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Rohan Nath May 2017
Stay holding on to the mountain cliff!
For deep down below all you will find is grief.
You have come too far above touching the sky
Imagine about all you have tolerated to come this high.
You may cry and you possibly will suffer.
But retreat is not your word, for you are a cliffhanger.

An accomplishment never comes too easy.
It’s long twisted road full of obstacles and too messy.
Let your hands sore; Let your legs be numb.
But do not be all gloomy then succumb.
Believe yourself and you can accomplish wonders.
Prove yourself mighty, for you are a cliffhanger.

You will initiate your journey as an unknown.
People will mock at you and you will be thrown.
Don’t listen to them and continue your journey
For there will be a time when you will have glee.
Life will show you the best and worst it can offer.  
Pull yourself up and reach the peak, for you are a cliffhanger.
We live for the fat free vanilla cream coffee cups on mornings when we wake before the sun is up, and nights when the silence is trickling icy though. We live for Life. Such a small word, yet remains vague and unanswerable to many people.

A word which concurrently brings upon curiosity and fear inside a simple mind that continuously runs wild with questions. A word who’s meaning can only be defined as a never ending cliffhanger, leaving you with the gut aching suspense of a never resolved story.

We are all blinded by the light paved into the road we created ourselves. Some people look at what a flower has brought into their lives and cherish it, while others hide around a dark corner with harsh opinions and rationalizations. Around that corner a cold reality is approaching, causing a cherished life to be cut short.

That life though, it never dies. For before it shriveled up, it did something amazing. After that flower blossomed, a gust of determination carried it’s knowledge throughout the world to be seen as inspiration. Inspiration, and to once again ambitiously sprout.

We live for the little things that make life worth living. The people. The places. The words. The temporary confidence in knowing what comes next. The cliffhanger. The unwritten ending you’re so eager to place punctuation.
Theia Gwen Apr 2014
I once knew a boy
Who breathed in words like air
We crafted a book together
And selected each sentence with great care

That boy was the best part of every genre
He flowed like sweet poetry,
Kept my thoughts racing like a thriller,
And never gave everything away like all good mysteries  

But that boy left cold turkey
Scrawled me a messy ending
He would never bother to rewrite
I guess that he was only pretending

I never thought you
Would pull a Mockingjay on me
Unsatisfied and bitter
Is how I will forever be

Because our love is a cliffhanger
And you pushed me over the edge
The days waiting for you like
The wind carrying ripped pages

It was anticlimactic
No closure in sight
You let go like it was nothing
While I hold on with all my might

And so you will continue
To breathe in hearts
The way you do air
To you, it's become an art

I will carry on
Gripping a jutting branch called hope
I'll pray you give me a sequel
To the romance we wrote
I had to insult Mockingjay, i'm sorry. I just had to.
Patty Nieberg Sep 2015
I didn’t think I’d lose myself in you
Hesitating to fall,
It was a brave conquest
At the edge of it all
Looking down into a pit
And so I went without looking
Convinced that you’d be at the bottom
To crush my fall
Who knew you were the one to push me.
iridescent Oct 2015
You know, sometimes people who don't deserve your thoughts come to mind. And you are one of those.
Maybe that is why it is dangerous to let your mind wander. Every wanderer needs a lodging for the night, and you so happened to be that old, tattered shelter in sight.

Some hate rhymes- it's juvenile, for the imbecile.

Some seem to find comfort in it- like the hem of her dress she fiddles with; like the feeling of his teeth, against teeth. It's like seeing old paths in the woods, as though you will never lose your way.

The idea of you was so easily uprooted with even the slightest winds. Fancy naming someone after a hurricane. I wasn't sure if that was heartbreak. After all, you never held it. It slid right out my throat along with the words I said to you. And I wish I could take them back.

I am over you, really. But I can't help that the thought of you always hits home. After all, you were a place I dwelled in for such a long time. Even after you were long gone.

Fill this tastevin with something- anything. Your unsaid words tasted foul. And I just want any trace of you to be removed from the tip of my tongue.

