelling not even full in each case,
Leaving me to wonder in my African callousness,
At the magical reality in the sharp sounded words;
Of , O death!  O death! Why are you so untimely?
That echoed from whale rapacious jaws in the mandibles
Of capitalism that ruthlessly converts nature into ***** money
In the erstwhile onset of the dawn for new morning.


I mourn with grief, my dear sister; Dr. Angelou Maya,
She boldly stood up in the fullness of her melanin
Pronouncedly **** and elegant gap in her front teeth,
Blending to overwhelm the entire world with the beauty,
In the darkness of her African skin, provoking evil
Of the time, that let a white man to **** her
A Poor daughter of the an ex-slave in Americas,
And the ****** walked away scot-free at the helm of
Evil freedom in the apartheid civilization of the USA, as her humane
Heart forgave him, the white ******, seven times and seventy seven
occasions, a reflection of true piousness, true humanism,
Like a phoenix she still stood up, her head in fortitude like a tor,
as we the conquered and the enslaved  ones sat forlorn,
in the ******* of fierce slavery, at the nub of salve anguish
in the pangs of  nostalgia for  the banks of River Congo,
Yearning in equanimity for the life by the waters of the River Nile,
she had to rise indomitably  and sing for civil rights of the black souls,
Terrorized by the evils and wiles of Ku Klux ****, handmaiden
by the Jimmy Crow cultures in the days of Rosa Parks,
She sang tunes, lyrics and poor folks’ ballads together
with Luther King Jnr., Malcolm X and entire Negritude,
When we lived as slaves in the land of abundance,
Caged in the pigeonholes of black ghettoes
Mushrooming the entire Harlem in which
she were born, dear begotten daughter of Africa,
You rose and sang songs of liberty when the world
Was mum on the violations of gender,
Is when your thespic power in your magical
And surreal words, created the truth
In the phenomenon of phenomenal woman
That finds honour in un-bowing before the thrones
Of those who reign by perpetrating terror.
.
Martin Rombach Nov 2013
Again
Such a vivid yet abstract motivation, a warm sense of meaning in my gut concocted from some poignant expression
And again I'm at it
Clattering into a comfort, a comfort absent of the cellular and substantial, yet so personal and surreal

Without a definite direction, do these words have meaning?
Well... what means a lot to me right now? What clenches against my skin, burning it red with tension in pure uncomfortable distraction? What insecurities make me feel as though my bones and bits could brittle to the point of sand?

Well.. the usual. Clarity, validation, ****** release, a definitive admirable prowd sense of self, a bunch of ethereal concepts that haven't had the decency to manifest themselves and be nice enough to kick me in the face, shocking my nerves into a smile of reality. And the usual reflection on these worries reminds me of the usual image glimmering back, a response of criticism. For ****'s sake.

And it is then I say ******* to the irrational and rational growths of pressure, and try to discern, rationalise, make distinct what matters. Or I let it all go, but remind myself soon enough that the world is waiting. The usual.

I wonder if that job, career, book, **** even if that house would center the scales, but I doubt it. I wonder if the girl would massage my mind into tranquility, or if that girl will even be close enough to not notice me there. Or if a new someone will wander in, force me into a unavoidable eye contact.

Either way..
The rooms are less foggy, the words are more clear. The mirror man does look sexier. The critiques will keep coming, the work will cycle and the validation won't be felt for a while, and may not be felt at all from the sources associated. But my tongue has more words and my throat has more volume. The stigma of the eyes from a thousand people morphs from suspicion to callousness to clarity.

So yeah. The meaning here... well...

I'm fine thanks.
How are you?
Anon C Dec 2012
Please God, if you are actually out there
I do not know
can I please just be with the other dreamers
existing amongst the current situation is degrading my soul
at some point within the mindless consumerism and gluttony
I went insane
the pain, the ******, the callousness
abuse
I cannot sustain yet another thrashing
please release me
if death is the only way, so be it
but if there is another way
lead me to the other dreamers
let me hold their hand, unite as one as we should
and bring about coexistence, wash away the hatred, indoctrination
defilement of life
all of us hiding from what we truly crave for it is what we were taught
I see the others out there, but we cannot reach across the mobs
there are too **** many, we are overwhelmed
so we sit here screaming into nothingness, while the masses just laugh
some can hold out, I have found I cannot
I do not know when it happened, but I lost it
complete control over any aspect of my being
I need to feel the connection
the world you created went so wrong
and I see it
please wash me away in yet another flood
if that is really what happened
hell I don't know if that is even true
the corrupt probably wrote it to control me
but this is my prayer
can you hear me?
Q Jan 2016
The ennui leads me to shirk humanity
I'd like to see the world burn, entertain me
Who can I manipulate, pull the strings of puppetry
Count these dots on the ceiling for another eternity.

The ennui's whisper is a striking sledgehammer
"Nothing's wrong and nothing's right," to my saccharine master
A distraction is a religion, a light, a pastor
Find a building, burn it down, if only for laughter.

The ennui's madness, says it can't exist with life
Push me up onto this cliff, close my hand around a knife
Scream fury, bitter anger, over the sound of this strife
And when the rage is exhausted, with ennui I am rife.

The ennui leads me to think of impossible things
I could have an ultimate power that exceeds all living beings
The ennui leads me to write, and sing, and sleep, and think
And not a one of those will shake it, it resides so deep in me.

The ennui is disenchantment, apathy, and callousness.
The ennui is because I could's, both boiled and steeped in it.
The ennui is I don't care to a level never before seen.
The ennui is why bother with this without the will to leave.
uzzi obinna Dec 2016
The ashes of our loved ones are blown in the wind,
The blood of our siblings fill the streets,
Politicians we elected  rob us, with impunity,
Working tirelessly to reduce us to bits;

They **** our soldiers- our dearly beloved brothers,
Send them to a war which they themselves create,
They have underarmed the soldiers but arm the enemy,
Their callousness and negligence- we cannot underestimate;

Their is no one to speak for us- no one at all,
They sit in their noble seats lobbying for themselves,
They fill their homes with the resources of our people,
While these people are left with little to fend for themselves;

Our educational system has been brought to ruin,
Medical system is now in a deplorable state,
Fund looting is now the order of the day,
To impoverish my people even further is all they debate;

Our security operatives are those that **** us more,
Our hearts are always filled with fear when they come our way,
They maim and **** even when we protest for justice,
Who then should we run to when killers come our way?

The minority among us are disenfranchised,
Jobs belonging to our youths have been stolen away,
Those who create jobs for themseves earn too little to live by,
The pensions of pensioneers are hijacked day by day;

Our bills are on the increase while salaries remain the same,
The salaries of some are slashed day by day,
In the midst these difficulties is the firing of workers,
As wages become burdensome for companies to pay;

I pray that youths like me will open their eyes and see,
That all we have is ourselves not these enemies,
If this lesson is learnt we will quit fighting eachother,
And tolerate one another- finding ways to sustain peace;

Shall this oppression continue while we stand and watch?
No- we will rise and create a new era of representatives?
A people who will be elected from our very own,
People of our own generation to replace these theives.
This explains what Nigerians go through everyday in a nutshell.
KD Miller Jul 2015
7/1/2015

"you will remember, for we in our youth did these things:
yes many  beautiful things" - Sappho's fragments


Greenwich Village, NYC

Only the 24th of June and
Simpson and i already
tire of the summer weather.

I always seem a little thinner these months
i note, i bite a strawberry candy and show her
how to light her lighter

just hand me the fork
no more callousness
both on palmflesh and human dealings

the building facades on Charles street
as in the southern Chawellsss....
she explains alcoholism runs in my family, you know?

i nod. no other problems i presume?
the community garden nods and
people who will always be richer,

prettier, strut past with tuesday briefcases
and their children's wheelcradles with ethiopian
and guatemalan hands on the handlebars

follow a block behind.
But we're from Joisey, and **** proud of it!
Lobster rolls and jimmies and johnnies and

boardwalk planks Erin dreams of
broadway instead and neonatal nursing,
who doesn't?

the only youth on the street that day we
teetertotter past all the cafes and pubs and
laundrymats

*you know, if this was the school year we'd
get picked up for skipping school
Glenn McCrary Sep 2013
Discernment often resembles a fable
When translating the language composed by women
As tantalizing as these creatures may be
Various medleys of gestures so fallaciously are given

On certain occasions it appears that
One’s efforts have been green lit
When so suddenly red flags are discovered
Dancing amidst the clouds


Gradually the entire project
Grows to be eminently disheartening
Women, the puppeteers that they reflect,
Behave as if the universe
Is a vaginal duplication
Although society may deem that laughable
The results of such callousness
Quite strangely are familiar…
This poem was designed to be a subtle yet personal diss to this little lady who dissed me by blowing me off after agreeing to hang with me.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
there comes a time when you have: enough...
you listen to these pundits,
these so-called shuffling journalists and
becomes overwhelmed as if sitting by
a blackjack table...
    you never imagine their respect
for their craft,
  some do manage to become
all the president's men, but few, fewer
han you might think: ever do...
        buy ups, cut offs, wishing they were
all screeching banshees on the ready,
but there never are any,
   just any pornographica pornstars who
said: i'm ready for a ******* henry.
        and the callousness, the easiness,
makes drinking a whiskey
all the more respectable...
              i know i've chosen rightly with
ms. amber...  i feel less like a ****
and more like a connoisseur with every
minute...
                   tell you what,
let's meet down the middle whereby actions
are worth are more than words,
and the whole "freedom of speech"
is but a bad dream...
            isn't it? i thought that actions
spoke louder than words, so why defend them?
it really, really comes down to the
nietzschean inversion of cartesian "talk",
apparently inverted the original
into a sum ergo cogito (a footnote
remark in his white zombie inspired
     human, all too human
entry point into pop culture -
as ever, the silent mind,
    makes use of waiting for the mass
of prey) -
              i can do the same with heidegger...
i listen to these journalistic endeavours,
i listen to them intently...
but i have a problem..
   this da-sein is peppered with difficulty;
you can call me a res cogitans
a thinking thing, but i sometimes
am not, namely: heidegger's dasien
is the antithesis of res cogitans...
     we're not heroes or villains by thinking
about the act in the da / momentum
   - in the "there" / momentum...
               the "carpe diem"...
            there's no carpe illic (seize a there)-
       as there's no esse in diem (being in a day) -
       find a niche, weave a web...
               journalism has already killed off
heidegger's dasein,
        it's either called blackmail or extortion,
we are handled with a perplexity of
feeding the bacon of "handling" facts...
      we are required to ensure there's an
empathetic comment subsequently readied,
we are to enforce empathy,
a fakery of empathy...
          heidegger couldn't have predicted
the death of his idea so fast,
  in that journalism (legacy) killed off
the concept of dasein so quickly and
effectively...
                sure, journalism stresses a
da - a "there" - but where i'm at,
there's hardly any talk of correlative translation
to a sein: i.e. being.
              first the education system
erodes the faculty of memory with pointless
arithmetic tables, then the "real" world
erodes the faculty of imagination with
pointless jobs and the grand carnation
wishes of disney's bloom...
             and the two two come together
and: after that? let's pretend we "think"...
        the notion of the existence of free will
is not answered with a first amendment,
it's answered with a freedom of thought:
   freedom of thought comes prior to the freedom
of speech, that danish bachelor kierkegaard
