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WS Warner Oct 2011
Static, memories
Emanating, separating  
The postcard- perfect
Still life speaks
From its storied past.
Invisible, to drift
The florid aphorisms,
Ending in
Deleterious debris,
Aftermath of
The inevitable.

Empty room, echo hollow
Tabula rasa -
Carpet clean, quite candid in it's
Return to callow.
Consciousness athirst,
Absorbing phenomena
Effervesce, inquisitive
Ideas foment,
Sealed inside a question.
The what -
Against the narrow
And fatigue of should.

A tender malleable
Betrayed, under
An assumed decorum -
Residue of truth,
Flattened emotion
Privations of a self
Misplaced affirmation,
Buried pathologies  
In architecture
Fear manifests symbolic.

Harboring apathy
The lunacy of pious
Import contagion,
Fetters of benignity
Doubt and indecision  
Into ******
Fallow spirits
Seep fumes of decay,
Credulity bleeds a human stain.

Social edifice, inoculated  
Heirs of neurosis;
Palpable, sensual pain
And transience, though
Tacit - remain,
Our haunted history,
The blind hyperbole,
Forbearance, this haven,
A portrait
Of immaculate condition,
Nurtured with precision
Under sterling pretense.

Provincial domicile -
House beautiful,
Savage irony -
Unseen treasure
Innocence unabridged,
Faces, tiny creations;
Compliant vessels
While modernism murmurs  
Its promise.

Brave New World,
In a late model sedan,
Domestic ranch on a
Corner lot,
Suburban natives,
Silence means security.
The misunderstood
Speak louder -
Consumerism beneath    
Unvarnished ambition,
Never could
Repair the brokenness within...

© 2011 & 2018 W. S. Warner
Sleep oft colludes with night
Pulls wool over my eyes:
By announcing itself anon
On my station's platform.

Evermore delayed to reach this vessel,
It refuses to hypnotize a compliant patient
Despite the dated rituals performed
For slumber to strive-to-thrive:

Prayers chanted in your name,
Darkness donned in your chase,
Silence kept vigil, sung as lullaby,
Consciousness sacrificed for your gain

Yet you refuse to sway me in my cradle,
Yet I lay squirming on your saddle,
Incapacitated by thoughts—untenable
Enslaved for their cause—unassailable

Many a sleepless nights were my penance.
Upon which, one of sleep's commandments
To sleep: toil to reach the summit;
Inhale the thinned air
Exhaled by a content-shaped mountain.
Luz Hanaii Feb 3
Some people hate their life
miserable they gripe, moan and groan
they'll say "I want to die!"
Yes, I get it we all want an ideal utopian life,
for things to go smooth and perfect all the time.

They remind me of little spoiled brats
who hate their meat and veggies
and all they want is sweets.

Compliant parents, who give to their demands
end up having, unruly, willful, defiant, holy terrors,
sick kids, who won't cope, grow into immature adults,
who can't endure, abide, can't take the good with the bad,
who'll latter say, "I hate my life!"
Inspired after reading "Life will never be perfect"  by Arrobird.
I want to add that any extreme is vicious, too much constrain on children can also damage them.
Derrek Faraday Oct 2018
The churning *** keeps my family one
The fog of delight hides us from the sun
A taste of complacence to keep me compliant
Frames of despair keep the hallways’ alignment

This battleship lands in Australia for now
And burns its own flag along with sundown
The captain is weak, the crewmen have perished
The telescope frowns when it scans the cherished

The cook yells, “My, with the onions, I cry!”
The maid is convinced,by her use of lye,
That this is a happy crew of the sea
Where everyone’s something to puke except me

I stayed on the bridge with a knife in my eye
The pensive maiden disarms with a sigh
Here lies the painting of a family brew
The mirror, indifferent of me, is true

Metal footsteps of a boy led blind
The chef and the captain maintain their grind
And thrive in contrivance of a world kept stable
Where all the rules lie in the food of a table

The boy has been strung across the bridge, politely
And left to a tool of love, coded tightly
There is nothing in the night’s facade of blue
I’m a ***** to the smell of the ship-crew’s stew
Cedric McClester Aug 2018
By: Cedric McClester

Let’s call it
The three fifths of a man sequel
Apparently, all of us
Are not considered equal
What we’re experiencing
Just doesn’t speak well
For us as people
We’re drowning in *****

Don’t point your finger
Thinking it’s just him
When we have the choice
To either sink or swim
If we remain silent
What’s the pseudonym?
Perhaps it’s compliant
If nothing else then

We allow children
To be placed in cages
And applaud as the President
Frequently stages
Rallies everywhere
As he engages
Like minded people
From the dark ages

And let us not
Forget Charlottesville
Though some us might
Others never will
That’s where unabashed racists
Scored a ****
And he said
There was some good in them still

Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018.  All rights reserved.
the first word I searched.
an idea now purged.
as the whisperings merged.

not insane, simply choices.
as my subconscious rejoices.
for many are voiceless.

so melancholy, so loud.
too soft, or too proud.
one person, or a crowd.

not deafening, like quiet.
or hungry, like a riot.
a lull hum, near compliant.

— The End —