"captors" poems
27 years incarcerated.
27 years of committing to the same ideas and ideals that shut him off from the world.
Unsurpassed courage and finally unsurpassed Grace.
Forgiving his captors and those who would wish to remove his hope for a brighter future for his people and his country.
The longest and most arduous marathon ever won.
Redeemed at last.
Oppression crumbled by one man's will.
And being humbled by the journey.
As if anyone would've done the same.
Rest quietly 'trouble-maker' for now.
The invitation to return is always open.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 4:30 AM UTC
Sleepy daze
Lilac light
Bright
In Deaths Valley where purple petals and purple lips
Part at the touch of His skeleton key finger
That turn chests wide open
To release souls from their broken captors
Dissipate
Not even a firework show for good effort
Eyes wide open and I see everything you can’t seem to say with purple lips so cold and frightened
There’s a thousand white dots and a thousand sound layers beneath the color
Endless
The red veins floating amidst your token bad eye staring straight into the ceiling fan
As if it’s going to lift you up, spin your brain
And attempt to unjumble the jigsaw puzzle of different words and phrases and opinions
That pollute you
Uproot what you’ve known to be true
Since your slate was paved
Since your fingers touched the invisible air
Of unwritten possibility
The wall is grey
The lilac sits on your chest
Its purple and I’m as blue as the deepest corner of the skies rocket ship neck
That crevice fingers pet to coo goosebumps out from their nervous cells
Where I’m hidden
And quiet quiet quiet
Don’t part your purple lips
I’m hidden
Your fingers graze the bed
Like it’s planning on plotting seeds
That will hopefully grow
And I’m alive I’m a life I’m enlightened
I’m not growing you said
I’m crooked you said
I’m not well rested you said
And the lilac sits alone in your bedside garden
Where no other plants dare to sprout
And your hands turn into stray roots
That weigh heavy like limp corn stalks
Frayed at the edges as they approach your ghastly cemetery
And all I can say is I’m sorry
Futile words from purple lips that Death doesn’t silence but caresses
With his skeleton key finger
Pursing them into a tight grip
That lets you know but doesn’t let you go
I’m sorry
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
In the name of democracy
An entire state is terrorized
Decade after decade
Freedoms are curbed
Protests are brutally suppressed
People are brutally oppressed
Education is diluted
In the name of democracy
The Army turns from protector to oppressor
Every soldier marching past
With his head held high
Sounds the death knell
For every man, woman and child
In the name of democracy
Soldiers break into houses
Wielding their massive rifles
As if it is their birthright
As the peace and harmony within
Is replaced by abject terror
In the name of democracy
All morals are flung out of the window
As the women are *****
The men who challenge this unspeakable atrocity
Are swiftly silenced with bullets
As the children begin screaming in terror
They are molested, one by one
Until the trauma overcomes them
Such that, they lose their voices
They lose their minds
They lose their hearts
Meanwhile, the soldiers slip away quietly
Having completed a good day of work
In the name of democracy
In the name of democracy
India and Pakistan, warring for decades
Use Kashmir as a bait
As a means to satisfy
Their unquenchable thirst for power
As the potion simmers on
Fuelled by hate on both sides
Curfews and lockdowns follow with alarming regularity
Schools and colleges are shut down
Political organizations are banned
The Internet is crippled
Mobiles and landlines are killed
Even the most feeble of all protests
Is brutally quelled with bullets and grenades
In the name of democracy
Consent is dead and buried
As nationalism takes centre stage
The world watches on silently
Allowing India, the oppressors-in-chief
To reclaim the moral high ground
And suddenly proclaim themselves as saviours
Leaving the beleaguered Kashmiris no choice
But to bow to their captors
Their dreams of self-determination
Shattered ruthlessly in the course of a mad, mad day
In the name of democracy
Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 1:18 PM UTC
impractical is the path
where wrath meets satisfaction
with hands too fast to smack
we are the captors of our actions
not adapted to the math
understanding the subtraction
with a stand that is my last
i am ****** by my exaction
with a plan so crass
like a romance with reaction
impractical is the path
where wrath meets satisfaction
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
I called to give you a rearrangement of irony and a bucket full of Jews, I tailor made a rebreather because the past connections were used . Indeed, just like a crossview that encouraged stars to collapse, then did a fix up for the X's and O's so every oxymoron followed with a laugh. A pail of shrubs, an ounce of yore, yesterday you were following your very own bated breath. Up until you challenged yourself to a duel, you didn't look so bad for a disastrous mess. Harms' Way could be the place in town where odds go to get even, or it could be the street where Blow-Pops aren't just made, but also handed out to toothless citizens. We the captured, please and thank you, sir and mam until our captors go, like if you imagine The Godfather in The Graduate, describing how the Komodo dragon roasts. We haven't made it thru a single day since they've come in packs of seven, but today we'll have the chance to share some face time with the hours that we are being given.
