"censoring" poems
Yes, I use violent imagery
Correction: I love using violent imagery
Does that annoy you?
Somehow set you off?
Is it because you wish
That I was a bit more 'normal'
A bit less pronounced, obvious
About who I am?
Are you annoyed because
You wish I'd feel embarrased
Of this part of myself?
Does it **** you off
To see me proudly display
My inner self-
all of it-
Without any of your foolish
Censoring?
Is it perhaps because
I am attempting to accept myself
Whatever I might be, its entirety?
Does it anger you
Because you
You bowed your head
And conformed when
Someone else came
And censored you?
But I
I refuse to do the same
For this is me
And I am not going to
Pick apart and,
Cut out
The bits of me you don't like
The shards
That form the complete picture
I refuse to allow
You to touch them
For this is ME
ME
*Not you
Not your domain*
NOT under your control
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 12:21 AM UTC
They will try to take the words
To tame the language
To anesthetize
Censoring
Limiting
As we lose one word at a time
We will forget
The next generations won’t miss
What was dismissed
And the flowers won’t bloom
The sun won’t blaze
The orange haze will fade
Dullness will set in
In the forgetting
Identity will be lost
Compassion will be lost
We will be lost
In the censorship
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
after witty humour, which spawned slapstick... slapstick can only spawn the last of the known humours... the offensive type, the 'get me out of this straithjacket of everything's fine apathy,' the ugly humour... rude humour... i take oaths humour... i rather write a swear word to oil up than degrade myself with thesaurus usage humour.
why is poetry such a ***** of coding
daily activity...
who needs poetry if the everyday is intact?
atheism didn’t **** god...
it merely killed the logic of myth....
atheism is far worse than mythology...
it just regurgitates facts
to make you submit to them
without the necessary philosophical awe of
finding them interesting...
poetry isn’t dead... it’s a *****
which is worse than death where i come from...
there’s ezra with his fountain comparison:
‘i ****** in it... and put pigmenting chlorine in it -
you **** in it... streaks of blue... i think
that’s called cubism in france.’
did i say alcoholism was engineered by the nazis
for the bomb sarcasm?
cheap humour you say... ah well slapstick was invented
after sarcasam...
i heard the new best anti-ageing cream was butter rather than l’oreal -
there are too many stages in the differences of women,
i quite like the summer spring autumn winter thing going...
it’s like this thing that’s happening right now...
christian nations censor words... like **** cultish **** of the brothel...
and islamic nations invoke words... like kefir (sour milk,
not quite youghurt), dawah... adhan salat abraham...
one party censors words for excess *****
saying: ‘we don’t like swear words in accomplished spelling,
we like dyslexia and **** teen **** graphic...’
sounds about right...
the other party says: ‘we hate censoring ***** words,
that’s doubly censoring,
censor ***** words get more dirt out of it...
we invoke the power of arabic to teach koran latin for
the knobs!’
problem sorted... we’re all power brokers of spelling /
punctuation / arithmetic -
that’s what i don’t get,
the ratio of the two languages...
all you have in the digits A to Z is spelling and punctuation...
but what you have in the digits ZERO to NINE
is so much more...
is grammar a castle that’s keeping certain functions out?
in mathematics you have +, x, obelisk, -, square root, etc.
but in linguistics you have this permament reminder:
SPELL RIGHT FROM WRONG AND RITE FROM THONG.
well... ****** me timbers...
i think i just spotted a lumberjack chequers tweed jacket.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
I refuse to stay silent
I've participated in the day of silence twice now
The first time in 8th grade
We got cards that explained why we weren't speaking
I stayed silent the whole day
And felt quite special about it too
Lunch was a long game of charades
And I thought to myself
"I can't wait for the next day of silence."
And I hardly thought about why I was being silent
To begin with
9th grade I did it again
I brought a whole pack of sticky notes with me
And by the end of the day,
I felt the need to plant a tree
To pay the world back for all the paper wasted
I broke my silence by lunch time
Because my friend needed to tell me
How much she wanted to ask this girl out
And I wanted to ask this boy out
And I went home that night
Hardly thinking about why
I was (mostly) silent that day
April 11th would be my third year
Participating in the Day Of Silence
If I was participating
Which I won't be
Not become I'm homophobic or anything
Oh, no
But I began to think about being silent
And what it accomplished
What does it accomplish?