For you were a cliffhanger; and I was hanged.
The thought of people can serve as emotional triggers.
lX0st Aug 2014
The crashing of the waves
Reminds me of my head
Hitting the wall
After I've told myself
A million times
'I can't love you I can't love you'
And the wind
Slapping my face
Reminds me of how I felt
When I watched you walk away
For the last time
And it's your voice
Echoing along the cliff's edge
'Jump jump'.
Jessica Leigh Jul 2014
I think of all the things in the world,
The future is the hardest thing
To hold onto.
Cathyy Feb 2015
When I'm at the end of my rope,
You're my only hope, you're my go to- road.
And if I leave you on a cliffhanger, a slippery *****,
Would you still give me hope? Oh darling please, don't go

Oh make a soundtrack for my life,
Make a playlist so good it'll keep me alive,
You're all I've got, all I want, and I'd let go of my alternative world, if I could keep you in this real one here..

Cause when I'm at the end of my rope,
You're my only hope,
You're my go to road.

And sometimes life is a lonely road,
But I'll hold you close, In my heart
You're my favourite poem.
Shed a few tears.
I really love someone, as well as myself and life of course ;3
He pondered over the note he wrote,
Sat hunched and cold in his chair,
He nodded once as he read it then
And signed the bottom with flair,
The house was not even stirring then
As he rose, looked out at the sea,
It said, ‘By the time you see this, Jen,
I’ll be hanging from some old tree.’

Then he slipped on out to the breaking day
As the dawn was beginning to spread,
He should have been further along than this,
By now, he should have been dead.
He’d heard them stir in the attic room
When he’d come in late from the bay,
His wife and a lifelong friend of his
Who’d thought he was still away.

He’d heard the sound of them making love
As he crept to the attic door,
His face turned white in the passage light
As he sank to the passage floor.
The tears had welled at his eyes at last
As he crept back down the stairs,
He’d lost a friend and his woman, Jen,
And the love that he thought was theirs.

He wandered over the grassland there
To the woods at the edge of the cliff,
But not forgetting to take the coil
Of rope, he held at his hip.
He wondered how many times they’d met
While he was away at sea,
And laughed, the minute his back was turned
To leave him no dignity.

Then pictures rose in his troubled mind
That he shouldn’t have had to think,
He cursed himself, for he must be blind
When his friend had tipped her a wink,
The pain was really too much to bear
For he’d lost not one, but two,
He’d loved them both, she’d broken her oath
And his friend had betrayed him too.

He found a tree, hung over the cliff
That was old and gnarled and bent,
With a sturdy branch that would do the trick,
It was too late to relent.
He flung the rope and he made it fast
Then fashioned the hangman’s knot,
It would swing him out and over the sea
And send him where time forgot.

He tugged on the rope to test the branch
To see if it took his weight,
Dropped the loop down over his head
When a voice cried out, ‘Just wait!’
He turned to see his Jen on the path
That ran alongside the cliff,
‘What are you doing, my love, my love,
Is my love worth less than this?’

She said she’d gone for a walk that night,
Hadn’t been able to sleep,
‘Your friend is up in the attic room
With a woman from Warley Heath.
He only met her a week ago,’
She said, ‘and borrowed the bed.
He said that you wouldn’t mind, but I
Wasn’t impressed,’ she said.

He pulled the rope from over his head
And he hugged his woman tight,
‘I’m such a fool, but I thought that you
And he… It was such a fright!’
The sun beamed down and it seemed to say
That a love so strong was rare,
While a gnarled old tree drooped over the sea
With its rope, still hanging there.

David Lewis Paget
The Good Pussy Feb 2015

                     Cliff Cliff Cliff       Cliff Cliff
                  Cliff Cliff Cliff    Cliff Cliff Cliff
                Cliff Cliff Cliff       Cliff Cliff Cliff
              Cliff Cliff Cliff             Cliff Cliff           
             Cliff Cliff Cliff
            Cliff Cliff Cliff
           Cliff Cliff Cliff
          Cliff Cliff Cliff  
        Cliff  Cliff   Cliff
         Cliff Cliff Cliff
            Cliff   Cliff
Reggie Johnson Feb 2015
Caught in a bind
The girl wish she could rewind
Coming to this Crazy Cool world
But the thoughts of them ran through her mind
She was so intrigued by the author for his creativity
Yet she's smitten by the town's sheriff she wants to indulge on her naivety  
She had been coming and going so much that she lost a sense of what was real and what was fake
The more time she spent in this fantasy world the more she could relate
The more she fell in love
The more she felt torn
Finally the two of them gave her an ultimatum