Misty-eyed, mournful, and very sorry walked in separately from the yard. They drank cold-filtered PBR and joked about all the kids they may have fathered. Has it been four weeks or just four days, since the Ferguson, Missouri Captain resigned his post? I was always taught that for a captain to go out, he or she must go down with their boat.
In time where boredom lays around with dynamite by the loads, tomorrow remind me of the basorexia I've had since we met not long ago.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 2:39 AM UTC
Dear Depression,
I see you. We all see you. You're not very avoidable. Those slivers of light you try to enamor us with. How death seems so delicate when we talk of flowers and restful slumber- for all eternity. What the lights do not show; a grotesque, scaled abomination with a gluttonous appetite for happiness and life. I can't let you gnaw on anymore souls to leave nothing, but sunken eyes and bones. They do not belong to you nor were they yours to take. You're not welcome in the mind's of my friend's and family. Life is welcome in their heart's where joy can still be found. Don't find yourself slithering down our throat's anymore, in the empty stomachs or scars we have. The thoughts we think when you entice us are dangerous. You stole her. You stole him. You stole me. I can't recognize the stoic, numbed faces I gaze upon. You undo any progress ever done.
It's been so long since, I've heard them laugh or flashed a smile I meant. Still, your might looms over as you admire the damage you've caused. Next, feeling the audacity to sneer when we weep. Depression, you're a monster who causes nothing, but suffering. Those tears are not your's to season hopelessness with. You make the covers seem like the most comfortable coffin, you make our skin look as if we've fought thousands of wars. The sun an inconvenience with the days in reverse. We've tried to compromise, you are no friend. Just a foe.
Depression, there are so many things I want to do to you. You break my heart when all your captors don't believe they are worthy of love, but they are the ones I love most. I will break you like, you've broken us. My bare hands would reach into your chest, ripping the lungs out; stomp on them to preventing future sufferers. I would crush your heart in the palms of my hand's- praying for the sickness and terror to end. These innocent people you've robbed of life, love, happiness, opportunity and a soul. Will have their revenge. Your blood covers our skin and we bathe in the warmth of redemption as our thought's belong to us once more. We let the pain held inside escape our sutured lips, begging your soul to ascend back into the abyss never to return. Your bones are mine to assemble a castle for the broken to heal. Your skull resembles a crown honoring those who had given into the temptations of surrendering. We honor them.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 9:29 AM UTC
For the days when your ego slaps itself as if it’s playing hambone,
remember: there’s a name for the smell of rain on pavement.
And every photograph is like Stockholm Syndrome,
where subjects fall in love with their captors.
You are no victim. That’s why I still don’t know whether you’re photogenic.
All I ask is that you keep photographing my self-portraits,
so that I may love you through the way I view myself.
Because my ego is more like that potato clock from the science fair:
surprisingly electric, yet full of holes. My skin is pierced with nails,
but I am no Christ. It’s just my job to keep time.
That’s why first place goes to the skateboarding rat.
The judges don’t like me because I don’t believe in gimmicks.
But when you look at me--alligator clips and all--
your eyes become blue ribbons, letting me know
that I have won and you intend to claim your prize.
“Let’s take a photo,” I say.
You say no, that taking pictures will make us like everyone else.
I ask why it matters if we know we’re not.
You look down at the newspaper. In my mind, I say your name.
And when you look up from the politics section,
I snap a photo for good measure.
This plan seems completely doable until I realize
I’ve never called you by your name.
You call me by mine, and attach it to sayings like
“No one will ever bring half a smile to my face like you do”
or “Hi” or “How are you?” or “I love you.”
Is this because there’s only me or because
there’ve been others besides me?
If I were to succeed in capturing you,
I imagine you’d have red eyes in the photo.
Red ribbons to let me know I’ll never top second place,
that there are other girls you’ve been inside of,
but you are my only. No contest.
And yet you ask if I’ve awarded any other blue ribbons.
You don’t believe me when I say, “No.”
I know you asked as a way to boost your ego,
but for the days when your ego slaps itself as if it’s playing hambone,
remember: there’s a name for the smell of rain on pavement,
and that your wish to feel special should never be at my expense.