I realize it's supposed to be symbolic
Of LGBT youth whose voices are forever silenced
Because they decided their life should end
On their own terms
Suicide is a taboo word
A stigmatized topic
I'm not gay, or bi, or trans
But there are nights
When suicide looks easier
But I can't tell anyone I feel like this
Because no one likes discussing ugly things
And we'd rather live with the pretty lies
And it's much easier to fake a smile
Than lose all my friends
So what kind of message are we sending
When we stay silent on subjects like suicide
And students stay silent
Because they don't want to speak in class
And then feel like they're doing the world a favor
Making some political statement
I want to tell the story
Of the girl who got kicked out of her house
For bringing another girl home
I want to share the tragedy
Of the boy, bullet in brain
Because he was born a she
I want to be the voice
Saying "It's okay."
Not censoring my words
Maybe I'm misinterpreting
What the Day Of Silence is all about
But at least I have the power to say
You will never silence me
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
I have never been good at hiding my anything
under more than a thin layer of trying
to hold back the parts of me not everyone should see
I am not afraid of who I am or how I feel and I don't think they should be either
but I'm sorry if my sandpaper tongue and teary eyes are too much
I'm sorry for the mistakes I have made and the ones I will surely make
because I'm not very good at knowing everything or censoring my sensitivity
I'd like to think that I was good to him and I'll be good to this one too
I'd like to think I didn't make a mess I couldn't clean up because I'm a little bit OCD
And I don't like admitting that I'm afraid if things out of my control
I don't believe in perfection but I like the bright days and I don't want to be the kind of person
that breaks hearts and makes happiness hard
because I like whole, happy hearts
and I still love him
in the hardest way
the way that makes me want his life to not be a part of mine
because I would just like
some peace of mind
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
when you're out of work
a new kind of dictionary defined,
old filters replaced, perspectives refined
take the respite resort word
the "weekend,"
when you are unemployed,
it starts on a Monday,
and runs seven days consecutive,
and the words
"week"and "end" can no longer be married,
for each,
just a new cuss word
when you're out of work,
the sweet small spaces of your home,
revised by the architect
of the mind,
somehow sudden, two sizes smaller,
fewer doors and windows,
light and air, hesitant to enter,
no Vermeer here,
staleness re-covers everything,
new is worn, and worn is
you
when you are fired,
you comprehend the word's meaning clearer,
now, your every thought feels like twelves cylinders firing,
you've become
furnaced, tempered,
dressed daily in an orange yellow colored
jumpsuit, with UNEMPLOYED
across a bent back,
self-censoring the spoken and the unspoken,
when you have no work,
everything important is twice the work,
believing, now a chore,
loving, a labor lost
when you're unemployed
a new kind of dictionary defined,
old filters replaced, perspectives refined,
many words excised,
so few required,
so few desired,
they as well,
rank, and unemployable,
and everything reads
left to right
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
I am not in love,
Well at least I don't think I am,
I mean what is love exactly?
Is it like some crazy obsession with some special person,
Does that person have to be even special?
Like I'm not in love,
Or at least I am pretty sure I'm not,
I would know, I least I hope,
Isn't love, like crazy,
Like indescribable, unattainable, a mystery in itself that cannot be written down and understood in just one poem,
So I guess I'm not in love…
I want to be though,
Although maybe I am because my mind sorta drifts back to you every now and then,
You and your vast mix of imperfections,
Like how you complain constantly,
And how you never know what you want,
And how you insult me every chance you get.
You aren't afraid to be mean, and call me out for my flaws,
Like you don't worship me like other boys do,
I mean, if anything we are friends, but perhaps I like you more...
Weird how it just is ok when we are around and we can talk to each other, openly, with out any censoring whatsoever…
I know more about you then I ever wanted to know,
You remembered my birthday,
And knew when I wanted to be kissed,
Are we just too stubborn to be each others?
Or has fate just not yet allowed us yet,
But I don't know, I just feel normal around you,
Like ok, and If I had a life with you to feel that way,
I be happy, forever
And no perfect boy could ever recreate that mood within me like the way that you do
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
it's not a memorisable lullaby, i don't want to write poetry that requires memorisation by school children; perhaps a riddle, perhaps a jigsaw, perhaps an awakening after the words dig in from their arrangement into your own usage, distinguished.
these days, someone on a social
strata of being absolved
might require a concerned dis-involvement
from nouns, and thus juggle
the pronouns, over-use pronouns
to remain politically accurate and sound,
for to replace nouns with pronouns
would bleach people, entrapped
in the constant affirmative of something
they once owned but were dispossessed of,
they do that, they stress the usage of pronouns
by a relief a diet of noun usage,
so that a Pakistani dare not use
the associations of the noun that might
decipher his skin as cinnamon in writing,
unless it be pronoun inclusive and noun exclusive,
so as modern society teaches:
become pronoun users with a few distinguishing
nouns congregating, don't learn carboxylic,
don't learn onomatopoeia... keep up with
the bleak egoism that states: not so much self-interest,
but over-pronoun-use and a lack of nouns,
or if used, reduced to quizzes of crosswords
with antonyms and synonyms pronounced;
he who confesses to censoring noun usage
will control the pronoun category
by usurping noun usage freely with a censored usage
that will only provoke counter-nouns / slang /
encoding / the need for surveillance.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
Recently I’ve been censoring myself
Because the things I imagine you doing to me
Are somewhat brutal
And the fact that I enjoy the thoughts
Disturbs me.
The thought of your hands slapping
Things that have only ever been caressed
Excites me.
You make me hurt
All over, and inside.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 6:58 AM UTC
Free unrestricted journal publications
Words are bombs, dropping ink and paper
Typeface whistle blower and in your face
Chasing stories and truth, free the gonzo
The revolution in print, internet, television
Notepads, computers, and wi-fi
Liberated publication for all open eyes
A world of free thinkers and literary fact
No comment from the silent advertisers
Their payment in truth concealing lies
The United Censoring Of America
The political principles of censorship
Glory or death, guts and congratulations
No justice, no peace, no surrender
We’ve got the voice louder than power
The accuracy of enigmatic liberty
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 4:02 PM UTC
I see those words of trite frivolity
Words of surface anger and childish spite
Words written to hurt others instead of relieve their own pain
Defended by your words of seeming righteousness
I see your words that seem to propagate
The overinflated egos of the tedious, tiring, and mundane
Yet attack just the same the differences that make life interesting
I see the truth in your hypocrisy
I see the lies in your delusions of grandeur
I see popularity has been mistaken for true friendship
You lead your flock of insipid sheep to decimate the poetic landscape
Without acknowledging the beauty in the jagged rocks
Words hurt just as much to read as to hear
Even when they are not meant for my ears
I feel those words that have been seen as heroic
I feel their truth in an honor perceived by the selfish and vapid
There are no apologies for defending those who have already defended themselves
It breeds a mob mentality that works against what you claim to stand for
Freedom in all things
Free speech, free love, free artistic license
Yet censoring the unwanted by force feeding your opinion as fact
Spewing repeated derision, contempt, and disdain
That is not peace in poetry
That is not an honorable act
And it is not an oversight, sadly
I prefer peace and tranquility
To an eye for an eye
Vengeance has no place here
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:09 AM UTC
*yeah, let's compose the alphabet in music for each letter we try to sound like a wine bottle cork unplugged from vintage; it won't work, i known, but it might get a few skidding on gizmo go go, trying to democratise iran: try turning iran sunni first, you, you defrosted snowman worth a carrot and two chalk coal ******** writing: hardboiled into sight of believable. oh here comes a white man talking privy aloud with the rapper loosing breath, but keeping it up and replacing the pelvic hinges with easy, drool, rhymes; a kind of rubric tablature of scores for rodeo with alternative sounds to: moo, ow, ah, broomstick shoo, take the cow for a milking home from the dead bull dazzled into genesis on t.v.; or that other literati spectator sport of not reading but talking oneself into academic bibliography for an intro.*
the great thing about being an alcoholic...
you never quiet know
when you're drunk or hungover;
but it makes up for great twilight sunsets
pooh lonely; ah ooh smooch -
kisses a honey stick stuck to ****
in a hollywood crescendo of
paparazzi and applause;
and anorexia; and dyslexic oiling for a facelift:
that's called smiling i have you know -
enter michael jackson - hippie hip he;
if i die aged thirty, i'll be happy to have
been frisky twenty-nine into a thong.