"Listen to my heart" said the author verbatim
I was drawn to you before and after bringing you to this world
I only wanted you to be my one and only girl
So would you please give me a chance
At your heart and give in to true love's romance

"Listen to my soul" the sheriff said with a gaze. It's been but a moment, but I've loved you for days. I see it in your eyes that you see the magic in this world. So stand by my side and be my Crazy Cool girl."

Time stood still as they waited for her decision
What is she going to do?
"I choose...."

Gonna have to wait for installment 2
Luna Craft Sep 2015
Humanity is on the rocks
And we are nearing the edge too quickly
Pollution and overpopulation have filled the fallen forests
Popularity is all that matters now
Yet to care about your appearance is vain
Death is glorified to look like a romantic gesture
The world can’t continue like this
We can’t continue like this
Ashley Willson Dec 2014
I've sat on that precipice
Feet dangling
Tempting the abyss
As it yawned back.
We stared
At ourselves
With the torturous gaze
Of one who can
No longer see.
Lingering there...
Until it was clear
With no way back
It swirled and
Nicole Fox Oct 2013
Lately your belly laughs and dry humor are flooding my mind. The only times we make eye contact are over volleyball nets and ice cream sales. Once the most important man in my life, you no longer fill the position. I fired you.
But then again, it’s like you quit. Instead of asking me about my day, you tell me about your new girlfriend. I’m beginning to forget the directions in which the wrinkles around your eyes move. I can’t exactly pinpoint your gray hairs anymore. You once embraced me with a father’s love but now pat your hand on my back.
Despite the frigid weather when you left, it didn’t seem so cold. But nine months has now felt like nine years and the temperature has only declined. It’s no surprise considering communication has never been your strong suit. Every time you speak is a cliffhanger. I am dangling from heights unknown, waiting for an answer that may not come. I want to submerge myself in your company and harmonize our voices in conversation. How are you?
My eyes do not reflect the chocolate brown in yours but instead radiate blue like the ocean. Unfortunately this is not our only contrast. Funny how years ago our faces were so similar but now that things have changed our only mutual feature is our height.
You’re half my original chromosomes but I don’t even know half of your day. Where do you go when it’s dark and the moon is shining down over you? What do you call home? Your absence is a mystery I cannot solve. The position I once promised you has been filled by a more qualified candidate; you wonder why I’m always with my boyfriend.
Although I am angry, I am sure this is unintentional. My hope is that this is only temporary. The only question is, how long will you be gone; when will you re-apply?
miss you
Ty Aug 2013
why hasn't anyone even noticed
I'm standing on the edge
Breeze-Mist Aug 2016
I may not be writing this story
I don't know what you're intending
But please, dear author, please
At least tell me if there is an ending
A poem dedicated to my love/hate relationship with cliffhanger endings.
“When we hand down
This flag to posterity
Paying prices of life
To the country's
Age-old sovereignty
It is  with a word of caution
'This generation
Should accord due attention
To handing down
To the coming generation
A new Ethiopia
To fruits of development
A cornucopia!' ”

“Yes, grandpa
Working day and night
We shall take Ethiopia
To a new developmental height!

Once Ethiopia was great
How could we that forget?

The country's renaissance
Firm we shall advance!

For common growth
Resources we
Shall harness,
Allowing the region
Soar with wings of success!”//

I am happy to announce the birth of my poetic drama
In the Vortex of Passion's Wind
By United P.C-publication without risk and quickly (Austria)
ISBN 978-3-7103-2109-2
Release date09092015
About the book
Shock treatments that attend the wrong turns of life reshape people's mindset anew and nudge them out of their slumbers. On the other hand, as forewarned is forearmed, the sagacious learn from the lapse of the trigger-happy than indulge in the vortex of passion's wind. Miss not this page turner and cliffhanger mainly dealing with ***/AIDS in a campus of a country worst hit by the pandemic.

Please buy and read the book.You could also get your collection of poems published by www.unitedP.c-publishquickly and without a risk
A poem I wrote on a flag day nothing the national feeling being eroded by cultural imperialism
The gift, the curse
The reason for life
It helps, it destroys
Just the same as a knife
We take it for granted
It's a wonderful thing
It never goes to waste
Like a beautiful ring
It taps on windows
It breaks down doors
It revives nature
But, that's what it's made for
If you ask yourself
What brings joy and pain?
My favorite thing in the world
The Rain
A poem I wrote about four years ago to my mother during church because I couldn't jam out in my head. Enjoy.
David Hall Aug 2015
years ago I know not exactly when
my journey came to a quiet end
I retired here to these spacious halls
to live out my days inside these walls
I’ll tarry here forever more
while life goes on outside my door

I had my days beneath the sun
the sun has set but my days go on
life’s river flows on towards the sea
but I find myself upon the beach
and whatever life was left to live
has flowed well, beyond my reach
"Some people die at 25 and aren't buried until 75."
Benjamin Franklin
M Hughes Jul 2013
Life is a rhetorical question.
An eternal cliffhanger
with no resolution.

Society is a suspenseful saga
in constant production.

We each ceaselessly endure
the quest
masked with bold determination
that is consistently annihilated
by the perplexing
yet ever-compellingly beautiful
unanswerable question
that is life.
Jessica Leigh Sep 2014
"The future is even harder to hold onto
When you have no chance of living it."
-Anna Gray
Nigel Obiya Jun 2010
Self analysis?
Or self induced creative paralysis?
There's a fine line
Between correcting, perfecting... and losing your spine
Is a critical look at what I do
And it's a positive, laid back method too
Go with the flow
Make you read it quicker/faster/sprinting
Michael Johnson... or, slow... mo'
"These new generation poets, they just don't know no more"... They say
The older generation, fail to understand how we play
With words... swim with the sharks
And glide with birds
Dangerous sometimes... poetic cliffhanger
Still stronger
Faith is unbreakable... diamond
lasts longer
You see?
It's 'kicking', like a thousand ninjas...
And Bruce Lee.
J Michael Apr 2019
She winked at me...
Through the northern breeze,
Carrying the oil
For the painting I'd breathe.

Climbing the boughs,
I gently waved.
Over stately lines,
Above their leafy train.

My bedded Sun,
Lay behind hill's crest.
Wayward moon pining,
Empathizing with mine.

Before the stars came running,
A counsel to the lonely bodies.
I left that artful canopy.
Smiling, I think,

"She thought of me."
mark john junor Sep 2014
thorns in the thicket of thought and
thistles of the heart's crown makes a bitter tea
which she pours thin for her porcelain dolls
with plaster-of-paris cakes 'n' cookies neatly adorned
with christmas colors daintily painted in blood and tears
the bard speaks the rueful tale with cliffhanger pauses
and excited joyous moments enclosed in the
crisp images of winter wonderland
the bard is a figure of such stories
long white beard and eyes that twinkle like stars
but now that the tale is told
the song sung.....
the bard retires his joyful face in his private room
with its smoky mirrors
and clutter of memorials to his younger days
his words once on the powdered lips of elegance
now are the dirt stained humble man's bread and butter
they were grand stories
they were adoration's to velvet goddesses....
but now they are but thorns in the thicket of thought
picturesque visions of nubile nymph's only sadden the old man
the bard packs away his joyful face
it is for the readers whom he loves
the road weary eyes linger upon her lace
she was a beautiful moment of summer in his winter life
she's now a sacred image protected by
thorns in the thicket of thought
Butch Decatoria Feb 2019
MEGA-man! & The s i c k l y  WORLD!

“Who survives?!”

Each other’s exhalations.
Xander Duncan Feb 2015
He is a book that was recommended to me just after I passed the shelf on which he was displayed
When I said I hadn’t been reading much lately
Life gave me a chapter full of pictures to begin with
And told me that one page at a time is still progress
In fact, one page at a time is the only way to make progress
He’s a well-read book with new words for every reader
And instead of leaving paper cuts on my hands he leaves ink stains
There are golden letters on his spine that I’ve taken to tracing absentmindedly every time I re-read a phrase
And dog eared pages that I’m not sure I have the authority unfold
He’s captivating
And quickly becoming my favorite story
He is English as a second language and still teaching me more about my tongue than I ever knew
Translating fears into excitement and confusion into intrigue
I didn’t know my skin was cryptic until he decided to decode me
But now I’m fascinated with hunting for the hieroglyphics in his neurons
Listening to tales spun by our own curiosity
Story time trumps bed time whenever possible
And when we decide that language itself is sometimes a ****** up means of communication
We try for morse code heartbeats and braille necklines and bizarre entanglements of hands
And when we decide that sometimes language itself is the best thing in the world
We talk the hours of the clock down to ticking hands and hourglass sand
Or get distracted and I’ll decide that I could travel the world in one night using the roadmaps in his veins
Where I’ll get lost and ask for directions and go through the same streets again anyway
Because I didn’t see everything the first time around and I really enjoy the journey
He is a pronoun that sounds good between my teeth and tastes like learning how to whisper before you learn how to speak
One of those words that I was never sure I was pronouncing right because I learned it by reading alone and deciphering based on context and roots
But he’s also one of those words where once you learn it you start hearing it all the time
And you swear that the whole world acquired this new term with you at once
He is nostalgia in a new experience
Nostalgia-- roots meaning home, or to return home, and a pain or sickness
He’s a homesickness that draws me to him every night
And he is a wanderlust that draws me away from the home I’ve known
Convincing me that comfort zones need exploring the same way tropical zones do
He is an encyclopedia on staying warm in Michigan winters
An atlas from desert countries
And a topographical map that makes me think
I could learn to like geography
Or cartography because he knows that the best way to record new terrain is to explore it first
And I’m content to be a notebook full of scribbles detailing the peaks and valleys and abandoned alleys
And arrhythmic patterns of wind set to traverse through tracheas, reaching lungs only when necessary
He’s the breath I forgot to take when a cliffhanger was resolved
And I don’t always know if I’m a page-turner or just a bookmark within one
But he’s a genre that’s meant to be read under the covers with a booklight until the sun comes up and reminds you that time isn’t as frozen as you hoped it was
And even when I don’t know if we’re on the same page
He tells me that there’s a reason that books have more than one
And I’ve never been good at guessing how stories are going to end
But I'd like to spend some more time reading
Sky May 2018
With a story like mine,
you could write a book.

The lines would be red,
filled with hatred and pain.

Nobody would see the plot twist
from a million miles away.

The once trusted figure,
so pure and good.

Now the criminal villan,
smiling with her knife.

But it wasnt a knife
that I saw that night.

It was something worse,
to scar my eyes.

But I'll never know how
the story ends.

The cliffhanger of the century,
headlines would read.

But it's all because of the
lack of leads.

And at the end of the day,
it would be marked fiction.

With a story like mine,
you could write a book.

But nobody would believe it,
so why bother?
April Hapner Apr 2012
inhale, breathe,
let it go....
strike a match,
let it flow...
give it air, space,
give it something sweet to taste...

feeling the air, humidity,
sticky moments here with me...

shadows looming, pouring like rain
effort put forth [again and again]
inhale-- breathe... let it go...
my feelings, my therapy,
ALL in what i see.

rise, fall-- shadows looming
flowing in awe, giving the air that sweet taste--
of the sweet serum on my face...
eyes open wide, full of suprise....

so strike a match, let it flow,
give it air, have a taste,
oh-- i can imagine the look on your face.

speaking of memories--
happy, sad, a few inbetween
its always interesting-- what they do to me.

shadows calling, continuing--
cliffhanger, devour me!

humid, hot, sticky--
fresh, clever--
enveloped in my senses
caught in delight..

yell me, what did i mention? witness?
inspired by an event told by text message.
Cassidy Mae Dec 2015
i feel antsy
on edge
like an itch i can't scratch
i'm unsure of what i want
but i know i want it bad
i'm desperate for a little relief
from this desire that i don't
fierce and hot
running through me
veins on fire with need
someone quench
this flame
Tony Scallo Aug 2013
Life. Such a small word, yet remains vague and unanswerable to many people. A word which concurrently breeds curiosity and fear inside a simple mind that continuously runs wild with questions. A word who’s meaning can only be defined as a never ending cliffhanger, leaving you with the gut aching suspense of a never resolved story. Controlling our lives like a marionette puppet with the strings being attached to the four characters L, I, F, and E. But alas, we are all blinded by the light paved into the road we created ourselves. A cracked road filled with the seeds of our generation, aided in growth from our blinded light with ambitions of reaching the sun. We give our seeds a warm reality, which sparks the blossom it’s wanted to expose to the world, the reason it was given a chance as a seed to begin with. Some people look at what that flower has to brought into their lives and cherish it, while others hide around a dark corner with harsh opinions and rationalizations. Around that corner a cold reality is approaching, causing a cherished life to be cut short. That life though, it never dies. For before it shriveled up, it did something amazing. After that flower blossomed, a gust of determination carried the seeds of it’s knowledge throughout the world to be seen as inspiration. Inspiration, and to once again ambitiously sprout from the crack in the road we’ve so blindly created.
Bruised Orange Oct 2011
it'll get bad reviews, we should scrap the project before it breaks the budget*

we sit and talk
art and beauty, love and fear
my heart cracking open,
and you, rushing in.

we sit and talk,
play at the deadly game
ignore the consequences
shun the inconsistencies.
the words, words, words
they swirl,
and we slip, we slip, we slip

--its a real cliffhanger

hearts on sleeves
music weaves
stories come to light

secrets, oozing out between
the well crafted lines of
our carefully scripted plot

we sit and talk circles around
the herds of white elephants
that come to watch the show.
mocking us, they laugh
as we tiptoe through
fields of daffodils
under dark skies
with rainbows.

(scene change now)

in dark of night
i squeeze out hope
from my heart.
god ****** hope
twists up and knifes
me in the side, leaves
me bleeding on the floor.

and you, fool you are
rush to my aid.

if you're saving me,
who's saving you?

you with your secret
decoder ring from your
box of caramel corn.
cracking my heart,
you peel my layers.

your questions run deep
but your feet will run faster,
and i'll fall, i'll fall, i'll fall.

gravity's a real drag,
i've felt it's pull before.

me with my third eye
see the pan and play.
this show will end
leaving us all sitting
in our seats wanting
another thirty minutes,
a tidier ending.
this ain't Disney.

we'll feel like we've been
ripped, ripped, ripped

no refunds here,
go file your complaint
with the man upstairs.

the audience stands,
turns to go.

white elephants know there's
no silver lining, no *** of gold.
they threw popcorn at the screen
but you didn't notice.

i always hated white elephants;
i thought you did too.
who invited them to the show?

we step outside,
no curtain call,
no applause

this hail falls down
on a sunny blue day.
afraid to touch you, but

i want to catch you in my mouth.

would you please
just go away
before i end up with lumps
on my head, in my throat?