Aug 5, 2012
Aug 5, 2012 at 2:06 PM UTC
Some need rocks
To rest bigotry upon
Look down, feel taller
Or throw at others
Others have no guts
Camp on smiles
Feed on indifference
Rivers of promise
Golden tomorrows
Our country is burning
With horror and loss
Buried in traditions hides
Pits of immorality
Walls of racism
Halls filled with assets
Sit in miles of doubt
On hills of sorrow
Growing with fear
Brother, clinging to fear
Differences and inequalities
Hidden from having
While some take all
Sister, must you hate
Wish to **** hope
Bleaching love with hate
In fear of loss
Driven to please
Hating race or creed
Feeding in lack
Altars of fanatical pride
As if there's no God
Walking shame to blame
Taking sides with captors
Tearing all apart
To make what's not
Life goes forward
Insecurity drains hearts
Feeds souls to saviors
With political lies
Trading guts for greed
Builders of distrust
Sell promises if the power
Hiding cruel minds
Open theirs to close ours
Where is forever in now
Convinced we had choices
Wanting more than not
Lost sight of beyond
Cages of greed
Built by pulpits of avarice
Filled by a Congress
Here now, gone tomorrow
Eternal is only the universe
One minute we are here
Without love, there's no power
And soon we die
Holiness lost
Revised 7/7/2019
[email protected]
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 6:26 PM UTC
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the George Washingtons
of my generation.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the Thomas Jeffersons
and the
Benjamin Franklins who
aren't afraid to dream of
words that haven't been
created
and things that have
yet to be
designed.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the
Revolutionaries who
have yet to be
born.
For the Paul Reveres
who have yet
to take their midnight
rides
one if by land,
two if by sea.
one if by land,
two if by sea.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the
modern day
Lewis and Clarks who
explored a land beyond
exploration's eye.
For the Sacagawea guides that
guide from a shining sea
to a sea of gold.
For the immigrants who
traversed waters of salty tears
made solely of their own fears.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the slaves held captive
not by their captors,
but by their own fears,
hopes,
desires
and dreams.
Afraid to pursue a land
just slightly beyond their own
R e a c h.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the conductors of the railroad
that was unseen.
The one that ran not on
coal and steam,
but the one that
ran on
Dreams.
I wanta write a poem for the ages,
for the Teddy Roosevelt
conservationists
and the Stravinsky
concert pianists
and the Maya Angelou
performers,
and the,
people.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the soldiers battling
for a cause they didn't
even start.
For the lives that gave their
lives for a cause,
because they believed in
The cause.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the Daddy who's still
looking for work,
For the Mommy who has
given up
Hope.
For the widow and
her orphan,
For the soup kitchens
that can't
stay open long enough.
For the failing
Economy.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the mustached
man in Germany
rising to a power
ever Grand.
For the nations willing to
ignore it if they can.
For the day that everything
changed.
December 7th, 1941
will forever live
in infamy.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the unconquered Jews who
fought back.
For Anne Frank and her
family.
I wanta write a poem for the ages
For the modern day
Martin Luther King
Jr.'s.
For the ones
who
Aren't afraid to challenge a
System designed to
fight against them.
For the
modern day
Claudette Colvins.
The ones who
aren't afraid to sit down
to make a stand.
I wanta write poem for the ages
For the modern day
Buzz Aldrins
who are
altogether underrated
Just
because they came in
Second.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
A poem that speaks louder
than words
and goes beyond
generations.
So I wrote a poem for the ages.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
she comes from the foam
the knife from her gut
hidden in her rolling cloak
taking steps along the shore
her coral hair
catching the light of the moon
she stumbles across a bonfire
a party for a prince’s fiancee
introducing herself to the couple
the girl stares past them at the slowly tossing waves
the lead her to the castle
giving her nicer clothes, a shower
the graceful princess
her gilded gown glistening
as she teaches the beauty of the sea
to brush her hair, use a fork
she walks with them.
...
the atrocities committed
by her new family
oil in the oceans
disastrous runoff
carried by the currents
putting the sea, her sea
to a slow and painful death
at night, she crept into their chamber
her knife unsheathed
shimmering, poised above her captors
she moved to strike
stopped, by a sea witch
the cruel being smiled
her teeth, cracked and crooked shells
striking a deal:
a life for a life
the sea maiden would be turned
a daughter of triton, son of poseidon
fins instead of legs
protecting the ocean, her home
from the inside.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
The mirror's reflection looked away from me today.