*or, alt., tell ****** about the swimming pool and the tadpole kenyans sprinting into impregnated landownerships of priests: sounds like this: pst - herr führer - die schwimmin poolst erst niener jessy ovens geeignet. no one said that african buttocks couldn't bayou the ships ashore, but they did; what?! i'm not the 12" dangle! you keep up racism, i'll keep up mozart's austria; alt. please see how censoring adjectives in relation to objects gives you a false moral subjectivity that's only a matter of pleasantries.*
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
They salute the setting sun-
The invocation of eternity in a dark glass bottle
Colored in by the furious scribbling of a black marker
Always on the verge
Of empty;
To the dull cacophonous squeak that erupts from the tip of that thing,
Irate in its placid path towards obscurity,
Censoring the callous morning light from refracting
Into the chasms of some finitely empty infinitum
Otherwise dedicated as the blunder of nomenclature:
Reality.
But to the muted and forlorn residue of the aforementioned,
The fiery chill blazing down upon fair human hearts,
Only meek eyes and ears perceive You in Your squandered state,
Your quiet quintessence,
Your opaque perfection.
Shine on, though I beg!
For even this obfuscating cherubim
Is depraved,
And wicked,
And lacking substance
To combat they who stand aside from the narrow mouth of that empty bottle
Where emptiness becomes palpable while beauty has no form;
Shine!
Luxuriate the few and linger not on the fearful and ignorant,
Scintillate and commiserate with us,
With them,
With those you find and who find you--
Do not confuse yourself with
God!
For God is in the bottle
And God is the marker!
Confess your presence in our souls--give a name to what we cannot
So that when we wake we find no compartment for our passions, no boundaries of love-
Roaming freer than the dancing light made pale by that blasphemous credence of philosophy awry.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 8:30 PM UTC
Still wearing stockings
And heels
Red hair dressed
Spread
And open
On flowery covers
But the crayons are blocking
Censoring
All entrances
Views
With bold colours
Like blood and dirt
On legs
Pillows
Flowery covers
Exits
Still relaxed
Hidden
Behind the crayons
Still in heels
Dreaming
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
She speaks in fragments, inarticulate in front of anyone
But thoughts inside her head seem clear and certain
She keeps on censoring herself, minding the audience
She’s firm on the belief that she can only say so much
People will keep on believing and clinging to their preconceived notions/ arguing and explaining herself are pointless/
She has long recognized this
but she struggles as she wants to speak her mind without qualms, without the fear of being judged and humiliated.
There’s freedom in the company of her thoughts, in intrapersonal conversations, and in forms of art which somehow reflect he highs and lows of her daily existence, and even those that she can barely understand.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 10:01 PM UTC
tonight she threw away those photos of you that i took
on that film camera i bought in orlando
she tossed me my pile of developed photos
i knew the photos of you were missing
and she insisted that she didn't take them away
but i insisted that she did
and she did
and she cracked and told me that she did
in a weak attempt to censor my memories
after censoring every other aspect of my life
she censored my friendship and love and now
she tries to take away my memories of you
but they still linger despite her attempts
and yes, of course i still think of you
i think of those photographs i took
and the time we sat and stared at the ceiling
and the time you held me while i felt close to death
it was nice
i could never forget any of it
but i wish i could at least have those pictures
i want as much of you as i can get now
even if it means that those photos are all i could ever know of you again
because i don't see you anymore the way i used to
i think of you and i smile
wondering if you think of me anymore
and if you do
then do you think of me with a smile
do you still have the photos you took of me
i just wish i could have the one i took of you
you were smiling
you were happy
you were fine
and i was happy and fine, too
i just wish i could have a reminder
of the way it felt
the moment i pressed down on that button
and saw a bright light before my eyes for an instant
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
I hate you and your new car.
I hope every time you go to the gas station, it's three dollars per gallon. I hope you make so many enemies that there's a line to sugar your gas tank, I hope your engine knocks and your head gasket blows and your timing belt snaps and your rims warp and your tires pop every time you pass my street. I could still beat you in a race, even with your ugly sport package and plasti-dipped grill, I could still beat you in a race because I am angrier than you. I am angrier than you, and I always will be.
I hate you,
And I hate your new car.
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 10:39 AM UTC
Atlas shrugged, and the world fell
In violence and despair
Thank God for the rise of Bitcoin
Equitable, fast, and fair
With Galt’s Gulch we take our stand
Our sovereignty to prepare
As Bitcoin keeps on winning
Equitable, fast, and fair
With cancel culture all around
Censoring what you share
Bitcoin is permissionless
Equitable, fast, and fair
With dollars losing value fast
Act smart and stay aware
Hold Bitcoin - based on scarcity
Equitable, fast, and fair
A truth and freedom machine
To which nothing can compare
A portal into cyberspace
Equitable, fast, and fair
The Alpha asset taking ground
For everyone, everywhere
Bitcoin’s here to save or spend
Equitable, fast, and fair
Aug 20, 2023
Aug 20, 2023 at 11:51 AM UTC
A problem with fiat centralized money
Is that monetary accounts can be frozen
Censoring people or nations who refuse
To follow the narrative of those in control
Monetary officials who decide who can use
Money and who is not allowed to use money
Because of their beliefs or ideas or support
Therefore
Because people hold varying beliefs in life
Let’s use a money that can’t be frozen at all
Because this money remains private property
Money that can be held and used by those
On opposite sides of any issue or decision
A bearer asset that is censorship resistant
This money exists - the solution is Bitcoin
Jan 4, 2023
Jan 4, 2023 at 11:02 AM UTC
To speak scientific truth and the ways of nature is now to hate one another, so it seems
Why is this? How possibly could spreading the good seed of knowledge be the equivalent to inciting violence or a hate crime? Humans are far too fragile, as they have been since the beginning of time. All these unnecessary wars, and for what reason? They begin by spreading facts or opinions that evidently cannot be handled. There is nothing more self destructive than humanity. The censoring has begun, and I reckon much worse is to soon unfold. Why must they defend so dearly, what does not exist? We are asked not to label, yet these people label themselves and us within the span of a second for not believing in fantasies. We stand subject to ridiculous trends, power trips, and the dangerous fragility of the human mind. Will there ever be an end?
Jun 16, 2022
Jun 16, 2022 at 6:01 PM UTC
I had to devote conscious attention
to censoring myself, so as not
to offend you.
now I wonder how I ever could love someone
whose very presence restrains me
like that.
and my beliefs are not sacred
as yours are sacred and fragile.
it is my responsibility to make room
for your spiritual fragility
for fear that my unfiltered expressions
might shatter you.
and you might realise that I can be
everything in the universe
that has ever, or would ever
make you catch bile in the back of your throat
with intense repulsion.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 6:47 AM UTC
*don't worry, you're not watching ******** **** but it might be equivalent, given the stature of the words... i never knew why Hebrews complained at the word Jew sounding yuck, and the Poles never minded, even with Pollack... funny... anyways, you either accept this wording or you accept ******** **** your choice.... but censoring spelling is like inbreeding anti-literate farmers who have tractors instead of horses these days... bake that macaroon slightly more, i want to see a suntan on it; chance of a bagel thrown in gratis? i thought so... happy Hanukkah.*
Hier stehe ich mit den Händen voll Blut
Und trage in mir eine beißende Wut
Du sagtest du wolltest den Körper von mir
Und ich gab dir alles gerad wie ein Tier
Ich kann nicht ertragen zu sehen dich leben
So komm her zu mir lass dir den Todeskuss geben
Viele lockte ich schon in den grausamen Tod
Und auch du wirst verfaulen in der Kammer der Not
Winsel um gnade oder schrei es hinaus
Es gibt keine Hoffnung du kommst niemals mehr raus
Denn hier ist dein ende und ich werde es lieben
Zu weiden dich aus am Bunkertor sieben
*Bunkertor sieben
Am Bunkertor sieben*.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
So open our minds could be
To invite each side with a balanced scene
So loud our voices could carry
The righteous solution of a perfect recipe
With the ingredients so perfectly married
Of love, fairness and honesty
But instead our eyes are glued to the screen
Downloading illusions with influence and monotony
The information, as fake as the food we're eating
Served on a silver plate to convince it's certainty
All to rid us of the power we carry
Which is masked with negativity
To confuse us of the reality
That gives us the possibility
To accept one another's beliefs
To agree to disagree
To think for ourselves without all the censoring
If all this was a probability
Our home wouldn't be so naive
Our children would grow into a future of positivity
With certainty of security
And we could all live ever happily
But instead we are taught that fairy tales are for t.v. only
From the same screen controlling our identities
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC