"coerce" poems
Community -
it's not so much a social force
it's not out to coerce
it's an embrace
and in the end
that's what it's all about
it's a focus on people
it's a focal point on community
a common unity of those entwined
common folk connected and over-lapped
those over-wrapped by common loves
securely bound by common ties
occupying common ground
filling common space
with a wrap-around embrace
that lasts a tight hold longer
that ignores odd body odour
an embrace that lasts
a whole lot together
- It's what we have
in common
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 4:07 AM UTC
Witches are eating the toes of a troll with a spoon,
boiling blood in a cauldron, and chanting
mischievous lyrics in the silver moon.
Feel their devilish ways cursing life,
casting ugly spells and cackling at
tormented suffrage and strife.
Watch in horror while witches dance,
stripping away sanity by carrying off
hope with no redeeming chance.
**** this nightmare caused by witches,
hypnotizing minds by changing their
appearances.
Hunting desperate men for affection,
seducing the weak to coerce their
love like a **** infection.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC
A strange kind of people
whose hegemonic ways dictate
and justify them
to exhort their rituals upon outsiders
and breathe fire on those
who refuse.
They have people called Slareneg
whose job it is to decide the fate
of the outsiders.
They claim to be receptive
of foreign rites
but are known to somehow be able to
coerce others into
blindly discerning matters their way.
They even have a history of
confining their own,
the ones they care not for at least,
to do their bidding for them
even though they are of akin heritage.
These people also defecate in the same place
where they consume meals.
They are backwards.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
In this space and time, that we call memories,
Eyes closed tight…we wince to recall special moments long gone.
Some, we merely exist to relive, and others are meant for painful lessons learned.
Strumming through the cobwebs, we coerce ourselves through this jaded door,
Only to find, this time, a feeling of sorrow followed by expressions of grief.
Like a bank account, we deposit memories daily,
Some are easily recalled and others are over and done.
It’s those memories that reside within our hearts that cause special remembrance,
And miraculously, we have the ability to morph these from anguish to memories of tranquil joy!
Sending a smile and all my love to you…….. I’ll be watching for you in the stars.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 4:50 PM UTC
relaxing? relaxing would be a sin against myself. see God spun and wove golden bits of wisdom in these curls that are mine. see these curls spring loud with
songs of my Nubian
mothers and war cries of my Rasta fathers. see these curls bounce proud to the rhythm of tribal drums and the foot prints of my sisters from Manila reside
there as they roll
lumpia between the coils and springs. see these curls have moved sandstone bricks cross deserts, building divine architecture so perfectly aligned
with cosmos and
planets until Moses told Pharaoh to Let My People Go. these curls have traveled cross oceans and triangles packed like sardines squalid below the decks
of ships. see these
curls have been ***** by the nasty ***** in the big house and suffered sun strokes in cotton fields. see these curls sing loud and strong. See these curls
were branded and forced
at gunpoint behind ******** barbed wire fences gassed to death in the name of so called purification. see these curls bleed the pain of fire hoses and dog
bites and whites
only signs. see these curls wont back down gainst no burnin crosses gainst no swastikas gainst no elephant ******** talkin all that jazz on fox and cnn. see
these curls dance
wildly off beat to straight rhythms that drone on in 4/4 time c major sixty bpm. see these curls are Mas and my Grammas. see my curls are too proud to sit
back and chill and won’t take no **** or heat or hot air. see these curls cannot be contained in braids or scarves or jars of creamy crack. see
these curls dare you
to force them to
coerce them to
straighten up
their act. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls will not
******* relax.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
sometimes
there are rocks in my hands
and only tight clenched fists
can keep them from smashing
the mirror world below
into delicate shards of broken promises.
i long to float among the clouds -
one with the stratosphere -
but the rocks weigh me down
so that i cannot touch them.
reaching
but never reached.
people in glass houses
aren't supposed to throw stones.
so i am sure to keep locked
my loaded palms
hiding in plain sight.
only your lips
with homemade ice-cream touches
can coerce my stagnant fingers
to melt back into warm flesh.
skin bones knuckles joints.
i release the stones over a waterfall cliff -
rushing rolling rambling -
and they ripple in the water
and sink to the soil of the riverbed
making a home for fragile fish
in search of shelter.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
All colors, shapes and sizes. A cunning disguise. Quite stunning. The right fit. A refusal to go the extra mile. Poor Myles. No more fake smiles. A mask. Can coerce a crowd. It's quite loud when your face shows but no sound. His face. It's quite a disgrace. Tells of his battles and all. How many times he's fallen. He's quite clumsy.
He makes it his number one task, to buy a new mask. He's new in town, and wonders why everyone looks like a clown. I mean surely they can't all be happy. Masks. A store. "May I try this one on sir?" Perfect. Task complete. He fits in. But underneath, he's not the same. Possibly insane. He hides something deep, so deep it never speaks. It only sleeps. Family. Friends. They can never tell. What he hides. The mask. It tells lies.
Someone close. Someone you know. Watch closely. Their mask will slowly deteriorate. Dissipate. Time. It may take a while if you try to pry. Their mask. Their completed tasks. Even those close to Myles couldn't tell. Underneath, we're quite different. Don't you see. We all wear our own. How many do you own?
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 1:44 PM UTC
It doesn’t need
Nth number of words
Just to say
Umpteen men
Stoop low
To violate
Invade
Coerce
Enslave
Trample
Oppress
Women
Over and over again
Mindlessly
Estranging
Nature’s fairer ***
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 7:24 AM UTC
To the men who have hurt me, both physically and emotionally. To the men who have sexually harassed me. To the men who have tried to coerce and guilt trip me. To the men who tried to take advantage of me when I was 15, the lowest point in my life. When I was weak. Destroyed from depression, from bullying, from the transition of middle school to high school, from anxiety, from blind parents and others ignorance. To those of you who knew I was in a ****** up state of mind, who pretended to support me when I was crying, only to run your hand up my thigh and whisper "I can make you forget about it." To the boys who abused me, insulted me, struck me, brought a suicidal teenage girl to the point of destruction. To the guy who didn't quite **** me, but who came close. Who grabbed all over me while I shoved and smacked and told him to stop. Who tried to get inside me without my permission and who tried to guilt trip me, calling me a tease and telling me to lay down and pretend nothing was happening if it really bothered me so much. Who tried to teach me to retreat inside of myself at human contact so I wouldn't resist. To every guy who approached a mentally destroyed teenage girl who was drowning in herself to try to get ****** favors, to try to get me to trade my body for drugs, to try to bring me down even further so I wouldn't say no. Because I did say no. I always said no and fought and nearly vomited every time a guy started groping, started making lewd commentary in what started out to be small talk, every guy that grabbed at me without my permission and leered and tried to grind on me without any context other than you had a hard on and I looked weak enough to force yourself on. I hope someday someone rips you all apart. I hope someone tortures you, tries to blackmail you, coerce you, makes you feel like garbage when you're at your weakest. Because as much as all of you tried, even this fragile, broken teenager rejected you. Fought her hardest to get away from attempted assaults and made it, clawing and screaming away from you. Cried silently as angry, mocking messages came in but didn't dignify them with responses. Ignored angry phone calls from multiple numbers and continued to live, even when you all tried to break me into a *** slave. **** every last one of you up the *** with a flaming ***** I hope you all go through hell. I was going through hell and you all tried to destroy me, to incinerate my spirit in the name of getting someone to touch your ***** I hope you go through worse. I hope somebody castrates you. If there is an almighty deity, I hope they curse you for eternity. I hope you all know that the girl you tried to destroy for your own sadistic pleasure is stronger than ever before.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
Bait, cast, reel me in.
In to your trap.
Flatter, flirt, tie me up.
Up around your finger.
Push, pull, make me succumb.
Succumb to your will.
Shove, coerce, force me to feel.
Feel things I did not ask for.
Jade, cloy, leave me in secret.
Secret love for another.
Resign, decamp, abandon me.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 1:28 AM UTC
Be afraid of the bohém, they may write you a silly little poém to make you love 'em.
Or even worse, in reverse, with their verse, coerce your mind and soul to converse.
And even if their ascent is traverse and the obstacles adverse, routes to them are diverse.
They refine their craft to give you a raft, don't be daft, they rehearse for the terse,
tiptoeing over the perverse, not wanting to averse. They wanna choke the horses of your hearse.
They have no need to beg and plead. Just a wish to slap your *** your steed.
They just wanna make fear disperse for it they accurse, knowing well it's a curse.
No need to look for your purse. Your courage will theirs reimburse
and your smile their swollen fingers nurse.
See, the reaper wants the tails of coins thus places them on eyes faced reverse.
The bohém kick groins and leave traces but from coins take a print of the obverse.
Why? Cause they want not heads, but what's in them. They want your head to stay ahead.
Cause when a head is spiked by tails and filled with flashy tales, it is as good as dead.
They want to help you stay afloat - forget about the raft, think bigger, think of a boat.
Like evergreen crickets they ask you to disburse your fears and reverse your tears.
They ask not for a penny, just a thought or two, not many.
Like the ***** eyed and slightly sane miss Moneypenny.
Some call it a gift, many a curse. A curse the bohém can inverse
cause they submerse spirit in a lyrical sea and lower the stars for you to see.
Remember and beware, if you reward them with something as simple a stare,
you could be blinded by a hearty glare. Now you've been reminded, all's fair and square.
So why not just stay there? It's just your spirit they may ensnare like a hare,
only to mend it's wounded knee so that it can again hop away and be free.
Art is the heart of the bohém and their heart is their art.
So if you ever want to, thank them not with money but with a snack,
sprinkle a piece of your heart with honey. They'll bite it and give you two back.
Eat one too and make like a dove to flee to the place you really want to be.
Ride the waves like Nikolai's bumblebee and fulfill your uncharted destiny.
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 4:44 PM UTC
I'll probably go visit my parents on Thanksgiving. I'd hate to miss the way my father nods at my mother's sisters and brothers then steps backward into the shadows until he becomes them. We're having the mess at my aunt's in Seminole. Dad always drives separately. He makes his escape without saying goodbye. Leaving my mother, my sister, my brother, and I to explain the hermit.
I never ride with him. Haven't rode in a car -- just him and I -- since high school. I would lay my head against passenger window. Listen to tires press gravel deeper into the red earth. He never asked my thoughts on God, though a minister. He never asked about my classes, though a former teacher. He never asked about girls, though my father. Glen Campbell, however, he'd talk about Glen Campbell. Claimed I always looked like him. When I was a child, he'd even part my hair sharply and take pictures. What a good, little Glen Campbell. If he took his eyes off the road long enough to hone in on a power line, "Wichita Lineman" inevitably became the topic of conversation. That song would delta off into "Rhinestone Cowboy," "Gentle on My Mind," "By the Time I Get to Phoenix." Soon we'd be in town, knowing each other no better than before the departure. But we arrived. That's something.
To this day, no occasion could coerce me into parting my hair. With the exception of Mr. Campbell's funeral of course.
Tim will love your family. As I did. Still do. I thought he might only be a consolation, but looks like he's a trophy. Happy Thanksgiving, Ms. Anna Prine. I thank you. The fowl of the air thank you. The beasts of the field thank you. Tell them they're welcome.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 6:22 PM UTC
The man from Pakistan.
Not much of my language did he speak.
He couldn't understand my proper English.
So how could we my sanity seek.
Yes he was my shrink.
My misfortune for several years.
So we never made much progress.
Dealing with my silly fears.
I wished that he would help me.
So I tried to coerce him as best as I could.
All of this choosing my words,
did me absolutely no good.
I said I was felling spacey from the pills he
had given me.
He said you think you are an alien,
that is plain to see.
So he threatened me with
institutionalization or hospital.
The big house to be sure.
Luckily, I convinced him, right here as
I lay on his couch, with him, we could find a cure.
As he picked up on his English.
My progress became quite quick.
The silly man thought it his miracle that
I was not so sick.
He got a better offer, from a clinic far away.
He left without a good-bye.
I wonder if he appreciated the English lessons
I wonder to this day.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 7:56 PM UTC
Expression of emotion should never be oppressed
Trust me i know how to yell, you taught me very well,
But this is merely speaking
Hear me when I say I want to cry until we’re floating in the Dead Sea
And my heart no longer curses me with the density to sink
Im trying to escape this catastrophe,
But you coerce until my original thoughts become extinct
Hear me when i say i want to shriek until my reflection shatters
And my soul can equally and oppositely be repaired
Someday i hope my insides can scream as loud as they desire
When ill no longer live under your pharisaical empire
You want me to follow the road you paved for me,
Never falling astray,
but I guess you forget that respect goes both ways
Trust me i know how to yell, you taught me very well
But this is nowhere near
Expression of emotion should never be oppressed.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girl who rhymes
But I’ve got no rhythm tip toe around the precision of other writers
I get lost easily in the waves of patterns and structure
Rupture my skin in the process
Destroying words and phrases in the mess of my skin and blood
Dragging myself through the mud I am a jumble of words that don’t even fit together in sentences
My types of fetish’s aren’t feet or latex, but poetry
Supposedly everyone can rhyme but
My fingers can find the time from the space between pen and paper
Maybe if i cover my room in wallpaper made from failed poems
I’ll finally get there
Rip out all my hair
I’ve never successfully written rhyme worth sharing
I’ve been in this despairing state for a while
Ran miles on my tongue
Wrung myself dry from all my creativity
Found I have a bigotry towards everything I write
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girls who rhymes
I ask for an example
Sample sounds on paper
Ending up with ample amounts of couplets
But its never enough, its always going to fall short
Someone needs to take me to court I’m copying the sound of other writers
Profound thoughts never said eloquently enough
It’s rough to be a writer that doesn’t know how to write
But I’ve never been the type to give up
Cover up all my failed attempts at rhyming with free-verse
Curse me, Or even worse
Coerce me into thinking I know what I’m doing
Because whats worse than blissful ignorance
Hand my a fistful of advice and set me free
But I’ll never be the girl who rhymes rhymes
My fingers will never find the time lost between pen and paper
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girl who rhymes
Sometimes they nearly get their wish
But all dreams parish in jumbles of words in phrases
Blaze through whole journals trying to write two poems
Crumbling my own thoughts in my too fast thought process
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girls who rhymes
I still with pencil and paper
Set out on this caper
With a website that gives me words that rhyme
I’ve decided to let people get their fix
Try my hand at rhymes
Take my time
And slow down my too fast thought process
Soak up all my creativity
A rid my mind of every bigotry I ever had
Because the girl who rhymes
Will always be the girl who rhymes
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
I've chosen to immerse myself in you-
in every little thing you do.
It took so long for me to recognize the curse.
He made it his mission to coerce me,
He made it is mission to decide
every little move I made-
it all came down to wrong versus right.
I chose to submerse myself in my own thoughts,
ignore the facts that were in plain sight.
I was wrong about him,
all that was left was you and
you're all I need
even if all we would have is one night.
I've chosen to reverse,
I set aside my lonely curse
you're worth all the lies I had to sort though-
I finally found you in the light.
Yes, it was worth it to reverse this curse,
just so I could finally smile.
I've chosen to traverse this life with you by my side,
now I know all the pain was worth it-
I'm no longer entangled in the resentment my heart used to hide.
Now I see my future ahead of me,
and no matter how adverse,
I'll always be proud of my decision to reverse.
We are worth everything I had to go through,
I finally have happiness in my sights,
yes, it was worth it to reverse this curse,
just so you could finally be mine.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
Historical-ly,
Black Colleges
Have been chronically
underfunded,
unacknowledged,
Hell -
Unappreciated.
Black culture curates
Common culture.
Black coins buy
Booming business -
Black universities
Breed
Brilliance, Undeniably.
Understand
Black children
Contain unrelenting
Capacity,
Cause upheaval -
Controlled, creative
Chaos;
Coerce
Change.
History
Continues.
Heads held high -
Commemorating heroes.
Celebrating
Hope-
Bravery-
Coexistence-
Unity-
Hope-
Bravery-
Coexistence-
Unity-
Healing-Balanced-Charismatic-Unequivocal-ly
Colorful
Blackness.
Dec 23, 2022
Dec 23, 2022 at 9:01 AM UTC
You are no black widow, you are far worse.
No remorse nor will to better your ways.
You bruise and contort, cast off and coerce
Until another, unshaped, gives their praise.
I am torn more by your guile, not regret.
To lie through teeth much sharper than what's there,
Is riddling and insulting, just bet
I won't be here when your guilt's made aware.
You shrink my worth with my name in your voice,
To be unmoved by poor, swayed lives that prove.
Alone, you roam and give in to poor choice,
And desert the ones who swore were unmoved.
I've never seen one's mind so strongly strung,
And one's paltering heart so wrongly flung.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
The quintessence of a battlefield,
forms the vascular pieces within me.
an incubus bringing de ja vu.
nightmares that are nothing of you.
Old evil left me with lacerations,
but the dressing often slips away.
and I'm clutching onto my trepidation.
building walls in my mind to coerce satan.
I try to remember when you reach out your hand,
you differ from evil, past or present.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 9:24 PM UTC
A man I looked up to
Once told me to be careful,
That maybe I could be too much.
Too bold
Too strong
That men may not feel comfortable.
But you see
Women in my world have never been gentle,
Always burnt with too much fervour
To care that you might melt.
You think it is an insult,
That you can coerce me into being more submissive
By the threat of offending men.
Like somehow I am nothing
With the absence of a man's desire.
Like everything about me
Should be channelled into impressing a man
I am yet to meet.
But you don't know that inside I am smiling.
Inside a fire in me burns brighter at hearing
That sometimes my strength makes them uncomfortable.
I am not here so men who tell me I'm prettier when I have less voice,
So men who think it's okay to intimidate me
Whenever they see fit,
In whatever form they wish,
Can feel less unsettled by this supposed threat to their masculinity.