She knew my secret and my shame...
Even now I thought I could hide it from her.
There are certain dualities to monogamous promises
Because emotions are never made just for one.
If I knew I would have loved him then I would have hated him first.
If I knew I would hurt him...then I would have killed him before I could.
I've traced all my steps back into a wall.
The path that was there before has been blocked by my own hand.
I built it with every lie and every truth about myself,
And yet I stand dumbfounded at the choice I am to make.
I'm panting and wild eyed for an escape
And my captors are threatening for an answer.
Both breathing fantasies and lives that I want to see
And all they get from me is a choke.
A stammer.
A stutter of a choice made but not thought through.
I give them both each hand to have but the joke is on me...
Basic anatomy only gave me one heart.
And them as well.
They both gave theirs to me and now I'm overly supplied
And worrying over them spoiling if I leave them out too long.
Then I think to myself of a prose well said,
"Get thee to a nunnery."
And like a coward, I flee.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
Look at me.Let my skin tell you a story of pain and suffering, let my eyes give you sight and show you my history. And it's odd to me because as history goes I know of her struggle but not her name, my great grandmama's face, nor my great grandfather stern gaze. My history was ripped from me then handed back in a textbook, like a stolen jewel being given back as a gift from its captors. They try to cultivate and appropriate my culture like it's a shirt that fits them better. You asked me what I'm mixed with because you see my blackness as something to be covered. But my blackness is not ***** that needs a chaser, it is not a ***** car that needs a little whitewashing and a paint job.
You asked me what I'm mixed with so here is my response; I am mixed with melanin and love swlirled into chocolate beauty. I'm mixed with strength and pride, fierce do I roar with the voice of the wise ancestors who gave birth to hope for my grandma, my mommy, and me. I am one part black and ninety nine parts victory. I am not a tragedy of circumstance I am a product of excellence. You ask me if I am mixed because you think I'm to pretty to just be black. Here's a news flash, I am pretty because I'm black! From the kinks of my curls to the dance in my toes, I am designed from the roots of the earth. In tune with its gravitational pull.
Everyone knows the moon only shines in the blackness of night. Stop trying to force an eclipse because they don't last anyway, only burn out to be surrounded by the blackness once more. You asked me what I'm mixed with, allow me the same courtesy. Are you mixed? What are you mixed with? Fear, hate, rage, disgust, or shame? I don't assume any of these for a wise woman once said, " people are diamonds made up of different pressure some in different measures and if you don't know don't judge for it is not your contest." I am on a conquest of love and redemption. I won't blame you for your ancestors but I will hold you to a certain standard.
So before you ask me what I am mixed with, think. Does it even matter?pretty is pretty so don't you dare come at a Nubian goddess cross eyed or tongue-tied, prepared to gain insight of her bloodline. She will shatter all illusion, destroy all thoughts of doubt. She will tell you she is black. She will say it in a song song voice because of the melody ringing in her soul when she makes this known. It will roll off her tongue like honey. For no other words ever tasted so sweet. She is a black queen. Mixed with blood and bones.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 12:44 PM UTC
know god hard really oh used heal heart look stumble substance free feel soul want hell broken like compassion herbs shy shiny peaceful jim cigarettes beam stumbled peach pressure juice apathy jesus sing shades innocent lift content golden vital funny aim bob listening struggling doubting bars humility chairs boulevard coolest oppressor hellfire oppressors chaining homelessness macon doesn't he'll satan's hip-hop icehouse baybo hyena-laugh-like
pit-- thomas pottery churning bus boring builds unwilling marley insides captors slaves element severed leaking survived ***** kentucky brothels karina sitting walk people white hit mind help blessed night
hurting pray courage reminds fearful words talk song self die thoughts notice just home green make gets hands world speak ****** red fear fears stand hearts lonely heals stopped throat apple person awareness breaking black trees taught
yellow fallen answers spit *** dreads
heads gentle far pretty knew faded spirit minds pride hurt yes feeling knows crushed
tired tomorrow save
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 5:38 AM UTC
It was social experimentation
To be locked away, windowless
Four walls, perpetually fixed
- as his figure in a lightless room
Ears removed, mouth sewn closed
Eyes blinded, no light, no sound
Muted humanity, no dignity
He happened upon a laughing child
before the procedure
and that sound echoed inside
Deep within his bowels it reverberated
Through his blood
Distorted in his stomach
Youthful innocent laugh,
it grew monstrous
It began to talk
and the beast within was personified
Day one he lost his mind
Day two was still day one
(how irresponsive time becomes)
Day three the laugh became a growl
Day four the voices started
Day five in absentia
Day six he was done
Day seven, bizarre interim
- that between life and death
Profoundly lost in swingin' psychosis
Met by the devil in detailed cerebellum
Watched memories deteriorate
like some reel-to-reel burning, spluttering
His wife now only a hydrogen hallucination
Do you, the reader, know true loneliness?