my eyes blinded by the sun,
the hail, this ill fated show

--bruised orange
I was never superstitious
but if incarnation would be true
let me live a thousand more lives
condensed and liquified
as an ink to your mind's pen,
as words to your drunken poetry.
Let each stroke embody
every curve of my body
that your hands have ever held
so long.
Cross your t's
telling the story of our love
how one point was met
with another with a line,
replacing what once
was empty space.
And dot your i's
with the periods of our story;
from our book's first sentence
in the introductory
to the last sentence
of our cliffhanger.
Hi Gibson, of Algonquins table. i want to accept that your comments are elderly and full of  scholastic charm. I have been appreciative to you in each and every situation. I still promise that i will listen to you in the future.I have looked at your photography it shows you are an elder. in this perspective an intellectual elder and an elder in the global community without regard to race and geography. you are the age of my father and thus i am bound to respect you as my father.However, i am intellectually emboldened by both logic,reason,ethics and wisdom of the times to differ with you on a few factors in relation to my story poem humanity of Jesus Christ.First you over focused on my grammatical and typing mistakes in relation to English language  and also on the issue of whether Nazareth was in the colony or it was a colony.By this selfish focus you failled to remember that my inference of Nazareth as a  colony was simply my employing of a poetic tool of synechdoche.I can use one to refer to all or all to refer to one.Just like the same synechdochal experience we have in the bible where Jesus was referred to as son of David , son of man, son of God, and so forth.My in ability to use  written English which can impress you should be  seen as an intellectual anachronism. I am not a chauvinist of English language. I have my own native language which is more mature than English. i don't have any motivation to treat a deficient language like English with any earnest. Secondly i wanted you to see the point of Jesus physical deformity, afilliative relationship with Mary Magdalene and the experience of his mother in the bombazine. you have not seen this.When his brothers slavishly laboured for  Joseph of Aremathea and Yude his last brother slapped him you have deliberately refused to see.
There is another problem i want to point out,i was responding to Theodore not you , but you came out in full combat armed to your teeth with drones of your academic superlativity. Here you are wrong. You lacked the virtue of intellectual humility. Why are you always joining Theodore and his foot soldiers to attack other participants on this table ? or you want me to forgive you by concluding that all Americans have a burden of proving to be Americans and hence this tempo of cliffhanger civilization ?
The references you have mentioned in your riposte lack the element of universality. Most of them are published in north America.These preceded by a current world quagmire that usually in every social , political and intellectual situations North Americans fail to have behave publicly by wanting every thing to look American . And even their social researches have always been skewed by a bias that the results must ring an American tone.You have not quoted any work written in french language,Russian language, Germany language nor Arabic  only not mention Yiddish. You have displayed an avoidable limitation.Kindly research again into humanity of Jesus Christ for the benefit of those who depend on you intellectually.


Alexander k  Opicho
David Chin Nov 2015
Everyday we go through
Heaven and Hell.
It's a constant battle:
Good versus Evil.

We go through so much
Pain and Heartbreak,
Joy and Excitement
But we're overwhelmed.

For every positive feeling,
There's a negative feeling.
For some of us, that
Negative becomes too powerful.

We become flooded by all
The could've, should've, would've,
The maybes and what ifs.
We forget the little things.

We lose our friends, but
Depression and Anxiety.
We feel dark and cold inside
And we isolate ourselves.

Don't get too close to us
Because we're contagious!
Every second we fade
Deeper into our minds.

We want the world to
Stop so we can relax
And clear our minds
But it just spins faster.

We become so overwhelmed
By negativity that we push
Those close to us further
Because we don't want to hurt them.

Our minds become a whirlpool,
A black hole, pulling us
Down faster and further
And there is no escape.

The only way to stop this,
In our heads, is to say
"The end"
Maybe then it will end.

But it doesn't have to end.
As writers of our lives,
We can end it
Or we can pause.

We can end it with
An "!", "?", or "."
But instead let's pause with
A semicolon.

A semicolon let us
Breathe and gather our thoughts.
It tells everyone that
It's not over yet; just paused.

As writers of our lives,
Pause and rethink our decision
Because our stories are not over yet;
There's so much more left.

Regret nothing from our past.
Rethink no decisions made
Or decisions that we didn't make.
Live in the now and for the future.

We owe it to our friends,
To our families, and
Most importantly to ourselves
To not end but pause.

We all crash and burn, and
That could be the end but
We can be the Phoenix and rise
From the ashes stronger and better.

There are times when I
Felt like giving up and saying
The end, but I remember
My friends and family and the good times.

I could've ended my story
Making it into a tragedy
But instead of ending every sentence,
I paused and carried on.

My story isn't over yet
Because there are no much
That I want to do in life:
Medical school, marriage, kids.

My story is not complete
And I don't want to
Leave a cliffhanger for
My friends, family, everyone.

Out stories are not over yet.
We have so much to live for.
We have so many goals:
Graduation, Job, Love.

Insp;re each other and
Everyone going through the same thing.
Be the warr;ors we are determined to be
And f;ght hard like your life depends on it.

Be a warr;or!
F;ght on!

Our stories are not over yet.

Robert Frost said,
"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood."
We have two choices.
Pick carefully; it'll make all the difference.

Pick left and end your story
With an "!", "?", or "."
Or pick right and pause
Your story with a semicolon.

Be a warr;or!
F;ght on!
Our stories are not over yet;
In memory of those who committed suicide.

To those who have thought about suicide or hurting yourself, have hurt yourself, and/or are suffering from mental illness, know that there are people here who will listen and talk to you. Know that you are not alone.

If you or someone you know have thought or are thinking about suicide, please call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255). Someone is available 24/7.

This poem was inspired by Project Semicolon (
rivy Aug 2017
I choke on the tears I won't let fall
they stay buried deep down
left in the back of my eyes
like waterfalls
waiting to crash
and break your backbone
bruise every inch of your skin
every piece she touched
destroy the memory
and every flashback
my mind
flooding with words for you
secrets I've just found out
but my lips stay sealed
my feet stay planted on the ground.
I won't fall,
not this time.
Allyssa Apr 2019
A story isn’t a story without the beginning.
A beginning that told us from the start that there was an end,
An end so near that we were not ready.
I was afraid of the cliffhanger that approached quicker than a rolling thunderstorm,
A storm that looked only of dark skies with hopes of a drizzle,
Not a flood.
Our passion died like the fire within that storm,
The drizzle that turned from a downpour into a flood warning into a whirling tornado of unhappiness.
My dear, I wish I could say we were the storm but I was the rain and you were the fire but the thing was,
You saw me coming.
You saw the storm and the rain yet you lit yourself upon a dry Sahara of promises and the secret I do’s we whispered to each other during the night.
That dry, crackled earth turned soft and squishy from the waves of turmoil that rained down onto the surface,
The fire doused with remorse over a lost lover.
You weren’t dead,
You just left without saying goodbye.
The ****** was nothing of a ****** but a steady decline of I love you’s to, “Have a good life,”
To barely talking,
To trailing down a hill to the very end of our story,
I regret everything but you, my darling.
The damp earth will grow again and while I may remember the dry Sahara,
I will grow a rainforest of color without you in it.
I’m back.
Jon Tobias Dec 2010
One day

I am going to look out my bedroom window and say

It’s a nice day outside

One day

I will learn to love the heat and not the cold cushion of my bed

I will love the sand under my feet

And I will not be afraid to get wet

Run face first and dive into the hissing water

And say

**** my phone

I don’t need it anymore

Let it soak

Because if you’re not here with me now

You’re probably ******* your computer with your fingertips

What’s my status?

Alive ******* and not at home

I never will be again

I have seen one too many earthquakes

From behind the white walls of this house

Wondered too many times

what a mountain tastes like

Blood and teeth I bet

What a river feels like

Rushing white and rapid beneath me

What adrenalin feels like when I have to catch myself from falling

Rather than catch my breath from watching

Another bomb explode in some cliffhanger I am not hanging from

Here is your noose

Made of zipties and wires

The day I die

I will greet god

diving into a valley of his own creation

Rather than in a place of mine

The last thing I will ever text

I am not here

And if you are not with me

You are reading this

******* your phone somewhere

You had your chance

I got mine

And I’m taking it
Katelyn Arnold Feb 2014
the only times i tried to sink was into the ocean of
your head and climb the trees of your branches and
remember every hole made by woodpeckers, every
crease in your body like origami, every complex
part of you that i knew, i would never be able to grasp
2. my body is a guillotine, and you're in my chokehold
3. if i could explain how warped and unpredictable
my head can get, you would think i needed rehabilitation,
but i don't need rehab, i need you and since you're never
around, i feel myself draining and breaking apart again
4. if you're a book, why do you seem to abruptly
stop in midsentences? and why am i so eager for
the cliffhanger to continue?
5. you make me wanna puke until my lungs give
out but why did i wake up at three am crying
tears of joy at the simple fact that you want to
see me again after everything that's happened?
6. i would break the waves in half to bring you
back from drowning in your self hatred, bring
back the old you, and throw out the new you
7. i am not typical, i am original, so don't treat
me like i'm everyone else you meet.

- kra

— The End —