pointed it out: better to think freely,
than to talk freely, since not everyone will
have the vocal capacity of a sophist!
nonetheless i listen to the news,
   and am abhorred by it...
            not because i care:
hey! you don't care about my problems,
why in the world, should i care about yours?
what am i, the imitation of "saint" theresa of
calcuta?
          heidegger's concept translate directly
into current journalism...
        me, i prefer to think of his concept
to reverse nietzsche's reversal of cartesian
thinking: not all existence is purposed to
merely think, i.e.
       the: being there (dasein) is reversed
into: there's being (sein ist dort) -
     heidegger is the father of modern journalism,
and also the person who can be utilised
to combat journalism stagnating into
voyeurism...
         both are pretty much the same these days...
journalism = voyeurism...
                sure, i don't like being forced
into being "there" - primarily because i have
a blocking membrane "antibiotic" of simply
retorting: well, there's being;
  the **** would i want to suggest a worthy
escapade of "imagination" into a spirit-cooking
session, i rather spend the rest of the day
in a butcher's shop! and yes, i like my memory
intact, i like the memories of my childhood,
i don't need my memory undermined
by ******* arithmetic or stories of pythagoras
selling baked beans to pursue his
lessons!
     and i really don't care if heidegger was
a **** party member, what i don't understand
is the western left: you ever talked to
a communist proper? a real one, no fakes?
my grandfather was a proud communist party
member...
           even his take on transgenderism as being
a leftist agenda would have been: wha'?!
     you sure we don't need to castrate
these people?
                   never mind,
i'd actually love to be called a ****...
  i have no problem with that:
  the only thing i have to lose is a chance for
a punch-up in an alley, and i've been training:
punching myself in the face until my jaw
starts aching can be fun, but not as much as fun
as talking down police brutality:
the colt's screaming while i'm kneeling having
just finished ******* in the alley,
and he's screaming, the female officer is
making notes, because the screaming ******
is probably dyslexic, or a D in g.c.s.e. english...
puts the handcuffs on, i tell him
a cameo version of an autobiography...
so they release me... see...
  screaming does very little to scare someone...
the fact that i was being ridiculously stoic
****** him off...
   never thought that ******* in an alley was
a crime... so i said: you don't own this
shaded corner, do you?
as the joke runs, better than frying bacon:
two police officers walk up to you -
(a) one will surely be able to write...
(b) the other will surely be able to read...
(c) a + b = a guarantee!
     besides the point, heidegger is the father
of pre-modern journalism,
well, journalism up to robert redford
& dustin hoffman, oh yeah, and david frost...
hell, that was, journalism,
        the whole notion of dasein was
invigorating the whole movement,
  but then journalism shifted its attention from
heidegger... and people were forced into
"emoticon" politics of a "there" and a "being",
i.e. being the killer, imagining the torture cell,
etc. etc.,
                 can i watch some ******* disney,
for ****'s sake?!
            i want the journalist to be there:
and the reason why i don't want to be "there":
is because: i'm not!
   but this only produced journalists
who weren't even "there" to begin with...
    cordoned off by police "protection" -
people talk about a snowflake generation
that the millennials are, "apparently";
can we start off with the "journalists"
of the prior generation?
                   besides the point...
heidegger is the father of modern journalism,
but he's also underread...
      which is great, since you can become
pro-elitism after a book or two...
    yes, if i wanted to wipe my *** with
a modern novel, i'd sooner take to reading
a roll of toilet paper... sorry...
but leisurely reading material is for people
sunbathing on a deckchair on barbados;
i don't like easy...
   and i certainly don't like reading books,
that might as well have been
written in braille...
  perhaps in braille they might be "mildly"
stimulating,
      yes yes, i know,
bestsellers and all,
   but from what i've noticed:
     why do people need to talk so much to reach
that sort of status?
             once upon a time i wanted to
be "famous", but after watching enough
people reach the status of "fame",
having watched how exhausting it is...
i thought to myself:
       keep to the "karma" of tao -
               keep that obscurity,
   it's perhaps not the case that enough
people have woken up, it's perhaps the case
that not the right people: have been born.

— The End —