The observation deck was packed on day eight
Muted, yet guttural screams of anguish
from deep within his throat
Were haunting reminders of the damaging effect
of psychological studies and the fragility of humanity
The cataract voids in his stoic face
they betrayed fear, and begged captors
for some respite from this hellish dream
Until in a tormented blinded haze, the voice was clear
His ears still dead, though this voice was true
Spoke but three subtle words
The subject experienced simultaneous neurological
Joy and fear
He had heard the de facto vocalisation of some supreme
he spoke them aloud
his only utterance
and the teary eyed scientists gathered
sterile needle
no words
dead.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
I am captured by,
Society.
I am coerced into making
A change.
Forced into acting normal.
Forced into changing my personality,
Just to fit in.
I want to be different
But I am captured,
By this fast paced world,
Where being different,
Means being an outcast.
I will fight my captors,
Defeat the norm,
Play a different tune.
Become someone not changed by
Society.
Become not captured.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
LOVE, is a four letter word
Often heard right before
I HATE you...
HATE, is a four letter word same letters as HEAT, the kind that burns out LOVE...
*** is a three letter word, an altered state of wanton desire when flesh entwines it's captors, at first it's like a chemical bond...
Clandestine and strong animal magnetic fields two charged heavy metals attract in the act of lust until just before dawn, it's gone!
Where is she now?
Fools rush in only to learn the rug burned concubine wines and dines with your best friend...
*** is a weapon as she wraps you in pink, If you think with the wrong head then soon you might wind up wishing you were dead...
D. Clare
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC
The month of perfection has come for the sons and daughters of zion to possess their possession,
with the understanding that September is a month like no other month to remember in the history of histories for those who believe in the word of the lord.
The month of fulfilment has come for the children and people of God to possess and inherit the land whereon their feet have trodden upon,
with the knowledge that September is a month like no other month to remember in the season of seasons for God's promises to be fulfilled in the lives of those that wait upon him.
The month of harvest has come for the righteous and faithful people of God to reap and enjoy the fruit of their labour,
with the awareness that September is a month like no other month to remember in the memory of memories for those who believe that the land is bountifully ripe for harvest and truely plentious for conquest.
The month of liberation has come for the captives in captivity to become captains of the captors in the land of captivity,
knowing that the Captain of captians have ascended on high and led captivity captive.
The month of visitation has come for the windows and doors of heaven to open unto them that are expectant of Divine favour, blessings and visitation,
knowing that the presence and power of God is presently present to present to those who are presently present, presents that are presents from above.
The month of dominion has come for the diligent and dedicated David's and Deborah's of this generation to dominate and have dominion over the nobles among the people and forces of the earth,
knowing that God have given us power and authority over the earth to dominate and have dominion over the high and the mighty.
The month of establishment has come for the prudent and pure ones in heart to see God undertaking and establishing his promises in their lives,
with the understanding that God is not unfaithful to forget all our labour and works of righteousness and service to his kingdom.
The month of manifestation has come for the sons and daughters of zion to be Divinely empowered for the manifestation of God's glory on earth,
with the knowledge that the earth and all that dwell in it is the lord's and the fullness thereof.
The month of remembrance has come for the book of remembrance to be opened for the obedient and commited ones to be celebrated by heaven,
with the awareness that God have separated the month of September to remember those that serve and call upon him with a pure heart.
This is September to Remember.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
She taught us to talk
you see,
we were fearful.
unwilling to make that walk,
pride chaining us in our chairs...
insides churning,
slaves,
and we are the captors.
so we pray:
for courage to stand
and the humility
to not notice the thoughts they aim at us
because awareness of self is a vital element
of you and me.
let us free our minds
to hell with the fear
lift our heads up and out of the pit--
apathy.
speak:
up and out
for and against
black and white
we have it in us
to spit so hard and so far
that every oppressor gets a heart hit
so hard
by words so full
of substance
that even they will feel
yes, they will feel it,
compassion.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
I'm sorry I left you happiness,
You didn't deserve to be alone,
But they took me from you so quickly,
They dragged me from my home.
I was beaten and tormented,
From past fears and bad mistakes,
But believe me when I tell you,
My soul wasn't theirs to take.
Tortured and neglected,
Abandoned in a darkened room,
I miss you and I know you miss me,
I promise I'll be home soon.
I broke free from my captors,
Running with blood on my knees,
To meet you on the front porch,
Forgive me happiness, please.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
Elephant they have a bounty for your tusks,
Elephant you better run and hide fast,
Coz they won’t stop the attacks,
Until they find you and quench their thirst,
So its better you run and run fast,
Run from the hands of your captors,
Before they bring you down and tear you up,
We may be here but offer no help,
When you yelp or when you cry,
They are here to make sure you die,
To erase you from the history of this world,
Only for your stories to be told,
How you used to walk majestically and bold,
An attraction to the young and old,
Through the savannah and the wild land,
With your beauty you graced the land,
A symbol of the mother land,
Africa’s proud big five,
Hunted and wanted dead or alive,
Time has come for us to wake up,
See things for what they really are,
Are we going to stand and watch?
Are we going to save an elephant with every march?
A march towards conservation of our heritage,
For our future and the coming ages of time…………!!!!!!!
WRITTEN BY ISSAI
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
Not a coward
But a cup overflowing
With the damning dark
Not a coward
But a human capable
Of emotion's full spectrum
Not a coward
But a father unable
To see through the deafening dark
Not a coward
But a man plagued
By plundering depression
Not a coward
But someone like me
Wading through a cell
Not a coward
But a person trying to breathe
Yet inhaling only that which drowns
His muses became his captors
His brain became his prison
His family became his mourners
But he was not a coward
He just wasn't a survivor
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
I don’t believe you.
There’s no way you could have
fended off those velociraptors
and their inter-dimensional captors
with a spork and a water gun.
No, you didn’t go into the matrix,
or find an heirloom of the Norse,
or find a cure for when your throat gets hoarse.
You most certainly did not bring forth
Satan with a glass-blown tuning fork
and those pictures you have are photoshopped.
A seismograph cannot detect a pulse
from that distance, you would have to be close,
so it did not help you defeat the devil,
which you’re undoubtedly making up as well.
You cannot throw marshmallows
into black holes, you would be crushed
by the gravity, far sooner than pushed
within marshmallowing range.
You did not **** nor disembowel
a mutant roll of paper towel
nor did you invent the interrobang.
I wish you would just please quit trying
to convince me that you came back from dying
especially after you weren’t mauled by a bobcat.
You did not inject yourself with nanobots,
or anonymously author a Times Best-Seller
about the struggling wife of a poor bank teller.
Stop deluding yourself, Johnny, it was only a dream.
Son, go back to sleep.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 4:56 PM UTC
The tides of time are timid, slow and still
The people lack desire, passion and will
The people are in boxes and all think quite the same
The fates of people are decided through a twisted game
The people all are happy with the way things seem,
After all, their struggle is living the American Dream
Although the dream is pleasant and it may feel right
The people begin to stir, as if on a cold, dark night
The mind may stir if only to shiver from the breeze,
It keeps a person stirring, unable to sleep with ease
With the subtlety of the breeze the thought will shift,
As the people awaken they’ll be free to find their gift
The tides of time have begun to churn
The people are waking and begin to learn
They start to think free and stretch their mind
They are searching for answers of their own kind.
They work not for themselves, but strive to help the whole
A world of people living together, each playing their own role
Each person working together despite gender, traits or race
Just people helping people to make the world a better place
The gusts of change are roaring, tearing through the plains
The people wake up and are furious to find themselves in chains
They yell and shout in anger for their captors to set them free
They almost give up hope until they realize they hold the key
They break their chains and free their minds to wander and explore
Each person setting out to discover what they love down to the core
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
they do not speak
mouths sutured shut
their words, thoughts, appear on their skin
like some curious cuneiform, deciphered not
by those who wield the scurrilous scalpels
that maimed them
they do not speak
though their screams appear
as a rapacious rash of cocky consonants,
their whispers as smooth vowels
on their exposed hides
they do not speak
but hear the flapping of butterflies’ wings
the blinking of a dead dogs’ eyes
and the sound stars made
upon colossal collapse
they do not speak
but emit eerie odors in fecund olfactory code
“lesser beasts” read with feral snouts
and see on the breached breaths
the silenced try
to conceal
they do not speak
though they see the mocking mouths of their captors
and their words that fly through the air
slicing through these mutes, as if
they were never there
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC