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nadine Sep 2017
eyes so deep and blue as though the sky in a humid morning
eyes so deep and blue as though the vast ocean, scary yet calming
so deep, i'd dive in the universe they hold
so blue, it colored my monochromatic world
nadine x
KiraLili Aug 2016
Legs tucked up under you
Hair up and contacts out glasses on
Favourite mug off coffee
Hard cover balanced in the other hand
Your world projects into print
What is most needed is a story
Literature for you creates its own visual
No technology is needed
The act of reading more important than what you read
By reading you hold a dream in your hand you told me
The slight sound of pages turning only broken by slow sips of black gold
An aura of calm exudes all around you as you get deeper into it
What you see every day is replaced by what you've never seen
And books take my lover there
National Book Day
Maybe one day when the days are fine,
Maybe some years after nine.
Maybe then we come across each other or maybe we won't.
Maybe we ignore or maybe we won't,
Maybe we smile or maybe we won't.
Maybe we crave for that one hug or maybe we won't.
Maybe then you notice the love in my eyes or maybe you won't,
Maybe you can hear the poem my eyes recite or maybe you won't.
Maybe you still pull my cheeks or maybe you won't.
Maybe you still laugh on my jokes or maybe you won't.
Maybe we exchange contacts or maybe we won't.
Maybe then you leave saying goodbye once again or maybe you won't.
Maybe you call me later or maybe you won't
Maybe i say hello and you reply or maybe you won't.
Maybe we start once again or maybe we won't.
Maybe we fall in love once again or maybe we won't.
Maybe you too wish the same to happen or maybe you won't.
Maybe you too miss me or maybe you won't.
Maybe you too write the same or maybe you won't.
chichee Jan 2019
If you're a writer your main trade is hating yourself and
finding ways to be clever about it.
Smoke cigar and coffee-stained typewriters,
bachelor in the sixties, suicide in the seventies.
I'm just a cliché, raining cats and dogs, beating dead horses and singing
a little song about death
a little song about love
there is nothing new under the sun.
Dylan doesn't understand what you do is better than
accounting, your trade is people
like stock markets-
string them up and watch them fall
I play with hearts, you say like
a girl showing off her somersaults in the backyard.
But no one is listening.

So you burn your eyes out with hot wax in the living room
and swear
your name is Icarus
throw your diploma into the laundry and watch it turn into tissue paper,
taking moonlight walks down the beach and
straight into the bottom
of the ocean.

(you thought she would hit you
when you told her you wanted to write
but she only laughed...
and you were surprised
how much
it hurt.)

Your father's pride, a phone full of contacts,
seeing straight in the ******* morning and the heart
of a girl that was once foolish
enough to love nitroglycerine,
sold for
a bottle of ink and a scrap of paper
and your name in the

Tell yourself it was worth it.
Sometimes I think writers like me might be why no one reads anymore.
Aaron Layton Jul 2017
From east to west
I've seen the best
Moss on a stone
Contacts on my phone

I’ve met friends
Knowing it all ends

That I can restart
But keeping the one that's in my heart
She will always be there
A coat my heart wears

For when it gets cold
In this void
She will be there
To warm the air
Carter Ginter Jul 2017
Hot oil seethes through my veins
destroying everything it contacts.
It forces my heart to work twice as hard
and tests my self-control.
My lungs fill with thick grease
the same that’s keeping my mind spinning.
Trying to live with this poison
keeps burning away my limbs.
Until there’s nothing left
but bones.
Poetria Mar 2017
Guess I'll put down a word or two
for some beautiful people
I could see through.
The way he said
he doesn't smile,
but his smile
lit up the whole **** bus.

Guess you should know
how her eyes shone with youth
and a hidden wisdom.
She would blame it on the contacts,
but God, is she gorgeous.

Guess my friend
couldn't wrap her head around
the treasureworth moments
and she was glowing onstage that day
because she knew
she wouldn't be performing again
anytime soon.

Guess I thought about you
and the trees were singing your name,
and the road was long enough
to let you climb back into my mind.

Guess I was at a significant high,
until 14:10 when I walked away and
I broke apart, saw your text right there and
contemplated dying.

And I would've been fine by now
if you didn't just decide to stay minutes
after being gone for so ******* long,
and maybe you had a bad moment there
but I've been having them too.

Guess I'm burning
and the trees are on fire
and you're just a heartbreaker
with your heart on your sleeve.

But do me a favour?
Either stay, or please just leave.
Yet here I am worrying this might hurt you.
onlylovepoetry Feb 2018
Parkland: Oh My divine, We Wrestle Over What is Yours

and what is mine

it took days for the after- shock and awe to arrive;

the bizarre tempo reversal, myself, out of order,
is my shame, after the mind’s pretense ennui of “yet another,”
had to slow seep away beneath the
firewall cutting off the pain of my the true self
and the I, of ordinary

how else, to keep the madness away?
it’s disguised in a well tended secured lockbox
chamber labeled, I, all about me,
deep hid in the rear, not too near the true self,
must keep the unseeing functioning, functioning

but bus-ted poet is triggered and the weep welling
in the eyes commencing that makes writing on a cell
on a moving vehicle an annoying frosting
on what is an inconsolable hell

everyone stares unawares that the shock,
is without awe, and the only awe is in awful awful awful awful

we sit at the Friday eve sabbath table to begin our negotiation;
but there is no negotiating though the excuses and the divine’s stumbling, flailing failings are pre-prepared,
we know this battle too well and the outcome as well,
it is mine true self’s to win, have me not
words and stanzas and music suffice
to convict the lord of the hosts, adonai

take all your seventy names in vain to crush the vanity of
omnipotence for your godliness degrades and your instant access to where the good in me resides is cutoff;
under My Contacts
you have been


we shall meet as always on the Day of Atonement
but this year no repentance to be granted, the pardons shared
with my kind only, none left for the lonely gone-gods,
no longer seek yours for me, there are 17 extra to be given out*

the left foot and the falsehoods join in the denunciation,
though some suggest reprieve and only reproach
for isn’t atonement possible for even gods?  No. not,
for a god who got human kindness installed in all his devices
but then never opened the app

my name was
but for now, till the culling of the agonies is done,
till the hollows are refilled and the curses fully final expended,
till the sudden eye tearing ceases to render me torn, messed,
you may call me nothing but this:


should you come calling
there will be no beseeching,
just the stoic bearing witness of my silence,
my finger-pointing judgement,
and my angels presence

“May the angel Michael be at my right,
and the angel Gabriel be at my left;
and in front of me the angel Uriel,
and behind me the angel Raphael...”
and above me seventeen new protectors
whose names my true self will now memorize,

for now they are mine


2/16/18 4:34pm  ~ 2/17/18  3:34am
Anecandu Oct 2017
There I was dangling off the edge of life by a thread,
Barnacles growing in my bed,
Walking around with lead shoes,
Always wearing Navy Blue contacts.

Out of nowhere something fast,
Picked me up and upward blast,
Bucking, hurtling into the sapphire sky,
Dancing rainbow fairies around us.

I feel the pixie ..... dust
I revel in the lust
I grow in the fertile trust
This must be Hero Love
Vexren4000 Jul 2018
Boxed boxes,
Brought by buyers,
Bypassing bylaws,
Bystanders begging beggars,
To stop their boisterous begging,
Beasts berating beasts,
*******, beastly, bringers,
Bearing rings for ring bearers,
Loosing touch with world events,
Locking into self sustaining loops,
Cutting off contacts,
For the betterment of the whole.
Jack L Martin Aug 2018
There you are
pretty as a picture
the perfect life
you eat amazing food!

Thank you for sharing
Your private thoughts
Your personal contacts
how you shop
where you travel
Where you work

You gave me permission
To control you
when you signed up
to play that game
the game that tells you
which Brady Bunch Kid
Is most like you

a small price to pay
for your ignorance
you are not alone
two billion idiots
myself included
You can download everything you've ever posted on Facebook. It is shocking when you come to the reality that you gave all these companies permission to spy on your "private" life.
Sally S Ali Jan 2019
Under the bluish yellow marble sky
I introduce my soul;
to the demon & the angels

By the lemons tree, I've unleashed my hair and unbutton my blouse
Then cried
as if my teacher called me the black girl

I will call to the 1st passing girl:
"Slow down, please wait for me;
Rise me up by my arms
like a little girl.

I wanted her to Plait 2 branches;
of hair for me
To walk over the world's cold grass
And lie down in front of the sea
Forget the stars - she said
Forget the sea - I said

We left the world coughing its smoke;
of poisoned kids' toys,
cast the residuals of cosmetics and tore bras
Into this sacred sea

So come with me my friend
Delete all of my contacts
smash my mobile phone by your shoe's heel
And let's vanish
from this world
Toward shiny white space
Toward inky smell books
Toward white skies and pink kisses
infinite daylight
For you and for me.

-  Sally S. Ali
Xallan May 2019
Noise, noise I can't help but hear,
Leave me here. I miss the silence.
I miss the roar of the sea-
Not the roar of voices. I miss
the screams of the birds- not the screams
of the people. I miss the clamor of the rain-
Not the clamor of humanity.
I wish I could not count myself among them.

Humanity seeks to end sound with more,
More sound, more noise, more stimulus.
I want to sleep in peace and quiet,
But dreams, and sound, and loud,
Meaningless vocalization! I dream it ends!
Let it end, end me, leave me here.
I will stay awake while it is quiet.
My eyes, open-
My contacts will dry on them,
and scoop out my gelatinous vision,
and dry crystals will my sight become.
I will not see, but I will hear it all.
Hans Taylor Nov 2018
I’ve more or less had to delete you
Ever since your Facebook wall
Turned memorial
But I still had clothes of yours
Now they live in a thrift store
They’re still there, I checked
Not to bad mouth your fashion sense
I’m just now getting used to
Referring to you
In the past tense
I still tense up when I hear your name
I used to do the same
Whenever you popped up in my contacts
I had to erase you to overcome that
And you were the top one at that
To tell the truth when I near your old place,
I take detours
But I suppose that’s a silly way to do it
Since you don’t live there anymore
And anyway,
I swear I see your face in all kinds of places
The parking lot where we sparked a lot
The back of the park, no lights, a good spot
I'm running out of ways to change the subject
When people ask why I never delete voicemails
About once a year I just feel the need to hear it
And I cry a bit
And I’m lying about the size of the bit that I cry
But never mind that
I hop on Spotify and listen to music
Our favourite songs of the time are hidden
In a secret Spotify playlist that I only play sometimes
Like I need some kind of alibi when I think about you
And I still make excuses, you know that
I never visit you
Sorry about that
It still blows my mind how loud a needle drop can be
When you swap a vinyl disk for a friend’s skin
I can still remember you scratching it
And that one time when you brought up six times
That you wanted to die
I should’ve probably seen the signs
But I didn’t at the time
And now I am frustrated
When newspapers
Quote your name as a cautionary tale
There's a whole lot more to you
Than a convenient warning
About the dangers of drug use
You are my friend -
And there you go, I've done it again
You were my friend
And it makes my teeth clench
When people who will never meet you
Put it down to a lack of strength
A missing backbone
But if you’ve checked my bones lately
You’d find they were mostly empty
I have leaned on so many crutches that they have fused with me
And I saw you at role call
For “alive”
Every morning
Until the day you died
Even when you hadn’t heard from your dad in weeks
And I apologise for all the missed calls on my part
One too many
My fault
Mea culpa
Chris Slade Dec 2018
(A Tribute to Ted Slade - poet, 1937-2004)

This new friendship. This journey on which we were just setting out.

How will we work it now you've...well...gone?

It was going so well. That's the way I saw it anyhow.

It had only been a year - we two - back in each other's circle...

Same planet - different orbit. Though I'll never know now what your thoughts might have been..

This 52 year gap in our 'acquaintance', for that's all you'd ever say it was
it closed at dad's (your Uncle Bud's) funeral - as he leapt 'on-flame' to the ether.

He didn't half want to go..."Why don't they just let me slip away?"
And then it was you I wanted to know amongst those finger buffet scoffers.

Those ribboned aces never knew that Bud just kick-started their Lancasters and 'Spits' at Leconfield and Liberia.

Bud's morphine muted passing proved positive, and thankfully at last - 

(he might remember now) - he helped kick-start too this belated kinship between us.

Jack would have been pleased about that...(Bud too I know)

"a good trade" he'd have called it. "I'm knackered anyway".

I was always curious about our respective dads - they only ever sent Christmas letters. No love.

Bud gave me a book  before he swapped "heaven's hopper" for the "take & bake".

"Eer-yar" he wheezed...this is more up your street than mine..."

"Yer what?..."Poetry?...No... I can't make head nor tail of it. Like Shakespeare...Where's me glasses?"

and, with that ,the "Last Arm Pointing" welded that closing gap between us tight shut.

I read 'Mystery Tour' to Bud...about Jack's 'motorised passing' and he cried. So, it was up his street. after all.

Your words filled me in on distant memories...made solid.
Missing chunks I'd seen but never written down
Of Withernsea and its winter isolation

of Jack, his life - and how it intertwined with yours.

I've not found too much yet about Phyllis. Is there a darker story there? Who'll tell me now?

Your final work, tireless as ever, from your New Malden 'crow's nest'...

was steering your second collection to print...and then...

Your literally-literal Mugs and Sweats - flying off the shelves of a California warehouse.

Disabled? Pah!  Why should they ever know the what & why behind the who and when?

Your 'disability'...would only 'publicly' let you down if your trike sustained a puncture in Richmond Park.

"Hi Cuz...Where do I go to get mugs and sweat shirts printed?"

And then, whilst I was looking through directories & old invoices,

you whizzed across the earth on the wings of your laser guided mouse.

By the time I'd got the phone numbers of long distance, half remembered contacts -

you had designs submitted, distribution and royalty deals sorted and were planning the next big thing.

Your freehold on the planet was the web...your very own super-short cut.

Who needs invalid cars when you can 'fly digital'?

You were a lover of the dub-dub-dub which loved you back in floods.

Now, even when your body has deserted you - it still throws us pages and pages - of you - and about you.

The Noddy Holders and Wes the Western Gun-slinger, pale by comparison, they'd envy your PR knack.

Instead of trying to phone, (these heavenly BT - or is it ET-connections often end in wrong numbers)...

and, because a lot of the time talking took it out of you, I'll keep writing like I did before.

Replies would be good. But I often used to write out of turn anyway.

So yes, things could get a bit one sided...forgive me if I 'go on', and... you don't!

But I'll keep writing to [email protected] and read the answers in your books and old e-mails of the family's past.

Cheers Ted...Lots of love Chris (Cuz) Slade.
Ted Slade was a published poet with (for a sufferer of severe kyphoscoliosis) a stellar career. Only started school at age 12... Qualified for Uni at 16. A metalurgist at Filingdales after graduation (so, a real 'propellor head')... He switched to Head of Marketing for the Portuguese Tourist Authority (as you do)...An Atheist and Communist, his last job before dedicating to poetry was as PC Network specialist at Kingston University...On retirement he turned his attention full time to Poetry and founded We lost touch big-time and only met again in our 60s (mental) and found we had so much in common... except I was and never will be a propellor head!
Lawrence Hall Oct 2019
Mr. Big Businessman...

                       There wiste no wight that he was in dette

                          -Chaucer, General Prologue, line 279

If this were fifty years ago he’d sport
A cheap brown suit and a loud, too-wide tie
But now he wears knee-pants and cartoon tees
And fashion shoes that look like cancerous growths

And speaks like Chaucer’s merchant of his gigs
Contacts and contracts and deals to be made
Important ‘phone calls that must be taken now
In a voice of in-crowd guffawery

But when he clicks off his shiny MePhone
He asks for gas money to get him home
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Yenson Aug 2018
Commissar Dumbrov of The Red Republican Army at his desk

Grego, Grego , what is happening with the Regal in the Gulag
Is he mad yet, has he hanged himself and committed suicide

No Commissar, he is writing poetry and growing fat like a pig

Are you crazy, this is a ****** Revolution, not ******* poetry class
Did you not put him through the program.

We did Commissar, we hounded and tormented him, we persuaded his wife to break his heart, we fully destroyed his career, we isolated him, we ruined him financially, we made the proletariat hate him,
we taunted him and provoked him everywhere, we scandalized his name and reputation, we bugged him, we oppressed him, we bullied him, we made him friendless, we invaded his privacy, we mocked him and depressed him, we tried to confuse him, we mix him up. we harassed him with noise, we've terrorize him we've done everything and more. he has not been with a woman for 20 years.

AND HE'S WRITING POETRY, what a pack of ******* fools you are, that's the trouble with you ****** Proletariat, you have no brains, must be all the ****** gruel you lot eat, your ******* brains didn't develop properly, all you ******* know is how to be ***** and violent, any wonder these Elitists see you as nothing but animals. that great Leader of the Revolution wrote, I forget his name now, he wrote that the best and only way to deal with these Elitists is to attack their minds, **** up their ****** brains, make them paranoid and fearful. drive them crazy, turn them into jabba labba locos, dribbling at the mouth locos crazy,

We tried Commissar, we did all the things to make this happen, we spent a lot of time and effort on this, we used all the grape-vines and contacts we have, we even threw the Kitchen sink at him. So far, nothing.

You threw the ******* Kitchen sink at him, what's that for, the Kitchen sink belongs to the State, its not meant to be thrown at ******* Elitist Dissidents.

Its a manner of speech, Commissar.

Now you are a Comedian, are you, a ******* Revolution is going on, we are creating a Classless Society and Equality for all and you are making stupid jokes!

No Commissar, I mean we utilized all resources so far, we have continually harassed him, we have created so much disappointments, betrayals, let-downs, frustrations for him, but he still remains calm, stoical, composed, dignified, erudite and sane.
maybe its true that these people are a different breed. Its frustrating for us and quite honestly, embarrassing!.

Shut up, are you saying he's some sort of Regal Rasputin, even that ****** one, we got in the end, now you're saying this one is bullet-proof. Have you tried Advanced Slander, spread the nastiest rumors about him. So bad to make him take his own life. Who was it that said,  “Show me the man and I'll show you the crime”

It was Comrade Beria, Commissar. Yes Commissar, we have framed him many times and made thumped up allegations against him. We have done all that Commissar, we even said he walks like John Wayne or a broken crab.

Who is this John Wayne, are you a time-traveler now?

Have you tried spreading the rumor that he goes to the Cementry at night and sleep with dead women, he digs up.

No Commissar, I don't think even the stupidest Proletariat would believe that one.

Have you tried spreading a rumour he has *** with a dog.

Commissar Natashavo hasn't been anywhere near him, Commissar

Are you being funny again, Grego

No Commissar!

So what is happening right now with our Mr Invincible Elitist Poet Romanov or whatever his name is,  the MAN that you ******* useless Republican comrades, can't drive mad or make commit suicide, a simple thing, that we have done thousands of times. Why is it that when we do these things to those Class-traitor Proletariat, they die or go raving mad loco coo coo  within six months.

The Proletariat are brainless  cowards Commissar, they can dish it out but they can't take it, Commissar, that's why its so easy for us Senior Members of the Po-lit-Bureau to manipulate and control them. As regards our MAN we are still actively harassing him, we are presently mixing him up again, mentally and doing voice to skull tactics with him. We also make sure he remains frozen in a time warp. This is useful in allowing us to demonstrate to the imbecilic Proletariat that we are powerful and can control people and events, this makes sure they realize our capabilities and might and of course, fosters espirit de corps. It keeps them all in line.

Well that's good thinking Grego, yes, that's good, as regards our Poet, why don't we just blast off his *****.

We did Commissar, but he grew bigger ones!

Are you being funny again, Grego, do you want to be sent to the Gulag in Siberia to keep the Poet company.

No, Commissar, I have a date tonight with Commissar Natashavo!
Michael Hill Aug 2018
Numbing sends me crashing to pieces,
lungs fill up before I can scream,
light diminishes into darkness,
substance entered but refuses to release.

Colors now white flashes,
blood dips beneath my chest,
nobody's coming i have no contacts,
only my mothers ashes.

In my mind walls keep me bound,
with water soon to drown,
messed up broken needs a fix,
gotta break this glass so confound.

As water starts to over submerge,
a pulse breaks the glass setting me free,
opening my eyes these people standing before me,
weeping a funereal they all have to purge.

Still cannot speak but now can cry,
knowing people actually care,
never again shall I take a substance,
that costed me a near a goodbye.

For this next to me is a plug,
which might end up getting pulled,
even with my eyes open,
without movement they might just be misunderstood.
it's from a song i really like
Ri May 2019
he couldn’t sleep at night. if he could count the times that he twisted and turned his body to get a comfortable position, he would be more frustrated and he is afraid he will be awake for the rest of the quiet times. so he grabbed the pillow next to him and embraced it as if his life depended on it.

however, the soft pillow that caresses his cheeks smells like his favorite perfume. it smelt like the aroma of roses that almost had the faint scent of the sea and serenity.

it was not his.

it was hers.

her head laid against the pillow the other night and the remains of it crawled through his head. the first thing that lingered on his mind was her hair. he remembers the day when her soft locks intertwined with his fingers as he eagerly try to do a simple braid. it was relaxing for you that it put her thoughts into ease after a long day from university.

the next one was her eyes. it was a drunken night when she told him that eye contacts are very important when he is talking with his date. so after a few denials, little arguments and small talks, she dared him to look at her straight in the eyes for a whole minute.

and he got lost in tracks as he stared at the most beautiful pair of eyes he had ever seen in his whole entire life. he wanted his face to lean in further to capture those lips,

oh, her lips.

those lips that he finds the most endearing among her being. plump, soft, sometimes it curls into a pout. he thought how lovely it is to kiss your lips every day with such affection and delight.

thinking of her sweet features became enough for him to drive himself away from the reality where the idea of them exists. maybe one day he will be courageous enough to spill his feelings and wrap her around his arms at night just like the pillow he is hugging right now.

his eyes wandered for the last time. he looked for his phone to turn it off but he noticed that the time written on his screen was 11:11.

and so he wished he wouldn’t be the only one dreaming of his desire to hold her for the rest of his life anymore.
Nnaemeka Mokeme Nov 2018
Victory over victory
means excellent
and good success.
Smiles over success
can be contagious.
It is a good sickness
to share with others.
It's infection is
really encouraging.
This is the only
disease ladies are
willing to show off when
their men contacts it.
Doctors recommended,
pharmacist orders it,
and nurses injects it,
wives are thrilled by it.
It is a bitter drug
worth taking.
One capsule daily
dose drives poverty
fever away,
and keep ailing
mediocrity at bay.
It attracts mosquitoes,
that's  parasites free.
Without it nothing
worthwhile works out.
Success is everything.
It has an attitude,
It has a voice,
a very powerful one.
Put it into action and
all doors opens,
goes to war and
settles disputes.
Can unlock every door
that refuses to open.
It answers all things.
Children are trained and
groomed to have it.
Pursued by everyone
by any means necessary.
Great risks are taken
because of it.
Those of the dark side of
life kills because of it,
anything can happen just
to possess it.
You are nobody
when success
eludes you.
Even nations goes
to war just to keep it.
To be powerful and influential,
it must be in your abode.
To be successful is awesome.
But you must plan and
work hard to have it.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Bob B Oct 2018
"They say I shouldn't use my phone
Because it's unsecure.
Anyone who tells me that
Is full of cow manure.
This talk about encryption--
That's a lot of bunk.
The thought of them taking my phone
Puts me in a funk.

"Some in my administration
Say that they foresee
Trouble if foreign spies are really
Listening to me.
Advisers fear that I might share
Secrets, but I say,
That's not easy 'cause I don't under-
Stand them anyway.

"How I love my cell phone
Because I love to tweet!
If they confiscated my phone,
I'd feel incomplete.
Having all my contacts in my
Cell phone really rocks.
I can get advice from all my
People down at Fox.

"I don't want my calls logged.
It really takes some *****
For my Chief of Staff to want to
Monitor my calls.
That's why I prefer to use
My private phone instead.
Who would even want to try
To get inside my head?

"Oh, Hillary's private server?
That's a different story.
Everything she does is in
A different category.
From rules that govern others
I feel I'm exempt.
That has never made my fans
Regard me with contempt.

"So they can't take my iPhone.
That would not be nice.
They say, 'Donald, it's a perfect
Location tracking device.
Spies collect your data
And know each confidant.'
I say, I'm the president,
And I'll do what I want!"

-by Bob B (10-26-18)
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