"cram" poems
I hate white people
who stop me from stealing their stuff
and bring in the po po
who put me in hand cuff.
Now I'm in jail
cannot post bail
eating out of a metal bowl
while being ****** in my ********
Then it occurred to me
what I am supposed to be
so I became a basketball player
and changed my name to Lebron James.
Chris Bosh wants to be more than homies
ever since I was drunk and he groped me
he wanted my ****
i think he was sick.
Spoelstra is an ***
I ****** hate him.
he needs to die
before I cram a basketball in his wife.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
Your perception of me pre-existed, you saw black and you felt danger, you saw my skin and with it painted a personality from the prejudice of your mind.
You don’t know me, yet you assume that I am just like every other dark skinned man out there.
So that is why I feel angry when you cram yourself in the corner of elevators, if you could only realize I am the one who is truly backed into a corner, provoked by your ignorance, until I become what you painted me.
With your judging eyes, cautious smiles, and nervous actions you made me this way when in the beginning I was just me. Now after all you have done, and all I have done, I’m just trying to be me again.
I just want to be me.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 7:23 AM UTC
We’re all different
A fact that some will take with stride
And others will take out their black & white boxes
Trying to cram you into margins that you’ll never fit into
Labels
Just another way to categorize us as objects
Smashing our individuality with a hammer
Until we are all identical, with no more identity
Freedom
Something we are considered lucky to have
Where other countries struggle day by day
Fighting to stay themselves
Yet in our free country
I still find myself fighting for liberation,
Scratching at the cement surface
For endless years
Walking around, trying to be uniform
It’s meant to make us comfortable, but makes me die inside
We all walk in straight, marching band lines like militia members
And walk on forever without a second thought
Individuality
A gift given to us all that we must cherish, hold onto
Accept everyone around you for their good and bad habits
Accept people for who they are, whether you like them or not
One day, I will break free
Run in the opposite direction
With my arms spread out wide
Feeling like Rosa Parks when she claimed her seat
One day I will not be scared of my freedom
One day I will not be scared of trying to explain to people who I am
I will never be scared of friends
I will never be scared of strangers
I will never be scared of family
Boys, girls, adults, parents, siblings
One day I won’t be scared of myself anymore
Scared of making the wrong decisions
And letting everyone around me down
The weights of expectations always make me hide in the shadows
To where I feel I’ll never be good enough
But today, I smile at all my obstacles
With my mind set on “Dare To Be Dangerous”
Because exploring everything around me
Has been a roller coaster of joviality that I’ve always needed
I’ve made new friends this year
Gotten very close to others
But I learned an important lesson
I love who I am
And I will come to accept the future me
But for now I’m different
And that’s all I ever wanted to be
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
Oh disappointment dad, how you haven't changed.
You are still guttless and horribly deranged.
Faces have aged and we are all wise.
Disappointment dad, you cram yourself with empty lies.
Oh disappointment dad, you claim to work so hard.
Forgetting the world, you say you have becomed scarred.
But the ones who are scarred are the ones cleaning your mess.
Selfish and blind, your words of woe fill us with protest.
Oh disappointment dad, can't you listen to the world.
Your life is ever so more becoming twirled
I can leave through the door at any moment, and wouldn't care.
Oh disappointment, why don't you show me you still have a pair.
Excuses will only get you so far disappointment dad,
And truthfully less I see you, it makes me glad
Maybe one day you won't forget about me,
Maybe one day you'll chnage and be free.
However realism is my gifted teacher
And it has taught me about people like you; the preacher.
I can accept you'll always be singleminded
But Disappointment Dad; I refuse become blinded.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
I could have gone to the cemetery,
or back to my high school lab,
find him lecturing from a podium,
bony finger raised,
demagogue of the dead.
I could break him down piece by piece,
cram him in a duffle,
a femur jutting the zipper.
Ignore the groan-
Skeletons are
by nature
never satisfied.
Instead I found myself
in the carnival lot,
The dog was long dead,
the sign kept guard.
Rusty rides slouched like tumbleweeds.
Cotton candy in memory-
blue tack crunching my teeth.
Lewd.
Skeletons fixed on poles,
spiked up through pelvis and spine.
Use ****
Grip shoulders. twist. lift.
When one slid free,
he collapsed into my arms
all bone-light, lovely,
mine at last.
I just brought him home.
Sat at the kitchen table.
Named him Curly.
Zoom howled: WAG’s gone weird!
What’s his name? What’s his name?
His name is Curly,
I said, but I knew
his name was You.
We drink wine by the pool.
He never sips.
Sometimes I pour a second glass for the glint.
Sometimes he tells me Danny Elfman
wants to play his ribs like a xylophone.
Sometimes he sighs,
he hates Oingo Boingo.
I laugh. Obliging.
So do I.
When the wind kicks up
he smells of sugar and rust.
Sometimes he rattles the glassware.
Sometimes he won’t sit still.
Skeletons are
by nature
never satisfied.
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 12:11 PM UTC
Toting the mysterious bundle and sporting a sore back
I drag my feet up the last few steps, expended of vigour
I almost couldn't resist prematurely looking through the sack
Remembering the words from the wise old seer
Grimacing I walk a slow gait to get to the table
Set the bundle down and relieve my weight onto a chair
Parched throat but wait longer I am unable
Curiosity takes charge and into the gift I will tear
Blood is pumping along with an increasing heart rate
Fingers scrambling clumsily over the strings that bind
Nails digging frantically into this package bearing my fate
Gnawing thoughts of uncertainty flooding my mind
At last my fingers win the battle that lasted
The final string has fallen... Obstinate knots all undone
I pick the cloth by the edges to have it unfolded
The contents inside reach out like rays of the sun
Corners of the cloth open up like a fully bloomed blossom
Exposing the treasure that lay solemn and quiet inside
Common objects we'd normally perceive as random
Petty things now important as they attempt to guide
I pick up the first and notice an engraving on it's stem
Between my fingers - an unassuming feathered quill
Barely legible, such little space the words do cram
"Here is your sword... Draw blood and let spill"
More riddles, I sought to examine the next
A flat bottomed vial filled with jet black ink
On it is a label with scrawling of time worn text
"Here is your blood; let flow what you think"
Lastly, lay bound up sheets of yellow stained parchment
They reek of age-old herbs; intoxicating slightly
At the top of the first, a note scribbled not so recent
"Within these pages, you must bleed to find Sanctuary"
Staring down at the objects laid in front of me
In hopes of discovering something I should miss
Then finally it struck me, so plain to see
I'm using the instruments now, writing to find release...
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
study, cram, call, make plans...
power point, presentation, speech, rewrite...
theory, materialism and idealism and the difference,
Marx, Freud to psychoanalyze...
on to polynomials, linear equations, I make a scientific notation...
take a break. (eat)
ham sweet and thick
with lots of pineapple and some cherries
potato bread and cheese
PowerAde to rehydrate
little vodca with o.j. and cigarette
after lunch, breathe .
and it’s back to study lab to mentally beat meat.
paper due, final today, did I remember to triple check
and get rid of paper clips, include a cover sheet...
ready to evaluate... I think.
ready to second guess, miss dates and time, "you're late"
again...
95, 98, 3.5 GPA? pre-test, for final, make sure your research is done,
site, source, quote, student rate and double space
power nap, smoke again,
is the day over yet?..
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 3:52 PM UTC
my intelligence is not defined by a number, nor a letter.
nor should I be graded on a curve
by people
who don’t know me.
What does knowing the pythagorean theorem
have to do with me being a good person?
what will memorizing words on a page
help me with my rage
raging about how education has become
this conveyor belt
chewing up and spitting out
society’s warped up idea
of intelligence.
Throw me in a classroom with twenty-something students
just to tell me I’m better than him
but not as smart as her
teachers saturating our brains
with force fed textbook equations
telling us this is what we have to know to make it
“make it on time”, they say
“Passing it in late is not okay”
but when I am eventually thrown out
of this conveyor belt of education
the realization will be that life does not have
a set schedule.
my life will not change on time, as you ask
I cannot cram my creativity onto a five-paragraph
piece of paper.
I cannot crunch my knowledge
down onto six pages
about who I am
Don’t give me guidelines
my future does not have guidelines
you think you’re teaching us information
but in reality, you’re teaching us around the system
of how to get a passing grade
but not the exceeding knowledge
knowledge about what?
Our history?
what about our future?
We can’t learn about our future by staring at a blackboard
in a dim-lit room
with twenty-something other people
wondering what the hell we’re doing here
but being too scared to stand up
and ask.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
sure, first we had the schism
of the church & state...
"oddly" enough...
we now live in the 2nd tier
of schism -
the segregation of
state & media...
no?
really?
we're not?!
i'm kind of enjoying
this ongoing schismatics -
the segregation of church
from state, at least left us with
the Vatican (i.e. the church-state) -
but this, current...
segregation of state from
the media?
**** me cram my testicles
into a monkey-wrench
and subsequently watch me laugh...
and there i was thinking,
that psychiatrists,
were the new priests of
the secular age...
prescribing the alt. to
the metaphor of cannibalism
in the form of big pharmacological
pills, to replace the wafer for
bread,
or the watered down wine /
grape juice of the...
so how does that party trick goes?
is that the wine turned into blood?
symbolically:
turned water into wine:
flag-wise...
white,
cardinal...
and then burgundy of
cardinal red teasing the bishopric
coloring of purple?
i'm not here to undermine
the faith...
i'm here for the self-deprecating
humo(u)r...
you don't even require
atheism to get a laugh
out of the conundrum -
you, simply need...
the deviation from the catholic
rites...
an apostasy -
but sure as **** it's there...
secularism has allowed
journalism a monastic status...
first came the schism of
church from state -
which remained intact in
the church-state of the Vatican...
so... FAIL...
secondly had to come
the schism of the state from
the media...
i'm watching a schism
take place...
apparently...
the comparative concern
of church's divorce from
the state was easy,
having imploded into the Vatican...
but the divorce of
the media from the state?
apparently... not so easy...
the media is already locking-down
on obstructing the schism -
arguing from an entertainment
perspective...
a century or so later,
and still, the persistent,
media symbolism -
of crafting caricatures of
a state...
as the state embodied in
nothing more than subordination
to its will...
media is the new church...
and if the separation of the state
from the church took so long...
how much time, do you "think",
it will it take, for the state
to segregate itself, from the media
baronage?
i suspect - as much time as it
took to segregate itself from
the church's cardinal-lineage.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
My school work has prevented
Me from being able to do
Any yoga lately
And I feel like crap
A long day of school over
Then volleyball. Piano lessons
Or voice lessons
Or a recital Or an audition or a festival
(Which I should be having fun with
But I don't because all I can think about
Is the work
I have afterwards.)
I finish late at night
Try to cram in some social medias
I go to bed wicked late.
Then no time to even be clean
Until today I swear I hadn't taken
A shower in at least 3 days
And in the morning
In so tired I can't even
Get ready on time and I'm late for school
Or miss the bus
Or have to Sprint to the bus
There's no time to do my yoga
Or anything else for that matter
Because of school
And it goes like this again
Everyday during the week...
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
The cram of stars in the navy-night
blue-light of summer solstice.
The majestic zodiac sprawled
across the ever-stretching sky.
Ancient definitions of myth
star-stories of pre-determined fate
mapped in the moment and place
of our birthing; such fantasies
such imaginings of stellar systems
and mankind’s significance.
Heavens and humours; rules and rights
from Gods to kings and subjects
All settled in an ordered Universe
until, curiosity, ingenuity and invention
observation and record, rigor and Science
with its license to question freedom.
© M.L.Emmett
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 8:55 AM UTC
If you were to ask me what boredom was, I’d tell you were boring and to stop asking stupid questions, but if you really persisted, I would tell you boredom is the tick tock on the white clock on the white wall of our English classroom.
it’s the thrill of seeing how many dried crackers you can cram into your mouth before your mouth becomes a cracked and dried desert. Boredom is
making up haikus,
Alone but not quite knowing,
How many syllables go on each line
Boredom is haikus.
Boredom is
the decapitation of innocent
grass blades as you listen to an unenthused sports teacher
the blood of your unwitting enemies splattered on your fingers.
Boredom is this boring poem
Now you were never one for boredom;
you enjoyed sitting on the grass, getting a soggy ***
you enjoyed the crunch of crackers snapping on your tongue,
you really enjoyed
and I still do not know why
making up haikus
you enjoyed the long languorous spaces between lines...
and I guess that really was just you.
But recently the silence has been getting short its rudely interrupted
by forced laughs and nervous glances from eyes that recently went shopping
You jump at every crunch or crack, scared of well…
I don’t know .
And your poetry,
Well, you barely write anymore because you just can’t seem to muster up the energy and you’re just tired and its nothing to worry about and it doesn’t matter anyway because you have an English essay due tomorrow yeah-
And the grass misses your ***
And I miss you
And there’s someone in your place, a lethargic parody, too frightened to pick up the phone, frightened by nothing at all
There’s a black hole in the shape of a friend
hidden behind the comets of comedy and asteroids of avoidance there’s a small hole
I reach in… grasping for a hand,
I catch glimpses. tufts of hair. old coffee smiles
but… nothing
so, I try again
I reach in, grasping for a hand, or even a bone
I catch glimpses of skin, hair, teeth, bone. Nothing
and each time I throw myself into the silent abyss,
batter past the comets and asteroids and reach into that dark expanse I find less and less,
I miss you
I am right outside,
whenever you’re ready to,
we can talk a bit
I’m trying my best ,
and I really care for you ,
but haikus are dumb
accept it, it’s true.
The spot of grass is waiting right where you left off,
the crackers in the tin are there just waiting to be scoffed.
if ever in that silence
you feel yourself alone
just know that in my house,
you’ve found yourself a home.
Feb 25, 2021
Feb 25, 2021 at 3:53 PM UTC
*The total number of days between Thursday, June 17th, 1993 and Wednesday, June 17th, 2015 is 8,035 days .
This is equal to 22 years,excluding the end date, so it's accurate if I am measuring my age in terms of days, or the total days between my birth date and my birthday. But if for the duration between my birth date and my birthday, today,then it is actually 8,036 days.
In terms of workdays and weekends, there are 5,739 weekdays and 2,296 weekend days.
If I include today Jun 17, 2015 which is a Wednesday, then there would be
5,740 weekdays and 2,296 weekend days including both the starting Thursday and the ending Wednesday.
8,035 days is equal to 1,147 weeks and 6 days .
The total time span from 1993-06-17 to 2015-06-17 is 192,840 hours.
This is equivalent to 11,570,400 minutes
Further more 8,035 days are also equal to 694,224,000 seconds.
The nano seconds, the micro seconds, the minutes, the hours and the days have flowed by like water along a river, years have dissolved in thin air, going just before I seize the moments,such moments have escaped my grasp with the sands of time but there are things that in changing remain constant, the memories, the love, the sadness, the heartbreaks, the football team, the journey through and through and most importantly you my family and friends. I have this special day every year which I always use to thank all of you for bearing with me ,while I grew from that little boy whose loose shoe brought down the wall clock in primary seven while he was kicking chalk and consequently cried his way home contemplating the explanation for what had happened,to the young man dreaming of becoming a re-known Author and poet. From the lad who had to cram words to throw vibes, to one who hopes his words shall be used someday to tear down fortresses and conquer hearts.
Thank you all, I'm so lucky to have you and will always try to keep you all around as long as try can. Love you :) xxxxxxxxxx*
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
When you are asked
What you look for
You say eyes
And a smile
And overall beauty
Like most of the guys
So my endless nights of studying
And attention I pay everyday
To further become a more intelligent being
And the positive thoughts I cram
Into my brain
To have a beautiful personalty
And the millions of words
I tie together to form
A meaningful poem
are nothing
So maybe thats why
We spend countless hours
Just finding what perfect shade
Of lipstick brings out our smile
And pointless times
Fixing our hair
And precious seconds
Trying to excentuate our eyes
And thousands of dollars
Of metal and wire
To straighten our smiles
and maybe thats why
I put down my books
And picked up the makeup
But I've slowly returned
To the books
Because
Beauty without
Intelligence
Is like a masterpiece
On a napkin
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
School's coming to an end,
and it's GCSE's,
using all my expertise gained through-out the school years,
It could all end in tears.
Teachers say it's a big deal,
that's what they convey,
it is for them, anyway.
The last few weeks of term and you hand in your coursework,
that was fine, I wish I could shirk the exams,
not very good at revising,
but our teachers are advising us to watch GCSE Bitesize,
but it doesn't really cover what we've learned,
which is a bit of a concern.
We all cram into the exam hall,
it's a bit last minute,
but I'm trying to recall my revision notes.
An Inspector Calls by J.B Priestley,
something's stirring,
Arthur Birling,
a public scandal is too much to handle,
Eva Smith,
Eric and Gerald both had affairs,
but the latter actually cared.
That's a start, I guess.
The exam invigilator sets the clocks,
and permits one hour and forty-five minutes.
The Science exams are multiple-choice,
Biology is fine, but Physics and Chemistry haunt me.
Geography next,
tectonic plates,
and the traits of EDC's,
as well as Less Economically Developed Countries.
That's all over,
we await our mark,
the best part is still to come,
everyone meeting down the park,
and that too me is the abiding memory of my school days,
one last time we're all together in glorious weather,
before going our separate ways.
May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 1:54 PM UTC
somehow
I managed to cram my ***
into these fashion pants
so I can make it to the days sales meeting
to check my fleeting self esteem
somehow
this all got out of hand
I misunderstand what I misunderstood
this sick trip down
becoming Johnny Hollywood
champagne glasses and next years denim
learning to look just right like them
just to get tight with em
learn right now
that you are small and you can never be like them
so learn to eat everything they're feeding
and pick your teeth clean
with the bones of those you're cheating
this is Hollywood
red carpets and models' stares
This is Hollywood
designer drugs on designer rugs up spiral stairs
this is Hollywood
rich ***** kids with tempers flared
this is the top of the world in your dreams
and no one else really cares
somehow
I managed to fight this depression
looking for a job in a recession
my hair lines recession
partying like it's an obsession
somehow
this rip off called growing up
has me over a toilet throwing up
gagging on everything I misunderstood
becoming Johnny Hollywood
model chicks posing and poser friends
learning to look at them both with the same fake grin
learning right now
that you will live to lie and do it again
you'll bite your tounge to the powers
and when your dream fails
you'll buy new friends
this is Hollywood
******* business cards and winks
this is Hollywood
everyone talks but nobody thinks
this is Hollywood
hit top but beware if you sink
when you're number one everyone loves you and stares
but when you're Johnny Hollywood
nobody else really ******* cares
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 12:51 PM UTC
I like to do those quizzes
in glossy bubbles that you
find
in Cosmopolitan and
Elle and
Seventeen.
Which girl should I be?
Should I
dump paper flowers
on my milkmaid braid?
Long skirts, long chains, and
Beatles on my radio
during their ‘Indian’ phase?
Should I
paint it all
black, strip life down to
a middle finger,
blare punk at full
scream,
and cram my toes in ratty Docs,
smash all emotion
into smithereens?
Should I
sugar-coat my mouth with
Maybelline, button up
collars, laughs, opinions,
read books on behaving
just like a
daydream,
sip teas, bake cookies, aim for
Ivy Leagues?
Which gilded box do I crawl
into?
Which skin to don
this week?
Which fashion editor-friendly
stereotype to fulfil?
Which girl should I be?
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC
If you were to ask me what boredom was, I’d tell you were boring and to stop asking stupid questions, but if you really persisted, I would tell you boredom is the tick tock on the white clock on the white wall of your childhood maths classroom.
it’s the thrill of seeing how many dried crackers you can cram into your mouth before your mouth becomes a cracked and dried desert. Boredom is
making up haikus,
Alone but not quite knowing,
How many syllables go on each line
Boredom is haikus.
Boredom is the decapitation of innocent grass blades as you listen to an unenthused sports teacher, the blood of your unwitting enemies splattered on your fingers.
Boredom is this boring poem
Nov 23, 2020
Nov 23, 2020 at 6:00 PM UTC
AOK: Mathematics
By Rohan Baishya
Now listen up y'all imma give y'all a lecture
About how my intuition led to some dope conjectures.
But to verify these knowledge claims I'll need a proof,
No need to worry though, my logic's up through the roof.
I'll steal yo girl with my geometric paradigms.
Not to mention my bank balance is on a sharp incline.
Imma use derivatives to find the slope of that *****
Euclid used geometry, what a big loony.
Now Pythagoras used deduction to find the sides of triangles,
Now I can use induction to find the curves of this fine-angle.
So listen up homie, you're a bore with your empiricism;
I can explain everything with this dank rationalism.
Now math ain't 'bout using memory to cram some equations,
It's all about getting that intense sensation
of using reason to season your supported argument
but sometimes to calculate my Lambo's rent.
But now imma be busy with my new calculator via Fed-ex
So listen up girls, no *** until I solve for x
In conclusion, math is the secret to success
If you believe in the numbers you'll be relieving your stress.
Word
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
~
Underneath a crushing moonlit
Roses are dancing in a glow garden
Cram of comeliness whispering through my pensive
Applaud an agitating mind of dragging love
That submerging under a poetic passion
A wild **** of beauty wishing to crave a romance
Stressing on mind that makes
Bubbles of emotions simultaneously,
Touching and filling the empty dreams
That essence of heaven creating the melody of divine music
Passing through the poet's nose and nails
Deep ache popping at the heart and stone
There render of love conceiving to catch a **** of heaven
A tangible gaiety that creates so surprising illusion
The glimmer chords becoming to splash
The utmost inflames growing to outburst,
Bursts into the fire of gaiety--
Psyche pouring a fathomless passion till the twilight
Where there I am dancing alone with my shadow,
Ah! my Love--
Oh! my Love ----
What a Crushing Moonlit!!
~
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
Hands clawing outward from a mass grave
Mouth gasping for air,
Lungs filled with invisible smog
Mind too indoctrinated to care
Pressed in against the walking dead
Face to face, toe to toe –
Clammy fingers entwining by seeing
Unseeing eyes staring into a blank void you well know
Drifting with the metal cage
Jerking back, coasting sideways, never flinch
Some escape, more cram in –
Nearing hellish Purgatory inch by inch
A screeching halt, your turn to flee –
Into the glass maze obediently file
Skinner's rats – jolted by punishment
Yet tomorrow you’ll do it again – another card on the pile.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 5:59 AM UTC
We are all dying
Life is a symptom of death
Just because you're alive
Doesn't mean you're living
It's a morbid thought
I know
But it's somehow true
It's like the saying
"This too shall pass"
It's morbid
But true
Do you wake up in the morning
Just to go back o sleep at night?
Or do you wake up in the morning
Ready to cram as much live into your live
As you can before sleep forces you to rest?
Do you sit on the sidelines of life
Watching the other people live?
Or do run into the center
Experiencing life with them?
Are you the wallflower?
Or the mixer?
Are you just alive?
Or are you living?
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 8:39 PM UTC
Men clad cleanly, polished boots and bowler hats,
Women wearing short skirts or long dress,
Boys no longer boys deny their old,
With rock and rap, skate shoes; how bold!
Indifferently they carry on,
I am you, and you are him,
She is fat and she is slim,
Registered in heads dead depth,
As we pretend to see no man who chokes on crystal ****
Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who cram these city streets;
A glance is but acknowledgment,
As all shuffle in quick feet.
To say the least, we will pay none,
To those who are not us;
To say the least, we think we've won,
Ignore the drunk mans fuss.
Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who view in black-and-white;
No middle-ground perceives a frown,
As they sleep amid streetlights.
The morning rush and nightly blitz,
As people scurry too,
Destinations, dealing smiles;
Self-help books to start anew.
As talk through text, online, or phone,
Dominates the daze,
Indifferently, ignore eachother,
"Nothing need be said inside this maze."
The CEO, he acts as King,
With peasants treated well;
Their brains blunted to buried states,
"He's bad; but he'll get his due in hell."
Everyday they rise early,
To catch the mornings speed;
"I do this by the clock because,
A life, so rich, I'll lead."
"Conforming kills the mindless soul,
To fight off human urge;"
You're free, yet unaware of this,
So conforming, you won't purge.
Like the jaded sidewalkers,
Who, like zombies, follow sway,
A human hand on island sand,
'I saw him not,' or so I say.
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 9:17 PM UTC
Stumbling
Weary voices screaming soft and slow
A whine
How am I to understand
Gulls and shrieking colonies
Have never opened up to me
I can't divide the hurtle of millions
Into the movement of one head here
A feather there
And mouths agape for more
Cram a colony inside my head
Bursting with busy, covered in crap
Do you wonder now
Why I cry myself to sleep
Why I dread the light of morning
Why I stare into the deep.
I can't escape it. A million miles of progress twisted into half a cup of brain.
And not in order, either.
All's a mess within.
So how am I to understand
How am I to live
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC