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warp Nov 2017
I am a coward,
But you wouldn't know that,
Because I am a coward.
Through my thoughts and words.

I am a coward,
Silent when I should've been loud;
I am a coward,
Doubtful when I should've been proud.

I shall bring shame to my family,
As some of them have brought mine;
I shall bring shame to those who surround me,
Those who said I shouldn't give up on the line.

I will be selfish,
I will be foolish,
I will be fiendish,
I will try to end it.

I have seen the ugly,
I have felt how ugly.
I have seen your sorrows;
Yet I have not faced mine.

Now I am a coward,
Keeping the things I should've said,
Nothing more than a coward,
A lost cause better dead.

Don't blame yourself,
When you come see my grave,
Put your fake face on the shelf,
For once don't be a knave.

For those I will leave grieving,
I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough;
Maybe you did start caring,
Started caring but not enough.

I am a coward.
Put none on faith,
All alone, a *******,
Alone and lost and frail.

I am a coward,
To let myself be conquered,
By sickness and my thoughts,
By circumstance and words.

I am a coward,
Without saying why;
I am a coward,
To leave without saying goodbye.

I am a coward,
To end abruptly my own strife,
I wish you would forgive me,
For giving up my life.

To those who see these words,
May my omen bring you a sign;
Don't be alone, or at least try;
Don't repeat what mistake have I.

I am a coward.
It took me so long to let you know.
I am a coward.
Hopefully this goodbye isn't just for show.
I'm sorry but I'll try to **** myself tonight.

The pain's so much to bear

A dumb decision but one I stand by

Goodbye.
Micah Ziegler Oct 2013
I am a coward
I risk the lives of others
I have the cure to their disease
Yet I keep it to myself
Why
Because I am a coward
I would sooner run away
Than stand my ground
I would sooner sugarcoat it
Than honestly speak the truth
Why
Because I am a coward
I have nothing to lose
All I have to do is reach out my hand
And yet I don't
I stay far from the hands that are reaching for me
Why
Because I am a coward
So I walk the safer road
Not wanting to risk rejection
I allow those whom I know to drown in their ignorance
I allow those whom I love to die without my help
Why
Because I am a coward
It's not even their fault
But my ego might suffer
I might be denied by a few
I might be laughed at
So why try at all
Because God did the same for me
God gave up His life for mine
He reached down into the stormy waters
He dirtied himself in order to cleanse me
He saved me from my own ignorance and my own sin
Why
Not because I was worth it
Not because I was trying hard enough
But because He loved me enough to pull me from the waters of death
Now I stand in the safety of His love and grace and I don't offer the same safety to those whom I love
Who am I to decide who shares in the salvation given by God
I am a coward
No more
“Be strong and courageous”
With Christ as my support I will reach into the waters
My hand will be open for any who want to take it
I will be like a lighthouse,
Reflecting God's guidance,
Directing others into His love
Why
Because I am strong and courageous
With God as my tether I will jump into those waters of death
I will dive deep in order to reach my friends who believe that they are lost
I will go to them without fear, showing them the salvation that could also be theirs
Swimming with God-given strength I will reach the corners of the ocean
Bringing with me the way back to the shore
Why
Because I have been saved
Because I am no longer a coward
Because I am strong and courageous
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U1CNmIPBEpY
Roman Yanish Feb 2014
you called me a coward
for returning the book I loaned from you
to the library
where you work

you called me a coward
for not finding you
and firmly handing you the book
and nodding and walking away

you called me a coward
for not stopping you
when I didn’t want to
but didn’t want to lose you

you called me a coward
for staying in your mind
and making your blood boil
at the very thought of it

you called me a coward
when you got drunk
and wrote it on tumblr
when I’ve been writing it on paper

you called me a coward
and you didn’t feel any better

that’s okay.

You still got your book back
I still didn’t finish it
I found it interesting at first
But I became apathetic

You should not have called me a coward
You should have called me lazy
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
Courage and his old friend Coward

hand in hand felt quite empowered

off they went from tower to steeple

amongst the land of broken people


they climbed amongst the highest fears

sailed the deepest darkest tears

weaved amongst the dreadest schemes

faced down nightmares, took on dreams


Coward hoped they'd do some good

in the land of flesh and blood

He didn't feel so terrified

now that Courage was by his side


they walked in wars and abject terror

hoped the world would see its error

Sometimes they got a glimpse of peace

yet many times that too would cease


Centuries passed and Courage cried

'You can't say we haven't tried!'

Then Coward's knobbly knees would settle

deep inside he'd find his mettle


In the land of broken people

beneath the towers and lofty steeple

Hope came home, it may seem absurd

holding hands with his old pal Word


Off they went to home sweet homes

Writing letters, posting poems

Off they went from tower to steeple

holding hands and healing people


Courage and his old friend Coward

hand in hand felt quite empowered

off they went from tower to steeple

with Hope and Word to heal the people
Dexteix Sep 2014
Passing over mountains
and forging over fords
slipping though forests
filled with dappled shapes,
the Coward-King makes his escape

His heart is beating
and his mind is fleeing
As behind Him
burns all he has ever known

His kingdom ablaze
His cities razed
Fields salted
books torn and statues melted
His people fighting in the ruins
dying ,trying,
to let this not be the end

Flee Coward-King
as your nature becomes known
as the mailed fist torches your own.
**** whats been done!
the Great Enemy has come!
the dread Master
of a dark and terrible horde
and his servants seek you
with ****** swords

Dark Knights on vile steeds
Grim men of black heart
Exiles and renegades
each eager to do his part

To bring you low
to make sure you reap
what you've sown
Can you hear the hounds a baying?
Neath the trees swaying
was that the sound of horses neighing?
The shadows playing
Your wits derailing,

Coward-King,
Your fortress walls have failed
and your flight will be to no avail
Hi everyone, second part of what may end up being a series. I had some issues with this one, as it got a bit hairy there for a second. I am also uncertain about the second last stanza, I have not found something similar but I could be wrong apart from the reap what you sow stuff.
Any event, feed me critiques as its only my second posted work and I may need to rewrite.
Liam Williams Apr 2012
Knicks

Waiting at the bus stop,
Jamming to some hip hop,
Checkin’ on my wrist watch
Clock is running tick-tock

And he made his way down the block
Walking in my direction,
With his face hanging behind that faded fitted

He is the boy that never goes home
Who thinks selling dope and
having high hopes makes him grown

Late nights on street corners,
Protecting urban borders,
Claiming blocks for blood,
selling rocks for what?

He nodded at me and I smiled back
not ever ignoring the bloodstains on his shoe laces
He was a gangster

And I never understood how such a bright boy
could be such a coward
Because that’s what they are all
Cowards who hide behind colors
Blue and red tied brothers
who leave their sisters and mothers
How could you?

Whose familiar face standing beside me
As if we never shared the same last name
Cameron

For all those times that you pushed me from the doorway
Just to kiss the sunset with your piff

I prayed for your protection
I prayed that you would never forget
mommies’ and daddies’ lesson
and that my love for you will never lessen

And I prayed that a bullet will never befriend your skin, I prayed
That someday you will understand
that being a brave street soldier in the dark
still made you a coward come sunrise

And sometime I feel that you may be color blind
Because I do not understand how you see strength
in your blacks and reds
When you have blacks and blues tattooed all over you.

So tell me what side do you belong to
when your lips are synced supo....
but your eyes are swimming in cripped colored kisses
mixed with hints sdfnarega...
ajrngjeag...

They got you
now you have an appetite for revenge

too proud to bleed for the bullet
yet quick to let finger tips lit triggers
your fine arms are too short to box with God

I remember when you told me
that you favorite rapper was TuPac
and I bet you wonder if heaven has got a ghetto

but you will never know because attempting to play God
and pimping mother nature
will never get you high enough to get there

so he will just send his angels down to tell you
that it is TuPac for one more gangster

and now you are off to hell’s home, homie
where you won’t have back pocket
for your blood colored bandannas to hold on to
like umbilical cords connecting you to the wind
you will just be dead skin
lost like the next of kin
of all your other blood brothers who sin

and all your fighting for meaning nothing any more
because in hell you will no longer
have your boys willing to die for you

just demons waiting to dance with you
holding out red roses that used to be white
before they used them to clean the messes
you made when you were still alive
what are you thinking?

you coward
running from your own light
shaking hands with the darkness
as if you were never taught to recognize the sun
mommie’s son
my brother

I just wanted to make you come home
make you breakfast in the morning
and remind you how beautiful blood can be
when it is not used as paint on concrete canvases
but when it is served aeruhgiureg on kitchen tables..

and as my bus pulls up,
I rummage through my pockets for my dollar
wishing I too had a faded fitting to hide my face beneath
because I would hate for you to see me cry for you too

and as I step onto that bus and walk over to my seat
I silently pray to God
that he will forgive me for calling you a coward

because who am I to call you a coward
when I couldn’t even find the strength to tell you how I felt
couldn’t share my quick healed cuts with you
and the tears that raced down my cheeks

so fast to prove that blood is indeed thicker than water
My brother

you stayed at the bus stop as we drove away
and I don’t know if my bus wasn’t going in your direction
or if you just lost your direction
years ago in the red silk lining of papi’s coffin

but I won’t dwell
I will sleep tonight
not forget to dedicate my prayers to you.

Wake up in the morning,
get dressed and
if you find yourself missing your little sister
I will just be...

Waiting at the bus stop,
Jamming to some hip hop,
Checkin’ on my wrist watch
Clock is running tick-tock
Skyler M Feb 2019
Believer takes his hat and coat,
Walks out of his room,
Into a misty gloom where shadows warp his irises,
And he falls and falls straight into heaven.

Disbeliever steals a rock from the underground cave,
Ties it to his ankle never floats away,
Blasphemy is and will always be his life,
Every night the disbeliever sat near his bed,
Praying to Believer above,
When it never came he took the name,
Coward.

Believer took pity and asked heaven for an angel,
The angel couldn't do much but mourn with Coward,
As his disbelief kept his sight blinded,
And he was content, by god he never wanted to let go.

Plants grew into Coward's room,
His frame growing frail and tired,
Years of fighting and giving up drained his veins,
Finally, an ounce of death brought a clearing in his vision,
Coward saw his angel and shot it not once, not twice, but thrice,
Once for the son, second for the father, the third for the holy spirit.

Believer took this as a sign,
That he was fearful of something controlling his life,
Coward needed to control and stabilize himself his way,
No angels over his shoulder,
No rules to abide by,
Whether it was real or not,
It was Coward who needed to learn to heal himself.

Coward shot himself once more and bandaged his wound with care,
Taking his blood with him,
He inspected it's contents,
Wondering what was inside that cursed and plagued his life,
He found that it was all himself and things he told himself,
To a shock and a conclusion of misery,
Coward knew that once he got off of his ride,
He'd have to drain his blood and purify it,
It took every ounce of sadness and courage,
But it worked. Oh god it worked.
Beinghonest Feb 2016
I'm so sorry that I'm a coward,
Sorry that I'm scared of telling you what's going on in my head,
(or heart)
I'm so sorry that I'm too scared to tell you that you're cute
Or tell you that I want to hold you tight so that you sleep nicely.
I'm so sorry that I'm a coward,
Holding back my feelings for you...
But I guess that's who I am,
A coward -
I hope you can see beyond my cowardice,
Is a little candle,
That burns brightly because my love for you fuels it...
And it gets warmer and brighter each time you say hi.
-just being honest
JC Lucas Mar 2016
The poetry’s gone to **** lately.
Mostly I mean there isn’t much,
but what there is isn’t that good.
Maybe, *******, life’s just
not awful these days.

Maybe my eye for the magic in the monotony’s just gotten
lazy.

I feel too good to even resent whatever it is
making me limp-dicked.

“coward,” I think.
“******* coward.”

And in a minute,
the coward I am,
I’ll probably set this page down,
unfinished
walk to the television,
turn it on
and submit
like a coward

like a corpse
belly-up
under a sky of infinitely small pixels
flashing on
and off
on
and off.
(love poem for a computer screen)
Dornish Bastard May 2015
I'm hers, undeniably,
But I'm afraid to make her mine.
I'm too comfortable by myself
So I fail to give her time.
A better man will make her his,
Then I'll rightly be left behind.
...
All because I'm an introvert
And a coward combined.
She's amazing but I spend too much time with myself.
Victoria G Sep 2015
I am a coward and you are a giant
When I close my eyes, I see you smiling
I can't help but think that we deserve a shot
But quickly chide myself for entertaining the thought
Because I am a coward and you are a giant
When I see your face, I can't stop smiling
I think of the way your hand sat on my shoulder
And what we could be if we were a little older
But I am a coward and you are giant
And the universe has no regard for timing
Maybe someday I'll finally be brave
And say this out loud to your face
Today I'm a coward and you are a giant
And if I said I could move on I'd be lying
Am I a coward?
Or am I strong?
The pain that has towered
Dealt with for so long

Yet, I'm still here
Is it because fear?

I've wanted to die
I can't help but wonder why
Why haven't I?

Do I persevere?
Life, do I hold dear?

Or am I afraid?
Of being laid
Down in a tomb?
Is it worse than my room?

So am I a coward?
Am I so weak?
Or am I strong
In the face of a life soured?
I can't help but think
About my song

The song of my life
Could it sing strength?
Somehow my knife
Shining at length
Doesn't seem to believe
I'll be remembered that way
So I would conceive
Strength isn't what people would say
When describing me
So cowardly then
Is what I must be
For not bringing my end

And I still don't know
If I'll ever go
Will I ever confide
In my suicide?
Is suicide cowardly, or an act of strength? Is living on? Could both be either? Which am I? I can't bring myself to believe the better. So then, am I a coward for living, or would I be a coward for dying?
Yue Wang Yidhna Mar 2016
Seep and Hide
By: Yidhna
Friday March 11, 2016

I know that you love
The way I look at you stupefied
And that both of us are at loss with words
But love only needs to be written in our eyes
Like glaciers of mid July
Like the waves and tides of closer moonlight
The melting of our soul
Seep and hide

I have never told you
The promise I've secretly made
Cross my heart and hope to die
And You've never heard it
In the Dead of the Night
But I will still hold your hand
Till the end of time

The impulse of loving you
I have never understood
But I know the prelude
Told of a tale of eternity with you
For not loving you would be difficult
And forgetting you would be too hard to do
And I am a coward
A coward coward
That needs you

We may not have counted aloud
the stars of the silent night
But under the light of a billions eyes
I will always and forever
be right by your side
Let their scrutiny give our love better keep
So it would never
Seep and Hide

I have never told you
The promise I've silently made
cross my heart and hope to die
And You've never heard it
In the Dead of the night
But I will still keep your soul
Till the end of time

The impulse of loving you
I have never understood
But I know the prelude
Told of a tale of eternity with you
For not loving you would be difficult
And forgetting you would be too hard to do
And I am a coward
A coward A coward
That loves you
Something I wrote a sort of lyric in my mind, but I don't compose, so there is no music for it right now.
Not a coward
But a cup overflowing
With the damning dark

Not a coward
But a human capable
Of emotion's full spectrum

Not a coward
But a father unable
To see through the deafening dark

Not a coward
But a man plagued
By plundering depression

Not a coward
But someone like me
Wading through a cell

Not a coward
But a person trying to breathe
Yet inhaling only that which drowns

His muses became his captors
His brain became his prison
His family became his mourners

But he was not a coward
He just wasn't a survivor
Soldiers slain under the hand of their enemies have not died because they cowered from their duties. They were overwhelmed, perhaps disadvantaged. We misunderstand depression as a society. We think it's a choice, something we can turn off and on. Like our phones, or the lights in our houses. But humans are not switches. Chester was not a coward.
He was a human.
ak Mar 2014
To watch as my best friend disolves into tears
Because of you
To watch her hope and pray that you would still be there for her
To see her try to talk to you
To type messages to you to which you will never reply
To see her being there for you for months as you battled with yourself
To watch as you pushed her away
To accept your harsh words and say nothing as she was hurting so badly
But now, as you dance away into the sunset with someone else, I can not just sit back and watch you hurt her anymore because, as you know, this would break her and its not fair
You're a coward, that is all, a low life coward
And you leave me to pick up the shattered prices of someone you used to love
When you could have prevented it
And its not fair
But you are just a coward
There was a shooting in Redstone
Only one man dead, none hurt
He was found dead in the morning
With just one hole right through his shirt

He was lying in the main street
Face down, right there in the dirt
He was found dead in the morning
With just one hole right through his shirt

I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT IN THE BACK
I WAS GUNNED DOWN BY A COWARD
I DIDN'T HEAR THE GUNSHOT CRACK

The crowd had formed around him
Lying there, all hard and cold
No witnessess to the shooting
At least not one so bold

They knew him from his weapon
The sixteen notches on the grip
He came in on the Flyer
He won't be on the return trip

I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT IN THE BACK
I WAS GUNNED DOWN BY A COWARD
I DIDN'T HEAR THE GUNSHOT CRACK

He was staying at The Belfry
He only brought one bag to town
No one knew why he had come here
Except to shoot somebody down

The papers ran the story
The next morning in THE SUN
They ran a picture and a story
Of the "Man With The Pearl Gun"

I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT IN THE BACK
I WAS GUNNED DOWN BY A COWARD
I DIDN'T HEAR THE GUNSHOT CRACK

The story was quite lengthy
Considering no one saw him shot
But, as usual there was someone
Who had a story to be bought

He'd been shot from an end window
Above the Local Mercantile Store
One bullet from a rifle
And the gunman was no more

I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT IN THE BACK
I WAS GUNNED DOWN BY A COWARD
I DIDN'T HEAR THE GUNSHOT CRACK

Turns out the gunman's killer
Was the one he'd come to find
The shooter was the killer's child
The only son, he'd left behind

They never met before this
He'd never ever met his Dad
But, The Gunman came to find him
And in the end, it's kind of sad

I'T WASN'T SUPPOSED TO END LIKE THIS
FACE DOWN HERE, IN THE STREET
I'M A GUNFIGHTER OF MUCH RENOWN
I'M JUST A GUN WHO CAN'T BE BEAT
I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE
LYING DEAD, SHOT BY MY SON
I WAS GUNNED DOWN WITHOUT KNOWING
I GUESS HE'S NOW THE WANTED GUN.
Thomas Little Apr 2016
Life is hard.
I don't know why more people don't admit it.
The hardest about life is the fact that it is, in essence, life.
But there are those who can't take it.
And we call this the coward's way out.
But why?
At multiple times in my life I have been suicidal.
But I'm here.
Why?
Because I'm a coward.
How the **** is gathering up the courage to end your life
When death is one of the scariest things we face
Possibly the coward's way out?
People say I had the strength to live
But I didn't have the strength to die.
If we're being perfectly honest,
People call me brave for not killing myself.
The only reason I didn't,
Is because living is the coward's way out.
Alyssa Underwood Mar 2016
I

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
  For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
  When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
  And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men
  In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
  And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
  With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
  Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
  With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
  Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
  A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
  “That fellows got to swing.”

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
  Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
  Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
  My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought
  Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
  With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
  And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
  By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
  Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
  The brave man with a sword!

Some **** their love when they are young,
  And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
  Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
  The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
  Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
  And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
  Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame
  On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
  Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
  Into an empty place

He does not sit with silent men
  Who watch him night and day;
Who watch him when he tries to weep,
  And when he tries to pray;
Who watch him lest himself should rob
  The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see
  Dread figures throng his room,
The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
  The Sheriff stern with gloom,
And the Governor all in shiny black,
  With the yellow face of Doom.

He does not rise in piteous haste
  To put on convict-clothes,
While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
  Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
******* a watch whose little ticks
  Are like horrible hammer-blows.

He does not know that sickening thirst
  That sands one’s throat, before
The hangman with his gardener’s gloves
  Slips through the padded door,
And binds one with three leathern thongs,
  That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear
  The Burial Office read,
Nor, while the terror of his soul
  Tells him he is not dead,
Cross his own coffin, as he moves
  Into the hideous shed.

He does not stare upon the air
  Through a little roof of glass;
He does not pray with lips of clay
  For his agony to pass;
Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
  The kiss of Caiaphas.


II

Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard,
  In a suit of shabby grey:
His cricket cap was on his head,
  And his step seemed light and gay,
But I never saw a man who looked
  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
  With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
  Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every wandering cloud that trailed
  Its raveled fleeces by.

He did not wring his hands, as do
  Those witless men who dare
To try to rear the changeling Hope
  In the cave of black Despair:
He only looked upon the sun,
  And drank the morning air.

He did not wring his hands nor weep,
  Nor did he peek or pine,
But he drank the air as though it held
  Some healthful anodyne;
With open mouth he drank the sun
  As though it had been wine!

And I and all the souls in pain,
  Who tramped the other ring,
Forgot if we ourselves had done
  A great or little thing,
And watched with gaze of dull amaze
  The man who had to swing.

And strange it was to see him pass
  With a step so light and gay,
And strange it was to see him look
  So wistfully at the day,
And strange it was to think that he
  Had such a debt to pay.

For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
  That in the spring-time shoot:
But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
  With its adder-bitten root,
And, green or dry, a man must die
  Before it bears its fruit!

The loftiest place is that seat of grace
  For which all worldlings try:
But who would stand in hempen band
  Upon a scaffold high,
And through a murderer’s collar take
  His last look at the sky?

It is sweet to dance to violins
  When Love and Life are fair:
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
  Is delicate and rare:
But it is not sweet with nimble feet
  To dance upon the air!

So with curious eyes and sick surmise
  We watched him day by day,
And wondered if each one of us
  Would end the self-same way,
For none can tell to what red Hell
  His sightless soul may stray.

At last the dead man walked no more
  Amongst the Trial Men,
And I knew that he was standing up
  In the black dock’s dreadful pen,
And that never would I see his face
  In God’s sweet world again.

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
  We had crossed each other’s way:
But we made no sign, we said no word,
  We had no word to say;
For we did not meet in the holy night,
  But in the shameful day.

A prison wall was round us both,
  Two outcast men were we:
The world had ****** us from its heart,
  And God from out His care:
And the iron gin that waits for Sin
  Had caught us in its snare.


III

In Debtors’ Yard the stones are hard,
  And the dripping wall is high,
So it was there he took the air
  Beneath the leaden sky,
And by each side a Warder walked,
  For fear the man might die.

Or else he sat with those who watched
  His anguish night and day;
Who watched him when he rose to weep,
  And when he crouched to pray;
Who watched him lest himself should rob
  Their scaffold of its prey.

The Governor was strong upon
  The Regulations Act:
The Doctor said that Death was but
  A scientific fact:
And twice a day the Chaplain called
  And left a little tract.

And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
  And drank his quart of beer:
His soul was resolute, and held
  No hiding-place for fear;
He often said that he was glad
  The hangman’s hands were near.

But why he said so strange a thing
  No Warder dared to ask:
For he to whom a watcher’s doom
  Is given as his task,
Must set a lock upon his lips,
  And make his face a mask.

Or else he might be moved, and try
  To comfort or console:
And what should Human Pity do
  Pent up in Murderers’ Hole?
What word of grace in such a place
  Could help a brother’s soul?

With slouch and swing around the ring
  We trod the Fool’s Parade!
We did not care: we knew we were
  The Devil’s Own Brigade:
And shaven head and feet of lead
  Make a merry masquerade.

We tore the tarry rope to shreds
  With blunt and bleeding nails;
We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
  And cleaned the shining rails:
And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
  And clattered with the pails.

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
  We turned the dusty drill:
We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
  And sweated on the mill:
But in the heart of every man
  Terror was lying still.

So still it lay that every day
  Crawled like a ****-clogged wave:
And we forgot the bitter lot
  That waits for fool and knave,
Till once, as we tramped in from work,
  We passed an open grave.

With yawning mouth the yellow hole
  Gaped for a living thing;
The very mud cried out for blood
  To the thirsty asphalte ring:
And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
  Some prisoner had to swing.

Right in we went, with soul intent
  On Death and Dread and Doom:
The hangman, with his little bag,
  Went shuffling through the gloom
And each man trembled as he crept
  Into his numbered tomb.

That night the empty corridors
  Were full of forms of Fear,
And up and down the iron town
  Stole feet we could not hear,
And through the bars that hide the stars
  White faces seemed to peer.

He lay as one who lies and dreams
  In a pleasant meadow-land,
The watcher watched him as he slept,
  And could not understand
How one could sleep so sweet a sleep
  With a hangman close at hand?

But there is no sleep when men must weep
  Who never yet have wept:
So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave—
  That endless vigil kept,
And through each brain on hands of pain
  Another’s terror crept.

Alas! it is a fearful thing
  To feel another’s guilt!
For, right within, the sword of Sin
  Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
And as molten lead were the tears we shed
  For the blood we had not spilt.

The Warders with their shoes of felt
  Crept by each padlocked door,
And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
  Grey figures on the floor,
And wondered why men knelt to pray
  Who never prayed before.

All through the night we knelt and prayed,
  Mad mourners of a corpse!
The troubled plumes of midnight were
  The plumes upon a hearse:
And bitter wine upon a sponge
  Was the savior of Remorse.

The **** crew, the red **** crew,
  But never came the day:
And crooked shape of Terror crouched,
  In the corners where we lay:
And each evil sprite that walks by night
  Before us seemed to play.

They glided past, they glided fast,
  Like travelers through a mist:
They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
  Of delicate turn and twist,
And with formal pace and loathsome grace
  The phantoms kept their tryst.

With mop and mow, we saw them go,
  Slim shadows hand in hand:
About, about, in ghostly rout
  They trod a saraband:
And the ****** grotesques made arabesques,
  Like the wind upon the sand!

With the pirouettes of marionettes,
  They tripped on pointed tread:
But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
  As their grisly masque they led,
And loud they sang, and long they sang,
  For they sang to wake the dead.

“Oho!” they cried, “The world is wide,
  But fettered limbs go lame!
And once, or twice, to throw the dice
  Is a gentlemanly game,
But he does not win who plays with Sin
  In the secret House of Shame.”

No things of air these antics were
  That frolicked with such glee:
To men whose lives were held in gyves,
  And whose feet might not go free,
Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
  Most terrible to see.

Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
  Some wheeled in smirking pairs:
With the mincing step of demirep
  Some sidled up the stairs:
And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
  Each helped us at our prayers.

The morning wind began to moan,
  But still the night went on:
Through its giant loom the web of gloom
  Crept till each thread was spun:
And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
  Of the Justice of the Sun.

The moaning wind went wandering round
  The weeping prison-wall:
Till like a wheel of turning-steel
  We felt the minutes crawl:
O moaning wind! what had we done
  To have such a seneschal?

At last I saw the shadowed bars
  Like a lattice wrought in lead,
Move right across the whitewashed wall
  That faced my three-plank bed,
And I knew that somewhere in the world
  God’s dreadful dawn was red.

At six o’clock we cleaned our cells,
  At seven all was still,
But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
  The prison seemed to fill,
For the Lord of Death with icy breath
  Had entered in to ****.

He did not pass in purple pomp,
  Nor ride a moon-white steed.
Three yards of cord and a sliding board
  Are all the gallows’ need:
So with rope of shame the Herald came
  To do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fen
  Of filthy darkness *****:
We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
  Or give our anguish scope:
Something was dead in each of us,
  And what was dead was Hope.

For Man’s grim Justice goes its way,
  And will not swerve aside:
It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
  It has a deadly stride:
With iron heel it slays the strong,
  The monstrous parricide!

We waited for the stroke of eight:
  Each tongue was thick with thirst:
For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
  That makes a man accursed,
And Fate will use a running noose
  For the best man and the worst.

We had no other thing to do,
  Save to wait for the sign to come:
So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
  Quiet we sat and dumb:
But each man’s heart beat thick and quick
  Like a madman on a drum!

With sudden shock the prison-clock
  Smote on the shivering air,
And from all the gaol rose up a wail
  Of impotent despair,
Like the sound that frightened marshes hear
  From a ***** in his lair.

And as one sees most fearful things
  In the crystal of a dream,
We saw the greasy hempen rope
  Hooked to the blackened beam,
And heard the prayer the hangman’s snare
  Strangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him so
  That he gave that bitter cry,
And the wild regrets, and the ****** sweats,
  None knew so well as I:
For he who lives more lives than one
  More deaths than one must die.


IV

There is no chapel on the day
  On which they hang a man:
The Chaplain’s heart is far too sick,
  Or his face is far too wan,
Or there is that written in his eyes
  Which none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
  And then they rang the bell,
And the Warders with their jingling keys
  Opened each listening cell,
And down the iron stair we tramped,
  Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God’s sweet air we went,
  But not in wonted way,
For this man’s face was white with fear,
  And that man’s face was grey,
And I never saw sad men who looked
  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked
  With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
  We prisoners called the sky,
And at every careless cloud that passed
  In happy freedom by.

But there were those amongst us all
  Who walked with downcast head,
And knew that, had each got his due,
  They should have died instead:
He had but killed a thing that lived
  Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time
  Wakes a dead soul to pain,
And draws it from its spotted shroud,
  And makes it bleed again,
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood
  And makes it bleed in vain!

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
  With crooked arrows starred,
Silently we went round and round
  The slippery asphalte yard;
Silently we went round and round,
  And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,
  And through each hollow mind
The memory of dreadful things
  Rushed like a dreadful wind,
And Horror stalked before each man,
  And terror crept behind.

The Warders strutted up and down,
  And kept their herd of brutes,
Their uniforms were ***** and span,
  And they wore their Sunday suits,
But we knew the work they had been at
  By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,
  There was no grave at all:
Only a stretch of mud and sand
  By the hideous prison-wall,
And a little heap of burning lime,
  That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,
  Such as few men can claim:
Deep down below a prison-yard,
  Naked for greater shame,
He lies, with fetters on each foot,
  Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime
  Eats flesh and bone away,
It eats the brittle bone by night,
  And the soft flesh by the day,
It eats the flesh and bones by turns,
  But it eats the heart alway.

For three long years they will not sow
  Or root or seedling there:
For three long years the unblessed spot
  Will sterile be and bare,
And look upon the wondering sky
  With unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer’s heart would taint
  Each simple seed they sow.
It is not true! God’s kindly earth
  Is kindlier than men know,
And the red rose would but blow more red,
  The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
  Out of his heart a white!
For who can say by what strange way,
  Christ brings his will to light,
Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
  Bloomed in the great Pope’s sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor red
  May bloom in prison air;
The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
  Are what they give us there:
For flowers have been known to heal
  A common man’s despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,
  Petal by petal, fall
On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
  By the hideous prison-wall,
To tell the men who ***** the yard
  That God’s Son died for all.

Yet though the hideous prison-wall
  Still hems him round and round,
And a spirit man not walk by night
  That is with fetters bound,
And a spirit may not weep that lies
  In such unholy ground,

He is at peace—this wretched man—
  At peace, or will be soon:
There is no thing to make him mad,
  Nor does Terror walk at noon,
For the lampless Earth in which he lies
  Has neither Sun nor Moon.

They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
  They did not even toll
A reguiem that might have brought
  Rest to his startled soul,
But hurriedly they took him out,
  And hid him in a hole.

They stripped him of his canvas clothes,
  And gave him to the flies;
They mocked the swollen purple throat
  And the stark and staring eyes:
And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
  In which their convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
  By his dishonored grave:
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
  That Christ for sinners gave,
Because the man was one of those
  Whom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passed
  To Life’s appointed bourne:
And alien tears will fill for him
  Pity’s long-broken urn,
For his mourner will be outcast men,
  And outcasts always mourn.


V

I know not whether Laws be right,
  Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in gaol
  Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
  A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every Law
  That men have made for Man,
Since first Man took his brother’s life,
  And the sad world began,
But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
  With a most evil fan.

This too I know—and wise it were
  If each could know the same—
That every prison that men build
  Is built with bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
  How men their brothers maim.

With bars they blur the gracious moon,
  And blind the goodly sun:
And they do well to hide their Hell,
  For in it things are done
That Son of God nor son of Man
  Ever should look upon!

The vilest deeds like poison weeds
  Bloom well in prison-air:
It is only what is good in Man
  That wastes and withers there:
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
  And the Warder is Despair

For they starve the little frightened child
  Till it weeps both night and day:
And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
  And gibe the old and grey,
And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
And none a word may say.

Each narrow cell in which we dwell
  Is foul and dark latrine,
And the fetid breath of living Death
  Chokes up each grated screen,
And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
  In Humanity’s machine.

The brackish water that we drink
  Creeps with a loathsome slime,
And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
  Is full of chalk and lime,
And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
  Wild-eyed and cries to Time.

But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
  Like asp with adder fight,
We have little care of prison fare,
  For what chills and kills outright
Is that every stone one lifts by day
  Becomes one’s heart by night.

With midnight always in one’s heart,
  And twilight in one’s cell,
We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
  Each in his separate Hell,
And the silence is more awful far
  Than the sound of a brazen bell.

And never a human voice comes near
  To speak a gentle word:
And the eye that watches through the door
  Is pitiless and hard:
And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
  With soul and body marred.

And thus we rust Life’s iron chain
  Degraded and alone:
And some men curse, and some men weep,
  And some men make no moan:
But God’s eternal Laws are kind
  And break the heart of stone.

And every human heart that breaks,
  In prison-cell or yard,
Is as that broken box that gave
  Its treasure to the Lord,
And filled the unclean *****’s house
  With the scent of costliest nard.

Ah! happy day they whose hearts can break
  And peace of pardon win!
How else may man make straight his plan
  And cleanse his soul from Sin?
How else but through a broken heart
  May Lord Christ enter in?

And he of the swollen purple throat.
  And the stark and staring eyes,
Waits for the holy hands that took
  The Thief to Paradise;
And a broken and a contrite heart
  The Lord will not despise.

The man in red who reads the Law
  Gave him three weeks of life,
Three little weeks in which to heal
  His soul of his soul’s strife,
And cleanse from every blot of blood
  The hand that held the knife.

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
  The hand that held the steel:
For only blood can wipe out blood,
  And only tears can heal:
And the crimson stain that was of Cain
  Became Christ’s snow-white seal.


VI

In Reading gaol by Reading town
  There is a pit of shame,
And in it lies a wretched man
  Eaten by teeth of flame,
In burning winding-sheet he lies,
  And his grave has got no name.

And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
  In silence let him lie:
No need to waste the foolish tear,
  Or heave the windy sigh:
The man had killed the thing he loved,
  And so he had to die.

And all men **** the thing they love,
  By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
  Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
  The brave man with a sword!
Graff1980 Nov 2014
I am a coward. It is my weakness, and in knowing this I should be made stronger. However, my weakness perpetuates my weakness. My meekness and desire for peace makes me **** near gutless.

         I write to love. I write to dance. I write to feel.  I write to live.

I could have sat with the gangrenous, seeing the sawing teeth shred skin to cut further in. I could have held the hand of the dying; saying soft soothing words while they were vomiting blood. I could have joined the ranks of the foreign legion, became a non-religious missionary. I bet my writing would have been improved and all my other talents better used.

As I said before I am a coward. My heart breaks easily from poetry, movies, songs, photos, and tv shows. Imagine how quickly I would crumbled faced with the real reality. If I could see the seething rage, feel the ****** stumps, clean the bandages, while listening to their horror stories how easily I would break. Worse than Humpty Dumpty with smaller bits that crack and split permanently deformed, spiritually desolated.

I can watch the wicked human show from a distance. I can immerse myself in the darkness, but there must be a quick escape. I have to have a switch to click and make the nightmares go away. If I stayed, my thought would stray to the razor blades or pill bottle ways.

         I am a coward. I am sorry. So here the naked man is with all of his cowardice. I am sorry I could not be a better less bitter superman. All and all I am so terribly sorry for my weakness.
her Jan 2015
as i stand on this street corner and watch these two roads meet, i finally feel at peace
maybe it’s because it’s my feet at the intersection of two distinct paths,
merging at a point of vulnerability
maybe because it’s a reminder of you and me
and a blissful bond we once shared.
without a care in the world,
your arms wrapped around me to shelter me from the cold.
two souls kept warm by each other’s company.
two hearts dancing in the rain playfully, two minds with the same thing in mind; you want me to be yours and i want you to be mine.
i don’t know, maybe i’m crazy.
maybe time has finally outplayed me maybe i’ve stopped seeing beauty in the little things, maybe i’ve stopped appreciating the gift life brings.
maybe i’m in over my head, or
maybe i miss the familiar contours of your body between the chalk white sheets of my bed.
i don’t know,
maybe this is normal.
maybe i stopped being myself after you left, maybe this is all a test.
maybe i failed and i
couldn’t clean up the mess
maybe thats why the rain suddenly feels colder on my skin.
maybe thats why whenever i try to apologize i don’t know where to begin or
where to end all these that I’ve typed in my mind to tell you i just
can’t hit send
maybe i ****** up and i won’t admit it maybe I’m a coward.
seems like I’ve got all the time in the world, maybe i should do something about it i mean
every minute without you feels like an hour
maybe I’m a fool for distancing myself from you
maybe that why i couldn’t end with that i loved you because for some reason
i couldn’t accept that
maybe
just maybe you might of loved me too
Found on 8tracks and i do not own any of the poem. I DONT OWN ANYTHING HERE but if you know who it is by please comment
I threw my fist at the desk my face slept on.
My face disfigured under the pressure of misery and tears.

I speak through teeth. "You run away, because you're a coward."

Tears are streaming, unraveling into an ultimate truth.
My lungs prepare, taking in all the air around me.

The words scrape my throat:
"YOU'RE A COWARD!!!"

The message echoes through the house.
It's empty.
It's just her and my hatred.

My chin is soaked.
My expression falls into a flat frown.
The house is engulfed in silence.


I am alone.
When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
’Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man’s timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn’t his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the other’s tale—
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations-worm and savage otherwise,—
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue— to the scandal of The ***!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells.
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges— even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it cames that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.
Mhmd elHalwani Jan 2014
Creeping voices in the night
Shadows lurking out of sight
Haunt me till the morning's light
No sleeping for me tonight

Looking at my bedroom door
My feet barely touch the floor
Something whispers down my core
Something that I can't ignore

Melted candles in my hand
Things I would not understand
My hope slips away like sand
This was not what I had planned

Slowly walking down the stairs
Feel a breeze sweep through my hair
Shadows lurk; in silence stare
Naked thoughts are all I wear

Out of breath I walk outside
Shaking fear that builds inside
No more places left to hide
Guilty thoughts of mine collide

Drenched in coward's blood and fear
I lost those who I held dear
It's all blurred, nothing is clear
Shadows from my past appear

As the silence speaks to me
Gets too loud it deafens me
My past will not leave me be
Pain and torment I foresee

Dazed and drawn by these lost souls
Broken thoughts I can't control
Ghosts slip through this gaping hole
Darkness has taken its toll

From the darkness dreams come out
Nightmares flailing all about
Closing in, I hear them shout
It's the end, I have no doubt

"What the hell is it you want?"
They retreat and me they taunt
One emerges, tall and gaunt
"Your life we will no more haunt."

"You have paid for your wrongdoing,"
He tells me, his voice booming
"This is now your redeeming
You are free." he says smiling

I look at the rising sun
I no longer have to run
My sentence is served and done
*The ghosts have finally gone.
Jane Doe Nov 2012
The root suggests multiples,
a pair of shoes, yours and mine.

The prefix is a verb in motion, a
positive direction; a triumph of gravity
in defiance of its equal and opposite reaction.

He stands by the car in the grey light
with drizzle beading up on his shoulders.
Our life upset, torn at the seam into his and mine.

Turn around,
the coward whispers from my mouth.
I see my face reflected in the glass window

staring back at myself, the coward,
half of a set now rendered unusable, sold as scrap.
Turn around.

Multiples reduced to singular nouns.
My shoes are kicked and left by the door.
Everywhere his shapes are cut out of the dust.

The coward in me grins wide as a sickle
In the bathroom mirror. Our set of ghosts are
making too much noise, all night they keep me

up.
Dayton Sep 2014
Think back to when
We could laugh,
breath and grin
I still see it
Now and then
When I look into your eyes.

Remember how
We would be
Life was great,
And so were we
Now I have a hollow heart.
When I look into your eyes.

Can you recall
My biggest fear?
I'm always alone
You're not here.
I have to hold back my tears
When I look into your eyes.

Please forgive me
I've tried
I am a sinner
I've lied.
I still wish I could die
When I look into your eyes.

I am not a man
You see.
I'm a coward,
Not he.
Forget me when I leave
I will remember your eyes
Raven Black Mar 2013
I'm not a brave woman

I'm a coward at heart

In love with the darkness of the longest night

In love with the silence of the words left unspoken

In love with the coldness of the touches left undone

In love with the mornings of the days to come

In love with the memories of the time long went by



I'm not a brave woman

I'm a coward at heart

for the shortest word makes my tongue turn to stone

for the shortest look makes my eyes turn to water
Chris T Aug 2013
There once was
A coward
Who lived in
Hiding from
Others but
Not because
He wanted
To but that
He was scared
To open
Up the doors
Of outside
And be a
Part of the
World that slept
But how he
Wept longing
For outside
And contact
And for friends
But he couldn't
Do it and
Every
Time he was
Sure convinced
That he would
Do it and
Go outside
The fear crept
Near him forced
Him to stay
Inside closed
Doors shaded
Windows dark
And he cried
And he cried
Because he
Couldn't do it
And it was
So very
Cold inside
Warmth remained
Out of his
Arm stretched reach
He was but
A coward
I found this while looking through my old notebook. I'm not sure when it's from. I thought I'd share it even if it isn't very good. It's sorta personal to me. I don't know. Enjoy.
Yenson Jul 2018
Yes, its the year twenty eighteen and not Nineteen forty-four

but comrades and friends, hear me out for I know not what to do

Do be kind and laugh you not, or raise your eyes or snigger like fools

the problem is, like Duke Philip, Mark Philips, Snowdon and Mike Tindall

I have known a Royal Princess for years and really like her very much



She is so sweet and nice, ever gentle, warm, kind and thoughtful

smart and clever, fun and playful yet regal and charismatic

and it is said, pardon moi, she has the sweetest honey ***, to boot

I know she fancies me too, for her intense eyes and actions tells me so

we talked, we joked, drink and laugh and share little tender touches



She lives in a grand little apartment and drive a lovely old car

well read, witty and engaging, she's fun and very good company

She,s impressively intelligent with a wide grasp of social issues and life

very versatile, she can turn her hand to anything and does things well

above all, she's a people's person, always sensitive to the needs of others



Alas, that was then, for now in months, we no longer see or speak

for I am a coward, right through and thorough and not very bright

You see I am, though no longer said, a commoner born and bred

and to me and my kith and kin, its always has been 'us and them'

And from birth, our tradition states, never the twain shall meet, so there!



For if I show my real feelings to my Princess and be real, nice and warm

I shall, by my lot be accused of being impressed by 'them snotty lot'

If I show I really care and want to be close and spend time with her

my lot will mock me to high heavens and call me a toady brown-noser

They will scream, crawler, fawner, he's just a flunkey and a groveller



Again, if with her I am real and natural as with all I know in my circle

they will say I am an arduous social-climber, being what he's not

And to boot, were I to be true to myself and have who I really want

I will be ******, shunned and labelled, a big 'Gold-digger,' true

Look at him, betraying his roots and all for shinning lucre from them



So being the coward, under-confident, paranoid, insipid under-achiever

traits, you all know and have, inherited from birth along with you all from our class

So what else to do, but drive my kind, real and genuine Princess away from me

I had to behave rude and shabbily to show I had no regard for 'them Royals' ones

I shouted and scorned to indicate I have no respect for any 'regal' whatever



Its all show with us, so I put on a good show and reported back to my lot

oh, I farted in the Princess' face and took the **** as we spoke, hahaha

Oh, I stood over the Princess and shouted and raved in public, hahaha

oh, I ignored her calls and never text or call her back, hahaha hahahaha

Oh, do you know, I shouted and slammed the phone down on her, twice, haha...haha



Wow, did I win bragging rights or what, I did not betray my roots, I tell you

I walk amongst my lot now with pride, and I can see they are all impressed

Some idiot said, hey! isn't the Princess just another human like you

did she treat you like that, are you not intelligent enough to see past labels

Have you ever heard, 'Do unto others as you want them do unto you'



Alone by myself, I feel ashamed, I think about her and wished I'd behaved differently

but what could I do, what's the right and correct thing to do in this situation

I am weak, I always need others, not confident enough to stand up for myself

Though educated, I am not intelligent enough to be self-assured, fair and measured

And all my insecurities means I need others attention, kinship and approvals



I love 'showing off', I think most of us do it to make up for our inferiority complexes

Nothing beats being able to say, I disrespected those toffee-nosed ones

Though my Princess was very down to earth and never haughty, she is still one of them

But I have to be a working class hero or be shunned and given grief by my lot

After all, I am not Royal and made of sterner stuff. we are not born and bred that way

Hahaha.....hahaha....hahaha........yeah, I'm the man! Who's your daddy, people?



Copyright LaurenceA. 14th June, All rights reserved.
The days were autumn crisp, and dry
for Orcs, overwhelming, and treacherous ,
and though evil was held nigh,
Fingolfin's foe's arm grew ever more treacherous.

Whence all still was far and green,
and whence magic retained its Esoteric proproties
in the rivers fair and keen
King Fingolfin rode with serendipity to his Death to be.

The crowds began a wave of econiums,
and the lords and nobles followed him,
the Horse he rode followed him to his pandemonium's,
and yet the lords unknowingly followed at their whim.

This cheer and applaud soon became evanescent,
while he lead himself to his descent,
and soon the lords began to diffuse,
so no one would be there to see the news.

He wore noon-tide colored armor, that resembled bliss,
his heart he bore in penumbra and in shadow,
For his ride would be his last, and he would miss
this world he lived in; this lovely meadow.

Village by Village he rode by,
in his kingdom most to the western sky,
he clad in silver and gold armor rode
to his doom and to Mandos' abode..

And as he approached his high and white walls,
he moaned in doubt as though a shadow falls,
and he rode on, in desperation
to defeat Morgoth, the dark lord, and Evil's cause of preservation.

Over the deserts of Angfuliath
he traveled like a wounded moth,
and o'er leagues and leagues he reached the place
Of Morgoth's throne, where lied his mace..

Fingolfin, now weary, came up to Morgoth's gates,
and spoke, in Gloom, and Woe:
Come! Morgoth! Coward! Naive fool! Raven crow of Mandos' halls! Thrall of the Valar! I challenge you! Coward! Come forth and do battle with me! I challenge ye!

And Morgoth, would of otherwise,
stayed in his fortress, and send his spies,
but he would not be a coward
in front of his servants and high fortresses towered.

And so Morgoth strode forth as a mountain tall
from his cavernous throne in a fire-illumined hall,
and he opened the gates to his home
and came out in one color, of Darkness chrome.

and Fingolfin spoke in fear and rage
"Coward! Liar! Thief!" hoping for a effect of acrimony,
But Morgoth laughed, and he said a Non Sequtuir,
"You are brave, but a fool, and you shall be trodden into the ground by my hammer"

and that was the only meeting of them,
and began the fight for light, and for that gem
that shone upon his shadowed face
and resembled his former grace..

Morgoth strong and tall as a mountain
began to pour forth his strength like a fountain
into his hands to swing Grond,
and pound Fingolfin 'till he was gone,

But Fingolfin, an Elf was quick,
and ran and dodged this flick
of a crater sized tool so cruel
that left a crater sized hole that could beguile

And every time he dodged this mighty weapon
he slashed Morgoth's ankles with Orcist's point sharpened
and left Morgoth with blood that began to lengthen,
and every time he fell, and yet left him wounded.

Tireless would Fingolfin seem,
as light as air and fast as dream,
but in time he was struck with weariness
and marked the end of his gracefulness,

And Morgoth seeing this, with his hammer smote him three
strikes of mountains heavy and free
and in the end it killed him before he could flee
and there Morgoth said "So mote it be!"
Story (Poem form, not entirely accurate, over exaggerated at some parts)
of Fingolfin & Morgoth, and the withering of the Eldar.
Somewhere is a coward still in the closet ,
or laying next to you in the bed.
The  biggest cowards are disguised in uniform
Powerful cowards on pedal stools,hidden in congress.
Most cowards often promise to be lovers
but will run when you sing their name
cowards holding hands
rubbing their" happiness" in your face
cowards who were supposed to be parents
cowards who promised to be friends
careless cowards who wanted commitment
but never saw it through till the end
cowards buying flowers
cowards falling in love
there are cowards 6 feet under
yet some cowards make it above
I see a coward in the mirror
There is a coward in all of us
A Dash of Red Jan 2016
I’m disgusting.
I’m afraid of everything.
I’m scared of the dark,
Of my dad,
Of myself.
I’m afraid of living,
But I’m slightly more afraid of dying.

I’ve held that knife,
Felt its cold, sharp edge,
Pressed against my throat
My wrist.
I’ve stared at those pills,
Hours on end,
I’ve even dreamt about them.
I’ve stood atop that building,
Leaning over the edge,
Frozen in place,
Hoping that the slightest of breeze would knock me over the edge.

I’ve wished to die,
Prayed, even.
I’m just too scared to do it.
**** myself
So I sit there, and stare at that wall,
Dreaming of a “tragedy”
That a car will come out of nowhere,
Or that tiny crack will trip me,
Or maybe I’ll even catch something lethal.
Anything that will **** me,
Anything but myself.

I’m so sorry that I’m still alive.
I’m sorry to you,
And to me.

That I’m a coward.
One can only dream...
jeffrey conyers Jul 2014
History has showcased them as brutes.
All with their off shoot units of squads.
Terrorizing innocent people.

Notice when it came to face justice.
Many took the easy way out.
Suicide or some other way.

They still are coward of men.

Most wasn't over six feet tall.
Although a few was.

They robbed , stole, ***** those against their purpose.
Some even became wealthy in their pursuit.

Coward of men wearing grey suits.

With that symbol upon their arms.

Then they came to an end.
When the honored troops came in.

They ran, they hide and deny their past.
Even to this day, when the Nazis hunters comes their way.

Coward of men.
History doesn't do you justice.
For you didn't earn that right.
Sad Girl Mar 2016
I'm afraid to stay in
I'm afraid to go out
I'm afraid of the words that leak out of my mouth
I'm afraid of my hands
I'm afraid of my heart
I'm afraid to share my music and the efforts of my art
I'm afraid of the judgement and the lack of support
I'm afraid they will laugh about my pain like it's a sport
I'm afraid of the things that I've left written down
I'm afraid of the sorrows in which I watch myself drown
I'm afraid that somebody is seeing the real me
I am vulnerable here and alone as can be
I'm afraid that my God isn't listening anymore
But I'm much more afraid that I've made his ears sore

I'm afraid to hold on
I'm afraid to let go
I'm afraid to tell the people
I fear what they already know
I'm afraid that I want too many things I can't have
I'm afraid to make myself into an *** and a half
I'm afraid that I'll hurt you
I'm afraid you'll hurt me back
I'm afraid I'll get caught doing what I don't know is bad
I'm afraid of my own journey, will I ever make it back?

(intentional music break)

I'm afraid to write down all of my silly fears
I'm afraid that I'll be in this same place in five years

I'm afraid of the world and the people that are in it
I'm afraid to start off and not be able to finish ****
I'm afraid to play it safe
I'm afraid to sin
I'm afraid of defeat
And I'm terrified to win

I'm afraid of my Mom's sickness taking her life
I'm afraid to be devoured by the same form of strife
I'm afraid if I get famous, it won't be enough
I'm afraid of all the money in the world calling my bluff
I'm afraid that no matter how much happiness I reach for
It won't be enough to repair the pain in my core
I'm afraid that I'm causing my family too much pain
I'm afraid that when I'm gone the world might move the same

I'm afraid that I'm crazy
Even more scared that I'm sane
I'm afraid to be afraid
I'm afraid to be brave

I'm afraid for the kids in this world that feel the same
I'm afraid to write these words down in front of my own face
I'm afraid that, out of fear, what I've written will be erased
For concern of others like me, that would be in poor taste...
So I'll let this one out and pray that I touch base
I'm afraid to be feared for the fact that I'm afraid.
*© Kateland Dwyer
also a song

— The End —