I hope my mind,
My bones and my blood,
Make your safety net
Of a society that breeds and feeds male egotism
A little less secure.
I am not here for your comfort.
I am not here to feed the monster of misogyny inside of you.
Do not tell me to douse my fire
And extinguish these flames
Just because you,
Men like you,
Cannot handle the heat.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC
Verily the exordium told anent a beauty engirdled in her fedora
soliciting those whoever descried her into her mere servile admirer
eight trenchant tinctures upon her body invigorate like a cadenza
I dare not to contradict the verity that I am beguiled afore her
whilst the snain distilled faintly enwreathed her in unctuous silk
concordantly she devote herself earnestly to the impeccable rain
that emanate her fragile poetry with prestidigitation in a whisk
forsooth she is but the vernacular sobriquet to the soul of the rain
recall me otherwhile during the rainstorm champagne did coerce
and the sunset's glass of wine exude her ingratiating persona
like a myriad of aphrodisiac summarized in a single verse
when harmony and lyrics danced in the crepuscular crescendo
all of that needed to be enunciated is it is you
do not harshly let me be thy unrequited dilettante
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 4:27 AM UTC
I tried to block you out.
I cup my hands over my ears,
Sing some immature tune
To keep your memory away.
It didn't work.
My mind still goes,
To the way you touched me then.
To the way your strong, stretched fingers
Traced my childish frame.
To what you made me do.
I still replay a movie in my head.
"It's just a game" you promised.
"All the big kids do it."
No. They don't.
You're so ****** up that you
Were able to convince me that
Something's wrong with me.
I didn't ****** a child.
I didn't lie to and coerce a seven year old
To give into my own deranged needs and desires.
You did that, remember?
Part of me almost feels
Sorry for you.
I know you have your problems
That you were born with
But that is not my fault
And that is certainly not
A seven year-old version of me's fault, either.
I told about what you did to me
When I was fourteen.
Some people say it must have been nearly impossible
To keep a secret like that for seven years.
It was honestly harder for me to break that secret.
Part of me was emboldened.
Part of me started to feel okay.
Until it all happened again.
My ex and I have been intimate
But it is always consensual.
When a friend took advantage of me
Right after some tragic events took place
I didn't know what to do.
I couldn't speak.
I couldn't think.
It happened so fast
But we didn't *****
I found my voice to deny that,
Avidly.
That, however
Is a little less black and white.
The way you abused me, clearly
Was wrong, illegal, and disgusting in every sense of the word.
I understand that.
I do not understand what he did to me
And it has left me more confused than anything else.
I won't lie to you,
I am ****** about what you did to me
Still, to this day.
I would never confront you about it
I love your mother too much to hurt her that way.
I am ****** about what he did to me, too.
I still have the world's hardest time
Going to school, to work, anywhere
Out of fear that I will see him.
When I do see him,
I feel my breaths get short and raspy
And my heart beats too quickly for me to catch up
My body shakes,
And I get an overwhelming nauseous sensation.
However, I am trying to cope with this.
It will not keep me bound.
You never kept me bound.
I am breaking through every chain
That has strangled me like a noose.
I am accepting this
With every bone of my being
So I can move on with my life
So I can teach others
So I can become stronger
No thanks to you.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
It is a fallacy we all believe.
As we vehemently exclaim six words
to prove the chastity of our thoughts,
to fill our pride with self-validation,
to ratify our existence with falsehoods.
"The Devil made me do it!"
"The Devil made me do it!"
I bitterly laugh at your blundering gaucherie,
as you lay blame on an eons old transgression,
as you smote the sinnerman flying with flames,
as you called him out for your own actions
impassioned by heresy.
Impassioned by heresy
You sought to relieve yourself from perdition;
brought upon by perjury declared,
brought upon by authenticated truths,
brought upon by the duplicity,
of your favored reverent ideologies.
Of your favored reverent ideologies
which is to laud your skirmish against evil
in order to remove yourself from auburn eternity,
in order to induct you as a citizen of argent fields,
in order to orchestrate contempt towards another?
Is there no truth to you?
Is there no truth to you
now that perfidy imputes your entirety?
as you declaim in front of paradise lost,
as you coerce to regain what is rightfully deprived,
as you throng duress by intoning your delusion:
"The Devil made me do it!"
"The Devil made me do it!"
Its recurrence is maddening to Him
while you, in all your sentience, chose to act unbecoming,
while the celestials perched on your shoulder bawl,
while He that you blame does absolutely nothing.
It is a fallacy we all believe.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC