"condones" poems
In Spanish, VIVIR means To Live, the proper conjugation of which to when you say something as improper as “I live” would simply be translated to “Yo Vivo”.
I live, as a Colombian-American.
I live, as “You don’t look Hispanic”
I live, “Woah! You and your brother look nothing alike. You’re so… white.”
I live, “My mom came home once and talked about a man who simply replied with a horribly pronounced “Me gusta” when my mom said she was Hispanic.”
I live, “My dad condones abusive behavior because he thinks Latina aggression is ****
I live, my mom asking me “Would you rather celebrate the Sweet Sixteen or have a quinceanera party?”
I live, as the white boy sitting across the room in Spanish class asking “When will I need this in real life?”
I live, as the “Yes I DO have a friend with a skin complexion similar to mine, and yes, he is Hispanic.”
I live, most of my friends are beautiful people of color.
I live, when will you open up the tab in Google and search some Hispanic History to fill your mind instead of “Latina ****
I live, the messages on the Internet saying “You’re Hispanic? I bet you’re great in bed.”
I live, there are NO gender neutral nouns in Spanish
I live, yes I DO love coffee
I live, no it did NOT stunt my growth
I live, one kiss per cheek at family meet-ups
I live, “Eskimo” nose rubs
I live, "if you’re hispanic, why aren’t your ears pierced?"
I live, being expected to remember Spanish just because it was my first language, but growing up with an American dad made me whiter than fresh bed-sheets sold in America, made in South America, Hecha en Peru.
I live, my mom breaking into tears as she is so proud that I can sing in Spanish
I live, my mom used to be so embarrassed, when I replied “un poco” to her friends asking “Tu Hablas Espanol?”
I live, "if you’re Hispanic, is your mom an Alien?"
I live, "But your dad looks so white!"
I live, being subject to racism hidden in a joke, hidden in a remark about how pale I am, hidden behind a judgmental look, hidden behind a scoff, a laugh, a pity shrug, a fetishized assumption.
I live the bulletproof clothing and horrible crimes I am warned about when I say I wanna go to Colombia I wanna go to my mom’s home.
I live, as a Colombian-American.
I live.
Yo vivo.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
bonetender night, polaric.
windswept crown atones
weeping wanderer.
rigid matriarch condones
tantrum medication. vast
control shapes diminished conscience,
actuating frustration;
migrane pulse doctorate.
sad shell housing beaten wails,
a closed eye, ear to brains.
steady now, absorb sultry stance.
dim lamp set on autonomic fade.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 6:00 AM UTC
Her colors I start to blend, painting a woman's masterpiece
Her heart pumps honesty, while her soul condones peace.
*A couple more paint strokes to form her ambitious eyes
To create her sincere integrity, to mold her intelligent mind
Sculpting her genuine smile,
adding detail to an aura so kind.*
**Women, are a beautiful master piece
That can't be rushed, it must be worked on over time.**
*& when I get one... I will paint her forever. I will never stop helping her create her design, I will mix her love with my passion...I will make this precious masterpiece truly mine. *
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
Bonjour
buon giorno
guten morgen
despabílate amor y toma nota:
sólo en el tercer mundo mueren cuarenta mil niños por día
en el plácido cielo despejado flotan los bombarderos y losbuitres
cuatro millones tienen sida
la codicia depila la amazonia
buenos días good morning
despabílate
en los ordenadores de la abuela onu no caben más cadáveres de ruandalos fundamentalistas degüellan aextranjeros
predica el papa contra los condones
havelange estrangula a maradona
bonjour monsieur le maire
forza italia buon giorno
guten morgen ernst junger
opus dei buenos días good morning hiroshima
despabílate amor que el horror amanece
2k
Hate filled minds
Living life in rewind
Drunk on the future so they wine
Crying about a past that had them powerful
Praying on hate and killing others less superior
Hating themselves for being more infrior
Hiding behind religion, saying it's God they serving,
what God you know condones killing, hating, and oppression
They serve a God with no vision
Wearing capes to hide their ambiguous faces
Yelling that they hate all races
These are the same co-workers who say they love all races
But behind closed doors
Pray to burning torches
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 3:53 PM UTC
I disrespect religion because of
That newborn girl that died
Straight out of her mothers womb.
Shouldn't god have saved her?
If he has such great plans
Then why is there war?
People go hungry
And people are scared,
But god does nothing.
If god is so great
Then why does he let people burn
In misery for eternity
Simply for not believing in him?
He condones violence and hate,
He let his son die,
Because he felt like it.
Maybe he had a hair appointment that day.
If god is so forgiving
Then why doesn't he let people into heaven
That don't believe in him?
Frankly he's holding a grudge.
Equality is what god likes,
But if you're gay,
He doesn't want anything to do with you,
It's a sin supposedly.
God lies,
God does nothing,
God is not real
And the bible is a group of people's
Favourite fiction book.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC
I Can't Breathe
Suffocating
In a country
That could give
A good God ****
About me.
Drowning in a society
That doesn't see the signs.
That doesn't believe
That the darker brother
Has the right to justice.
That simply condones
The mistreatment
Of an entire group of
Human beings.
I tried to walk away.
I tried to surrender.
It didn't matter
Because now
I really can't breathe.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 7:07 AM UTC
My lids peel back slow to let another
weary day tackle me to the floor.
I push aside overbearing blankets
and shuffle down an empty hallway
into another more bare than afore.
Dragging my feet seems to require
more power than I had thought before.
Nothing but dark rooms ahead await
dully lit by open ‘fridgerators
that make monster shadows of purple,
frightening paintings that taunt Fate.
The shifting faces mock chance of late.
My reveries halt to disturbance that
a noise from somewhere below brings out.
I breathe deeply in as hope fills me-
a hope of the promise of a frozen mouth.
I think in that breath it is you I hear
rumbling and padding ‘round down the stairs
and I tell myself I am right, for it has to be you;
if it is not, no one else seemingly cares.
Morning breaks open the torment of day
like a ripped wound exposed to salty air.
I swallow back like every day the tears;
wrap myself up in old, cold sit-coms
and warm blankets to banish my fears.
Force myself to endure the hefty bombs
showered at my skull like a falsified norm.
The house lies vacant, in wait of you,
haunted by memories etched on paling skin.
Pacing remains the only thing I can do
to strain against the barrage of pins.
As always, I grin and I jump and I wave
so everyone can see just how brave
I am.
I am.
But I can’t be anymore
and the salt-water behind my eyes
screams to exit the pores.
I can’t hold them in much longer
and I’m all out of supplies
that keep me stronger
than I am.
I’ve run out of the fog
that my brain runs on, and
my heart condones.
I have painted on a clown-smile
and I'm quelled inside, flat.
All that is left in me now
is a crushed can of cola
shoving hard at my ribcage.
I am waiting still and know for sure
all will be as it was in times of yore.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
Alcohol condones such sweet behavior
The way it lets you teach me something new
Lets your lips dance on my skin
Sends my body into ecstasy
The sound of your breathing
Resonates through the air
And seeps into the cracks of the walls
The way it collides with my skin
And buries through the flesh
Whisper passions in my ear
Like waves whispering on the shores of her children
Trail your fingers down my back
Engulf me in sin
No boundaries are drawn in liquor fantasy
The moment between each breath
Carving sweet drunken memories on my neck
Succumbing to your every desire
I know I should stand on my will
But you asked me so nicely
Turning one way and then the other
Falling inward towards the center of this spiral
Leading to such peaceful sleep
The way your snoring claws at the silence
Your burnt out taste has never felt so divine
Leaving numbness on my tongue
With the constant, reoccurring thought
I never want to leave this bed
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
That constant drone,
With flickering lights and humming tones,
At every corner, one more whirring transformer
And blinking LED, just to let you know.
This constant drone,
With pulsing waves that fill the bones;
With boundless range, it's hardly strange
That one might start to call it home.
What constant drone,
Those ceaseless doldrums one condones
As flitting drops and Cupid's darts
Will often guilty pleasures be.
Oh, constant drone,
That permeates this astral dome,
There is no mask for dismal facts:
That constant drone is me.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 2:04 PM UTC
You wouldn't understand
what I feel every time
whenever I look at you
I paint you in my mind
I become speechless
I become motionless
whenever you're here
I become somebody else
I try to reach for words
but all I hear is your voice
I try to meet your gaze
but all my efforts go in vain
I convince myself
not today
the petty condones
I make day by day
and you're here oblivious of
how much you've invaded my mind
because losing myself is so easy these days
whenever I see you from the corner of my eye
Some day I'll muster all the courage
and have a dance with you
Some day We'll sit beside each other
and have an ice scream scoop
Some day I'll smile with you
while we laugh at our weird peccadillos
Some day I'll leave behind my doubts
and you'll know what my world is without you
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 4:32 AM UTC
It's a travesty to tolerate
The ugly mores of men,
When everyone's allowance
Condones release for them.
Where everywhere provision
Is made for man to shove,
And woe betide the meek
Who don the feathers of a dove
The world applauds the forceful,
Rewards are rich for he
Who tramples over daisies
And holds aloft the key.
Who forces his attentions
And speculates the win,
Despite the devastation wrought
In winning it for him.
It's a travesty to tolerate
This bovine charge of man
When all can be achieved
With an accommodating plan,
When compromise and levity
See consideration's way
Where success can be attained
With out bloodletting on the day.
I hear the snort of your derision,
Feel the snigger in your smile,
See the curl of lip descending
With your slit eyes of defile.
For this portraiture is global
The fighting man is King
And he who deviates
Is left bereft and vanquishing.
Sadness is the matador
Who casts his scarlet cloth,
To be shredded and impaled
By a maddened bullock's wrath.
To be tossed aside, asunder
Like a lifeless ragged doll,
Like mankind's brute tomorrow
When the final drums do roll.
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
29 November 2009
Nov 28, 2009
Nov 28, 2009 at 7:17 PM UTC
Smouldering pain of ancient harboured, in the heart inflamed
of a passion, amassed whole of suffering earth nestled in your breast,
came alive in her who mastered the seven realms, whose
aspiration ardent brought down in that simpleton, grace that
poured forth like a pitcher upturned on this world enamoured of death.
Ah, that simpleton who never could fathom caprice that condones
commerce in the very heart of the temple of justice, the virtue and sin
the learned uphold that cannot see in the neighbour's fall,
ones own, or how if the father that birthed the world is divine,
his children be brutes or kin of daemons that deserve stoning to death?
O Magdala, Magdala, your daughter weeps today!
A drop of blood dries the sands today, heavens weep in the tears
silent of she who stands by the cross today, even abandoned by those
for whom he gave so much; In the still dark night grace walked
the stormy water; and Lazarus returns from wherefore who knows;
A husbandsman reads and answers doubts in minds of learned pharisees.
For every whiplash cast was cast on the earth wide. Every insult
taunted the winds draping your arms. That girdle of thorns, mother,
was placed indeed on your mourning heart. When the cross
ascended slicing the firmament, heavens were mute to your pain,
lama sabachtani, sabachtani, grieves the earth unto the empty, parted skies.
O Magdala, Magdala, your daughter weeps today!
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Two crossed lovers with one common goal,
To find their way to each other and bind their souls in gold,
I was told , to find a woman with a peaceful heart,
Must've told myself that , cause nobody would enroll,
The facts of life to be a man and understand all of the urges,
Now stuck in a time where I gotta give myself more courage,
My family always had a hand in all of my contingencies,
I hope these ignorant complacent people stop trying me,
When I have a child of my own, he or she will have the advantage to
Learn things on their own , he or she will know the meaning of respect when
It condones,
He or she will know there won't be any favorites on this throne,
They don't have to know about their grandmother,
Does it bother me in any way to never let my kids see the woman
That should've gave me more love,
Or the woman that locked me away when I needed someone to
Go to , but I had no one,
Thats why I'm leaving everyone,
Bye.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 11:19 AM UTC
what they call a heart, my every anchor chained
what the pages make my story, every loss explained
like words in letters, as if they retain it, like they make it better
as if the knowing of it loosed or broke these fetters
eight ways the shapes of my only alphabet spells s-u-r-v-i-v-o-r
infinitely too short a word and leaving me to wander again if I'm alive in her
they think it breeds strength to outlive the beatings
they think it makes a great chase never retreating in the pursuit of what's fleeting
just once couldn't I rest and feel safe like it could all get clearer?
in the haze of aging when I'm sure it isn't my real smile in any mirror
in the crowded, faceless streets of having to stand on my own two feet alone
with all the hurtful, hateful, squalls this living condones
everyone thinking they know me because they know my name
know the face that's a mask over what's hollowed out by the aches I don't explain
and someone asks me to come near, to be dear, to love again
and they give like gifts and they mend the rifts and they care and then
the cycle of costs begins again, the loss of the friends again breathes
and makes every swallowed wine taste less like escape and reminds that it never relieves
and every candle on a cake burns another year I waited to start over
and every green field yields beauty unnoticed in my frantic search for a lucky clover
the pages pile with words wasted on hoping for better
and my few days waste away with so much time lost in trying to understand "forever"
so if you think that you know what made me then you haven't been listening to the words I didn't say
and if you've ask me for love then you've never felt what I already gave away
so put the times you've felt greatness on one side and see if they outweigh the hurt
or if the scales tip in favor of the ways you've failed and it still hurts
and trudge the horrible roads to the edges of the maps and see if you outrun the hurt
and see if any hand held or risk taken or affection given dispels the way you hurt
all the slivered glass pieces of my heart just cut me to blood as I try to pick them up
and all that my view of what could have been does, is lend tears as I watch those doors shut
and all another line will explain
is how it will never be the last line if I'm trying to write out the pains
I can never explain the hurt
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 2:11 AM UTC
I can’t even remember how long it’s been now,
But a really long time ago
I asked God for a safe place to pray
And I’ve been down every alley
Walked through every broken back door leading into
Houses I knew I should have never entered
Had me turnin’ up psalms
Paced to the rhythm of footsteps and rain
I found this:
My church
Will never ask you to give up anything
In exchange for your soul
Keep it
It’s probably ***** anyway
My church
Sounds like the ocean on Sunday
Keeps the wine flowing whenever you need to numb the pain
My church
Will set itself on fire on the days you just can’t get up in the morning
It’ll burn until you’re ready to come back
My church
Is in a tree house
It’s the wrong tree though
You know
The one you are always barking up
My church
Will never make you feel guilty
For anything
You do that well enough yourself
Now
I can’t promise eternal happiness
And I can’t promise virgins
I can’t promise anything other than
In my church
You’ll never feel ugly
You’ll never have to wonder what my church is thinking about you
I promise it will answer every question honestly
And hold you when you sleep at night
My church highly condones cuddling
Also
There’s a good chance that Mel Gibson wants to **** me and my church
Here I write poems to the rhythm of thunder
And sing praise to all your beauty and wonder
My church will never purposely make you hurt
Here it’s just me
With a few words
You can come when you want to
You can leave whenever
Leave forever
If you want
But I promise
My church
Will always be right here
Jun 3, 2011
Jun 3, 2011 at 10:20 PM UTC
Watched bonded souls disappear
Brothers in arms drenched in blood
Getting harmed , getting hurt.
Being forgotten , being thrown.
Yet over & over again , he picked himself up & braved the sheets on the red line.
Promises built on hope,
She's running constantly in my mind
Only to found out there's a third bind
Lost in battles of love
My love for her was bulletproof
But she shot me right through the heart
In the dark now I reside
Where lives condones to what I've believed
Where fragments puzzled in cubes of despair
Where there's no air to breathe
Only living for the sake of living
Lonely and dying
A soldier lost in a battlefield.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
Society speaks.
Oh, so loudly and annoyingly,
Their words enter my ears.
A man who likes to sleep around is a hero.
He's so manly and tough,
I mean obviously
Because it takes such skill to procreate,
Which is designed by instinct.
A woman who sleeps around?
Oh, she's a ****
Instinct does not affect her the same way,
Because she is supposed to be a lady.
She is not supposed to have desires,
She is supposed to be classy.
Well, if that's what classiness is,
I want no part in its double standards.
Does anyone even know that she is standing next to them?
Do they give a **** that she is a human being?
She has needs, wants, and she should be allowed to express them.
But she cannot, out of fear that she will be judged.
He thinks he can do whatever he wants.
He makes himself known, and does not take no for an answer.
Society condones this.
"Boys will be boys" they say.
And he is a boy if I've ever seen one.
This is the difference between men and women.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
You
Being eaten
By cabbages
I know I know
Cabbages
They don't eat folk
You crazy person
But you see
That is the fun of it
If cabbages ate you alive
That would be a sign
That God condones
My hate for you
And it would make
For a great photo
To put on my wall
A beautiful mix
Of emerald and scarlet.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 12:19 AM UTC
There is a blessing that I cannot give
I fear if you take it I'll no longer live
I've gotten so close to releasing it still
Knowing i'd vanish once you got your fill
But all of the anger has bled from my bones
And love will restore what my body condones
The moment is here and delaying can wait
Surrender my words before it is too late
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
Brandy *** Pig, Slough Companion you'll make
To prize your Aura for his Demands cope
Though Breathe you not; Life does succumb your Shape
Still ignite his Prayers for some Soft Hope
With such Stale Breath his Mind condones still
His Method-of-Tribbles well he can bundle
Such Pampered Master does rub your fur until
The Silver-Saned Eye calls for his Handle
And like his Child the Monkey witnessed made
Hung by his Closet for his Devotions barred
To lift your snout and wiggle his Escapade
Realise his Youth just Subscribed too Hard.
Perhaps your Counsel, plaster Fines therein
Need no Forced Receipts; Or Boosters wherein.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
He stands in his house that is young than he does
His room is miserable like protégé of a teenager,
In contrast to his septuagenarian age ring,
He hates his house with juvenile energy
Not knowing what to do with such hate of loss,
In blurred memory of his estranged wife,
Not able to discern the current age of his daughter,
That had accompanied the distaff on the day of separation,
He lulls his nerves to slumber, away from such menace of a thought,
By walking slowly to the den of wine, like Mermeldov in hands of Fydor,
He sinks down in a chair, plants himself deep into a tumbler of Whisky,
The only fortress into which the poor prodigals take refuge,
Running away from duty of ethics that spans across life of man,
As he wants not memory of his erstwhile risky *** with a punch of ******
From which he condones his exposure to deadly malady,
He wants not his memory of overdrawing his account,
In faithful service to master wine, against the sub-current
Of wisdom that the carouser labours but labours for the brewer,
He wants not memory that his moral duty got punctured,
And hence self-exile in to slavish duty to wine
The only hostage to the whole rounded prodigal.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
Me olvidé que me amaste
después de que te fuiste.
Una maleta cogiste
y sin pensar me desarmaste.
Primero mi boca agarraste
y la metiste en la maleta,
y como ella no te respeta
te dijo “perra sin corazón
que me metes a un cajón
donde guardas los condones
que te llenan de placeres
de un hombre que no te quiere;
y a mí que me aguanto esto
y que a donde vas te sigo
me quieres enterrar vivo
sin siquiera haberme muerto.”
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 6:08 PM UTC
compassion is never compare
one loves and one condones
one can conjure beings and tribes
the other's shoes, always their own
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 11:00 PM UTC
What's more important?
A concrete footpath by the river,
where dogs can foul the walkway.
An area around the castle where
choirs serenade us annually.
A roundabout at The **** Bar
by The ****** Mary.
A Factory with a logo saying
" Golden Valleys, Growing Naturally ".
Fed from the polluted streams full of
******* that Cork Council Condones.
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 7:05 AM UTC