"commended" poems
Really? Well, don’t be, because it doesn’t help to be sorry. Sorry doesn’t change it. Sorry doesn’t make it go away. Sorry doesn’t “undo” what’s already been done. Sorry doesn’t erase my memory. Sorry doesn’t take away the searing pain in my chest. Sorry ***** I don't want your pity or to hear that no child should ever have to endure what I did. Because **** happens. It happened to me …it happens to millions of other kids. Shoulda…woulda…coulda…
You’re right – I do have so much going for me. I have an education, a career, financial security – the beautiful house w/the picket fence, the 2 kids and the dogs. And it’s all a huge sham! You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl. And that’s what I’m to be commended for??? That doesn’t make me special. I should be commended because I have an education? Things could sure be a lot worse, huh? I could be a crack ***** living on the street with 10 kids in foster care, unable to afford therapy even if I wanted to go. I could be like “them”.
Wow! I’m so awesome. Yay for me! Kudos to the smart chick that spent years being molested by her father and ACTUALLY made something of her life. It’s a miracle!
It’s all such a sham – a dog and pony show. Smoke and Mirrors, my dear! Put on a stylish outfit, and paste on a cheerful smile, and everyone thinks you have it all together….. No one would ever know different. You wouldn’t have known. If I’d have kept my big fat mouth shut!!!!! I should have known better….I should have sat down and weighed the risks, possible opportunities, the roadblocks the problems, and definitely a cost analysis of plan A – trying to work through the ******** of the past, B – continue to live in denial, C – **** myself. …. That’s what a smart business woman would have done. And after all, I’m super smart, huh? A real genius!
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 10:10 AM UTC
Do you know what *****
Not being good at everything.
I sat down at the piano
To practice for the umpteenth time
Millions of thoughts rush through my head:
My form *****
I can't hit the right notes
My fingers don't want to work together
I can barely read the music
I will never be able to do this
I ****
I was born to believe that I needed to be the best
At everything I did
To please my parents
And get the recognition I deserved.
The truthful "well done" from my mother.
But there came a time where getting A's is all they expected from me
So when I would get above and beyond 100 percents
I got nothing
No well done, no good job.
Yet my brother who would narrowly pass his spelling tests
Would get commended for his work.
Pushing myself harder and harder to be the best
Every second of every day
Has lead me to be unhappy whenever something isn't to the level I think it should be.
I know that perfection is impossible
And that you can't be good at everything.
But every time I fail
It feels like I'm dying a little inside.
Frustration. Anger. Depression.
I can barely hold it all together.
This pressure to be perfect may seem unbearable,
But it's my way of life.
Without it, I have no idea who I would be.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 10:31 PM UTC
God knows how our neighbor managed to breed
His great sow:
Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid
In the same way
He kept the sow--impounded from public stare,
Prize ribbon and pig show.
But one dusk our questions commended us to a tour
Through his lantern-lit
Maze of barns to the lintel of the sunk sty door
To gape at it:
This was no rose-and-larkspurred china suckling
With a penny slot
For thrift children, nor dolt pig ripe for heckling,
About to be
Glorified for prime flesh and golden crackling
In a parsley halo;
Nor even one of the common barnyard sows,
Mire-smirched, blowzy,
Maunching thistle and knotweed on her snout-
cruise--
Bloat tun of milk
On the move, hedged by a litter of feat-foot ninnies
Shrilling her hulk
To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
Brobdingnag bulk
Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black
compost,
Fat-rutted eyes
Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood
must
Thus wholly engross
The great grandam!--our marvel blazoned a knight,
Helmed, in cuirass,
Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat
By a grisly-bristled
Boar, fabulous enough to straddle that sow's heat.
But our farmer whistled,
Then, with a jocular fist thwacked the barrel nape,
And the green-copse-castled
Pig hove, letting legend like dried mud drop,
Slowly, grunt
On grunt, up in the flickering light to shape
A monument
Prodigious in gluttonies as that hog whose want
Made lean Lent
Of kitchen slops and, stomaching no constraint,
Proceeded to swill
The seven troughed seas and every earthquaking
continent.
6.5k
When the Earth was spinning,
All vacant and wasted,
And a voice that came thundering,
All the poison, that you all tasted,
And all the one left, now unwashed,
hearing nothing but silence,
becoming the one's who suffered,
when all the believers, died,
and the non believers, survived,
the destruction of the planet,
hatred heated by a human cannon.
Now who will pray for Babylon,
When humanity acts upon,
Now, Who will sing for Babylon,
When Humanity is the Evil Spawn,
Now who will pray for Babylon,
Amon of the breath and Air,
Amon, where is Thebes,
Now, Who will sing for Babylon,
Humanity, Governments, Religion,
Black, LGBTQ Communities,
Planting the Evil Seeds.
When the Earth was spinning,
All vacant and wasted,
Adam and Eve was created,
To love and be Mother Earth,
Father Dearest,
Forbidden Fruit that sent you,
to Hell,
Oh Adam, You're the Devil, Lucifer,
Adam, Did you heard the snake voice,
Why did you follow the advice,
To pick and eat,
Do you live in all of us,
Do we eat, to become Deceit.
Now who will pray for Babylon,
When humanity acts upon,
Now, Who will sing for Babylon,
When Humanity is the Evil Spawn,
Now who will pray for Babylon,
Amon of the breath and Air,
Amon, where is Thebes,
Now, Who will sing for Babylon,
Humanity, Governments, Religion,
Black, LGBTQ Communities,
Planting the Evil Seeds.
When the Earth was spinning,
All vacant and wasted,
Everything is our posion,
Welcome Poseidon beside us,
Say Hello Pontius,
God in our heads,
Run to the Waves of that the tide tends,
In foul disposition trends,
As we welcome all our catasthrophes,
All the hate, all the lies,
All our devine that we hide in Denial,
Suicidal Kings and Queens, Here our Heresy,
Maybe Religion is a win,
Maybe it just a way of sin,
All I know it just a linchpin of support,
Belief and stability,
Belief and hatred,
Maybe Communities in it to win it,
to scream and fight and hit back,
False Flag, Attack that,
Found Guilty through entrapment,
Of our commandments,
You're cooperation is commended,
Since the corporation demands it.
Now who will pray for Babylon,
When humanity acts upon,
Now, Who will sing for Babylon,
When Humanity is the Evil Spawn,
Now who will pray for Babylon,
Amon of the breath and Air,
Amon, where is Thebes,
Now, Who will sing for Babylon,
Humanity, Governments, Religion,
Black, LGBTQ Communities,
Planting the Evil Seeds.
Nov 16, 2020
Nov 16, 2020 at 9:32 PM UTC
There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy
What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching *********** and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ************ seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly
Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than psycho-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
It's difficult to be pretty in this world
Because when you're pretty
You get *****
Because men don't know how to control themselves
Because when you're a man
You don't have to
Men are commended
For impregnating women
And being masculine rapists
Women are shamed
For getting pregnant
And being *****
Women were asking for it
Women should have known better
Women are supposed to be prepared
Nobody tells men not to ****
We hope it's common sense
But then we don't reprimand them
Because boys will be boys
But why can't boys be nice boys
And keep their hands to themselves
Stop hurting young women
Who really don't want to be *****
I don't know why
Men keep ****** women
It isn't fun
Nobody is asking for it
The definition of ****
Is *** that isn't asked for
But guys do it anyway
Because women are too afraid
To speak up
To live in this world
Ruled by ****** men
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
another cool bullet
to the head
a sudden death of
an American dream
the smart uniform
of a young officer
pressed and squared
sharp as a West Point salute
lay blood stained and crumpled
in a lifeless heap on a hospital room floor
the furious efforts of
heroic triage teams comes to naught
trust, respect and idealism
lie victim to an assassins whim
the dreams of another young patriot
prematurely commended to a cold grave
forevermore his body to moulder
returning to earths royal dust
an assassins work speaks
hard blatant truths
we somehow
refuse to hear
leave Afghanistan
to the Afghans
its time to exit
the ungodly places
that betray our dreams
and ****** our children
Music Selection
Tom Jones
Green Green Grass of Home
Oakland
3/1/12
jbm
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
And He said to me: “My grace is sufficient for you. For virtue is perfected in weakness.” And so, willingly shall I glory in my weaknesses, so that the virtue of Christ may live within me.
Because of this, I am pleased in my infirmity: in reproaches, in difficulties, in persecutions, in distresses, for the sake of Christ. For when I am weak, then I am powerful.
I have become foolish; you have compelled me. For I ought to have been commended by you. For I have been nothing less than those who claim to be above the measure of Apostles, even though I am nothing.
For what is there that you have had which is less than the other churches, except that I myself did not burden you? Forgive me this injury.
Behold, this is the third time I have prepared to come to you, and yet I will not be a burden to you. For I am seeking not the things that are yours, but you yourselves. And neither should the children store up for the parents, but the parents for the children.
And so, very willingly, I will spend and exhaust myself for the sake of your souls, loving you more, while being loved less.
My grace is sufficient for you. For virtue is perfected in weakness.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 6:44 AM UTC
Formless words...broadcast scribbling space, their diagram
of poetic motion washes over you...formed on impact.
Dark room's glow in broad daylight--your fully developed
picture...deepest blue of two worlds in one, betwixt vibration.
Hue of the canonized, twanging entire a cloudless sky...
enriched tenfold in mimicry of you.
If only stained glass and silk would wed, search light's
spectrum...distill the most affecting gradation of blue--
then would you see a just replica?
Visionary's shield...where earthen wend unveils the abysmal...
that eyes may remain upon you--till one is ferried, and
vision seen through.
Apogee of seventh sea...epicenter of dancing Nine Muses,
whose round keeps the Blue Flower earthbound.
Blue Flower of the poet's pilgrimage, whose synesthesia
electrifies.
Blue Flower...a nebula pinned to earth, the name of spring
born of you.
The golden section of angels fly their flawless form to you...
that High Art may pray to High Art.
...Blue Flower, commended spirit rife with grace...whose
ceaseless hour at hand holds beauty alone.
Mind, quill to tongue riven--if ever...ever is now--Blue Flower...
ever is Now!
The words of this poet have begun fasting...not to eat of what
they cannot sacrifice...their Blue Flower.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
I am pulling weeds from the garden and I want to scream "there is nothing wrong with you there is nothing wrong with you there is nothing wrong you"
I am replacing you with something beautiful and hard to maintain because I value appearances more than growth
There is nothing wrong with dandelions i swear, please do not develop a complex, I just cannot love you unless someone else does
My father spent years weeding me and trust me it gets easier
it hurts less if you learn to hate yourself the same way
There is nothing wrong with you I just have to do this he is coming over later and he might remember he doesn't love me if he sees you here
There is nothing wrong with you but I will **** you still
Like my father
Commended for everything I grow in the wake of what I ****
There is nothing wrong with you I scream but I will throw you away and you will wonder what is wrong with you anyway
He told me I have room to grow before hugging me goodbye
There is nothing wrong with you he said
I just don't want you here
Jun 24, 2023
Jun 24, 2023 at 5:15 PM UTC
A man was invited to his boss's house for dinner.
The dinner was fabulous, made by a private chef
and served by the family butler. It was, all in all,
a wonderful evening.
At the end of the meal, the man saw his host
collecting all the table scraps from the table.
"What are you doing?" asked the man
"Ah, well whatever I don't eat, I give to the butler and the chef."
"They can't buy their own food?"
"Well no, I pay them in scraps"
"That's terrible!"
"Why? I eat my meal, I usually leave enough for them to live off of, unless I forget"
"Unless you forget?"
"Well, yeah...I mean a few glasses of wine and that food is as good as gone"
"You see nothing wrong with this?"
"Hmm...no. Should I?"
"You are feeding your staff table scraps! The amount they're getting is miniscule! It's a miracle they haven't sued you!"
"Aha! I do see your point. It is a rather meager amount. Fortunately, since I'm such a clever fellow...I have a solution"
"You mean to give your staff full meals to eat? Maybe pay them with money instead?"
"Haha, no no my simple man. I'll just have them cook and serve more food!"
"What."
"Well it's rather simple. If the amount of food that is cooked and served is increased, and I eat the same amount, then what's left over will be equivalent of a full meal! Brilliant!"
"Well...yes...but what if you get drunk on wine and eat all of that food"
"I'm sure that I would never do such a thing. Probably"
"Probably"
"Well, one can't always predict these things"
"So instead of giving them a fair meal, you'd rather them put in more effort and time so that they 'might' see an increase in their rations?"
"I know. I should get a Nobel prize for this stuff"
"Or commited"
"What?"
"Um...commended"
"Quite right"
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 10:04 PM UTC
Perfidious lover,
With ambidextrous heart,
You’ve caused my mind to birth
A doubt
Entrapper of my love,
I gift my disenchantment ,
For choking romantic
Ideals
Dear insidious love,
With your infantile ways,
Such brilliant fraudulence,
Has to be commended
Homage
Paid
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 3:31 PM UTC
At the foot of the Cross stood the Magdalene
with Mary, his mother, and John.
Jesus was now in extremis-
the curious people had gone.
The mark of the whips were upon him,
an ugly bruise under his eye.
Blood filtered down from the crown made of thorns.
dripping down from his face to one thigh.
Mary watched as her eldest was dying.
Bore her pain with incredible calm.
She wished that, his agony over,
She’d hold him once more in her arms.
With breath that was labored and shallow
He spoke with his life nearly gone
He commended young John to his mother
And commended his mother to John
He looked at the Magdalene sadly
With a love that’s ineffably rare.
Then with loud voice he cried out to Heaven
A fool might think this was despair.
Joseph of Arimethea
came with a ladder near dusk
With the help of the Priest, Nicodemus
He took the crucified Son from his Cross.
Mary was silently weeping
at the body of Christ in her arms.
She looked at the King Pilate murdered.
Whom the people had greeted with Palms
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC
Children,
all of me was all for you,
from towers I commended,
from basement I sympathized,
and god,
how I find all of me,
missing all your adoring stares.
I stood by,
I watched your birth in the garden
all those years ago,
and how your cries floated to heaven,
and how heaven answered with meadowlarks,
I handed you the apple,
I kissed your brow,
you would coo and grasp my coat,
I felt love, you felt vital.
I waged war,
with all the saints and arthouse critics.
We drank their blood by the moon
and our temperate speech
did flow from the fount,
under the table we were,
grew we did,
proper adolesence looking for
classical supremacy.
And Children,
I know the darkness was always creeping,
crippling every satellite, every sandy shoreline,
withering us in mirror,
you asked if the tide could claim us,
I patted your shoulder,
kissed your hand,
there is no enemy capable of victory,
oh, how the prophets betrayed me.
When your compliance was absolute,
when our neighbors pledged allegiance,
when I crushed the throats of Solomon, Gilgamesh, and
the sons of Zeus,
leagues made banners,
few made poison.
I gave you slaves,
girls, and sport.
I gave you a voice,
blankets, and victims.
The crowd and chants,
my pride and concubines,
the grass never faded,
nor the flowers wilted.
Children,
why did the publications turn against me?
I erased the existence of all you wanted dead,
I gave you dreams,
I gave plenty to sup,
plenty to remain drunk,
Children,
why did the prophets lie to me?
The priests carried daggers,
preyed upon me,
prayed for my passing-by,
the stares were there,
empty of adoration,
only hungry for my sacred blood.
I watched seas of my own,
pull down every cast,
my form laid to waste
on the streets I built under your feet.
My royal guards
chained my hands,
I could only stare at my blue veins,
my royal guards,
dragged my feet,
and in the senate they made me watch,
as my record was blotted out.
As the sun set,
the streets were lit
by effigy.
As the sun set,
I found myself in
the garden.
I stood straight,
back to a stake,
all eyes on me,
all shouts for me,
all the rage,
effigy, effigy,
they poured pitch at my feet,
they said prayers and incantations,
the flowers were in full bloom,
and the sound of buzzing flies buried
the cries.
I tried to be a friend to everyone.
Now history's vapor,
I tried to be a friend to everyone.
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 11:13 AM UTC
At the foot of the Cross stood the Magdalene
with Mary, his mother, and John.
Jesus was now in extremis-
the curious people had gone.
The mark of the whips were upon him,
an ugly bruise under his eye.
Blood filtered down from the crown made of thorns.
dripping down from his face to one thigh.
Mary watched as her eldest was dying.
Bore her pain with incredible calm.
She wished that, his agony over,
She’d hold him once more in her arms.
With breath that was labored and shallow
He spoke with his life nearly gone
He commended young John to his mother
And commended his mother to John
He looked at the Magdalene sadly
With a love that’s ineffably rare.
Then with loud voice he cried out to Heaven
A fool might think this was despair.
Joseph of Arimethea
came with a ladder near dusk
With the help of the Priest, Nicodemus
He took the crucified Son from his Cross.
Mary was silently weeping
at the body of Christ in her arms.
She looked at the King Pilate murdered.
Whom the people had greeted with Palms
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 9:45 AM UTC
A nomadic soul blows carelessly in the wind. Winding down an untrodden path, he creates a new way for a friend. Patience again and again, will be the factor that lends, the helping hand to lost whims. Flimsy ghosts in the wind, sing freedom songs to no end. Mend a broken heart to be tended. Send a lost letter to be commended. On you travel, unrelented. Spend a moment to be splendid. Not confused to be offended. Pending goals to be achieved, you're relieved there are more answers conceived. Hidden truths be believed, and perceive a message indeed. Seed the plant to feed the steed. Need not selfishness and greed, to enjoy the aroma of **** Knead a knot in in your back and take a **** and relax. Tack kind words to a fax, that slips on through the small cracks. Jack and Jill with strong backs, keep traveling on down the tracks.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC
You Mr Rabbit are or so nice
I could drink tea with you
and talk about rice
or melons,
growing in the summer sun
but Mr Rabbit, I couldn't **** you.
Dear Mr Rabbit, sorry to be calling so late
I feel like we left off on a bad foot
the carrots still hot on my plate
as you pointed
towards your rounded door
and asked me kindly to scoot.
No I understand it was rude
and that we have had a delightful eve
but, hmm, how do I conclude
you're lovely
and sweet as a bug
but I can't see us making out on that rug.
No please don't be offended!
Your ears are so soft to touch
and your eyes are to be commended
but, sexually
the lightning and fire
well, doesn't amount to much.
I bid you adeu, Mr Rabbit.
Our time together was truly splendid
but it must be said,
that without the waistcoat
you remind me an awful lot of my bed.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 6:15 AM UTC
*in growing up
the one most commended,
most grown,
most love laden
(She floats over
in the moonlight
She walks,
chin tucked,
her garb grazing the withered ground
she ascends into the cold bitter air
her eyes rest on the ground)
experiences,
melt into the bottoms of Her feet
and the cold is the only one to enter her lungs.
permeable only, if through and in
the Good*
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC
I was born in 1990,
Only 8 days shy of 1991.
Still, I am Generation Y.
She was born in 2000,
Nearly 6 weeks into it.
She's Generation Z.
Still, she responded to me,
Actually her mother did.
The matrimonial ad.
My parents had flashed it,
In a timely manner, they hoped,
That I can be married.
So, I went to their home,
I liked her for her youth.
And of course her eyes.
She was truthful and frank too.
She told me what she wanted,
She wanted a mature man.
When I told her that I was an artist,
She loved my poetry,
And commended my creations.
Soon that 'misunderstanding' happened,
And the Miss felt she was standing under,
To equate herself with me, she berated me.
Oh, I do want to marry her still,
Because in her I see a lot of potential,
But she'll have to change her behaviour.
And as she can't change,
Things she will have to realise.
I don't think that she can apologise.
There's a generation gap between us,
And the next generation can't say sorry,
Or just accept their mistake with humility.
Sep 18, 2024
Sep 18, 2024 at 3:49 AM UTC
Beauty is present but the soul isn't.
You speak with golden specks on your tongue.
You walk with the grace of doves.
Your laugh is like the morning sun.
But yet you still fall short where love doesn't manage.
You quiver to the thought of happiness and cringe at the sight of laughter.
They all scream
"you're a diamond in the rough."
But what is jelewry when it's not sought after and what is art when it's admired by all but one?
You're aware of the power you carry, the beauty you conceal.
The weapons your heart bares and the pain running through your veins.
They painted you a mural but they failed to read the description -
" commended by all, tamed by none."
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 9:44 PM UTC
Why do we often see ourselves as cracked mirrored monsters
and soul-less entities that are worth less than the next ?
How does this ring true to the infinite beauty that you know lies within your self.
In the form of cells and dna...in the form of your ethereal creation...in the hug you give some one...
It is not the mistrust of yourself that seeps into your pores but it is the mistrust of a world in which 'an honest lie' is called advertising and a commended joy.
We have no morals , no code of conduct , we are free to chose yet condemned to no choice unless we ourselves decide that it is so.
For nothing is , until we deem it.
The sun is not a sun until i say so , at least not to me.
I am a universe unto myself and a god unto my own being,
i am creation's destruction.
Even if we don't always feel it , we always are it.
There is, a colder side to the summer but only so we know what cold is and what hot can be.
We are no more nor less than the ant, than the bumble bee.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 5:22 PM UTC
They thought they taught me how to be a woman...
Expected to be strong hearted with a sharpened tongue and a backbone made of steel,
Masquerading underneath a veil of indifference and resilience.
Never showing lack thereof nor revealing weakness, but instead to take the lashes of sexism to the backside with ease:
Taught to work finger to fragile bone, to stand ground on pained soles... Then commended for being a "woman"!
Am I only good for surviving toil?
To be trampled over by the societal ideal that a woman is only known for making do with what's left to her?
NO.
They only thought they told me how to be a woman.
A woman is more than just a showcase of her strength.
She deserves more than the applause for her taking more than what or who's child she can bear.
A woman is neither her survival nor misfortune. A woman's essence lies between her pain and her strength to rise.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 2:27 PM UTC
come to me little one,
come into the fold.
far away from the world
that doesn't understand you
and
that doesn't want you.
there is nothing left for you there
my sweet.
the only thing out there
is more rejection,
more pain.
come to me
little one,
escape in me
and don't question the dark.
don't worry about tomorrow
or the day after that.
only see me,
and us
and let the only thought
that shimmers across your mind
be of our love
and our life together,
till death
due us part.
they hate you,
i love you
they reject you,
i bring you in
ever closer.
wrapped together in our burning arms
heavy with fever,
we are one.
just you and me
and a lifetime of us
against them.
they will try and pull us apart,
but you won't let them...
will you?
they tell you i'm bad for you
but who hurt you?
and who made it better?
that constant babble of
the crowd...
they are desperate to make you
a project,
a rescued reject
they can pat on the head
and polish up for strangers
so they can be commended on their
massive hearts.
all those plastic smiles
stretched wide
trying to hide the pity for you.
they ask
where would you be without so and so...?
you must be so grateful....
why, you would have been dead without us....
like the life they offer
is any real life at all.
i say drink deep of me
and do what you want
cause you want to do it.
be wildly wicked
if you want to.
be bitterly brooding
if you want to.
be a puddle on the floor.
they can't understand like
i can.
they can't cure
they can't help
they can't possibly see
or ever accept
the person i know,
the person
you really are deep inside.
the person
i have grown to love.
come closer little one.
and i will tell you tales
of great men
and strong women,
of lives lived
quick and fast.
come little one,
live among them
they are eager to share
the secrets of the
world
as it really is.
and help you cast off the chains
of the world that you have been forced fed.
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 2:30 PM UTC
Thy heart is big
Lend me your hand
Because I love you, I shall let you know
That our faults lie not in our stars
But that we are mere mortals
Your once commended beauty--
Still Lingers
All my vows of love--
Still Strong
You are as dear to me
As the life blood in my veins
Kneel not, gentle Portia
I love you well
Not without cause
Let me, upon my knee, prevail in this
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:22 AM UTC