1
she taps he hand, twice.
across the room,
he stares, thinking
into empty air.
others, scattered
tap pencils or fingers
on desktops, booktops
and phone keyboards

the balding man
with black hair:
combed backward
and to differing angles
so that his head is split
vertically-
stands, above the room
his back turned

his words,
meant for the crowd
reverberate only
along classes fringe
but still take precedence
over nothing
even to them-
academics, outcasts


2
back of the room
reveals everything
to the observer
trying to see

blue-eyed brunette
glares vengefully
at no one,
just to glare

he looks up once
to watch
as another
pulls up
drooping jeans.
she laughs
at conversation
unmeant for,
and inaudible
to her


3
today, she smiles
and lets her lip fall
begging, like a puppy
But when they
lose eye contact,
she glares, again

he leaves footprints
on parallel desk
from lounging
then fires himself
to his feet
using stored energy,
and sugar from gum

words bounce along
the walls in the back,
and isolated eyes peer
towards the screen
but hide the fact
that they care


4
two week vacation
has left their minds
full of everything
except math,
so they listen
to him, while he speaks

but travel backward
in time, with
those closest them
while he creeps,
silent, around the room

she concentrates hard,
on her work
glaring at the page.
he sits a desk forward
feet on floor
neighboring desk full
today, but only physically

blue hat rests
on sketchbook,
its border
barely covering
closed eyes

blond head
implants itself
jokingly, into
smooth shining
white wall
with enough force
to collapse
accidental target

a hand raises
attracting gazes,
awestruck,
at her interest
in forgotten
material
of future tests


5
only a few eyes wander
from blue lined notebooks
though the left flank
still chatters, embodying
either a secretive chipmunk
or the breeze which starts the storm

storm clouds appear slowly
in sketchbook, blue hat bobbing
rhythmically in response to active pen

perched above the flock
reminiscent, split headed
papa bird scans the masks
of his shockingly silent chicks

random lecture breaks the silence.
Her eyes aren’t the only ones
Fixed into a steel laden glare
But the chipmunk wind ceases


6
his questioning glance lands
on uninhabited space,
exhibiting a yawn
which traverses through,
and twists, the faces of
those otherwise engaged

lecture ends with a question,
the scent of nuts blows through
mentally empty classroom
turning desks to predetermined
positions and swiftly inhabiting
three-quarters of the physical class

his steel glare has replaced hers
the latter’s eyes now soft as an infants

within five minutes, his voice
undergoes  a brutal, complete cycle
pleading, congratulating, yelling
and as always, lecturing


7
pre-test:

preparations for misery-
mundane chipmunk chattering,
jokes and laughs from random
oddities appearing everywhere

blue hat rests in intervals.
Blue coat rearranges
essay for another class

The girl in the sunny plaid
Rolls an orange along her hand

He points at nothing and asks
Nobody something without answer

The left flank, as always
Is turned away, conversing

A sigh rings outward loudly
Everyone glares, nervously,
Everywhere, reward of concentration


After my test:

First paper in, he scans lightly
Sets it down with a scowl
and yawns, twice, breaking the
silent shroud of heavy fog
which is hanging overhead

wandering free eyes witness
down-turned heads concentrating
as much on tests  as on moving
their hands wildly, excitedly
trying to communicate non-vocally

others have yet to detach themselves
from their seats and stride upward,
hopefully more triumphantly
than their sole predecessor

one shuffles now, slowly toward him
his hand shaking as he releases
that  paper, he turns away as it flutters
onto the desk- he replants himself in his

twelve others walk forward
smiling, shrinking, sometimes speaking
and always he glares, triumphant
knowing his success at our failure


later:

his near-sleeping form            
finds distraction, in waking
dreams, jumping back suddenly
breaking from his plank-like state
without speaking. excitement
for approaching weekend is
communicated in the left flank

two girls break the silence
running in from outside            
he glares at them, but laughs

everyone breaks into groups
after the conversation about
mysteriously nutty discarded sock

he runs to the forefront
forehead folded, finger on mouth
no-one notices, but still he glares

8
he smiles and glares at the floor
his legs swinging back and forth            
tan slacks rustling softly

exaggerated scores bubble in ears            
as they search for their destroyer

in front of forgotten faces falls
the page of a forgotten tome

several yawn, hoping, understandably
that their stretched lips
will pull themselves far enough
to barricade ears from his droning

he kills himself, twice, bumbling
into half-thought chastisements
of the  flittingly flirtatious students
intermingling hoping behind him
causing waves of whispers, laughter
and slightly strengthened chatter

he re-aligns his thoughts quickly
and rambles on again, always

9
he speaks to her softly
from across a sea of desks
she looks up, panicking calmly
distracted from distraction

in silence, blank eyes turn
surprised at the non-withering
state of her barely living corpse

he asks a question, looking up
a single answer is given
unemotional and short, buy ending
heavy hanging awkward silence

how talented the teacher
who gives his lecture while
still addressing unrelated
student self lectures

the still silence given
in his questioning lull
hangs so loudly the whispers
traversing the classroom appear
silent as finger wiggle
and pencils trace zeros

his extrication, caused by
distractingly thunderous voice
is met with a comment
causing a wave of laughter
starting at his mouth
and extending to inhabit everything

10
half the time gives
twice the attention
as they concentrate
on keeping him on
the undying topic
of the work we
have already done

they admit defeat
as dusty tome opens
spreading a nutty cloud
causing heads to turn
and words to leap.

from opens lips,
mischievous gremlins
sprout, dancing on
tables and chuckling
away from the sigh
of his down-turned, split
shining, globular mind

he scratches pink ear
with bone pale finger
reading unrelated words

in the center of the room
both mentally and physically
he sits, momentarily quiet
as dark eyes glare past
rumpled pink nose,
concentrating

blue hat rests on open palms
above dust covered open page
he slips into sleeping state
but picks himself up
and stares though thin borderline
toward shiny rambling forehead

a shutter cord flies forward
the hand at the end pulling hard
but with no affect to the shutters
neither lowering the physical
or raising the mental

the color of non-color pencils
interrupts the class momentarily
as she strides forward to compare
and then criticizes his care

he just sits, smiles and stares

11
eleven desks lie empty
of one form more than usual
amplifying the arm movements
of the ever ticking seconds

his obscured mouth flings seeds
which sprout into words
before even meeting the worn
blood-colored carpet below

in the main room, sixteen
sit silent, sketching, sleeping
or siphoning the last minute

12
those left awake, and alive
have come to understand
the numbers on the screen
this being their specialty
in a nutty shell, of course
splitting, as we are, large
crowds of numbers, and us
being teenagers, isn’t that
how we think, in numbers
and ratings of everything
and, sitting in the central
crowd are the talented
crowd-splitters
flattery-spitters

13
the silence of half absence
is pierced, as always by vocal
anomaly, centered around
rows of shining wood
bookrests, but only one
set of hollow, dark-rimmed
vacant eyeballs watches
well-welcomed interruption

he lets us work, standing.
Someone somewhere opens
A large container of nuts
Entire class starts stuffing
Handfuls into puffy cheeks
Absorbing sensations into
Eternally ravenous minds

The apocalyptic mix of noises
Is split again by central
Nutcracker, and those in corners
Glare, smiling, rubbing shadowed
Acne scarred faces
with raw-bitten nails

14
balding papa bird speaks loudly
transforming his voice, becoming
vocally legendary cartoon duck

the wave of resulting laughter
ends in un-given nut-break
spreading, without speech
the understanding that his
comedic digression will not
meet a quick extinction

we greet the weekend
by rising early
our excuse: competition
to devour the worm

15
three heads are downturned
peering into textbooks
as the tsunami breaks

the days end starts
and beady eyes peer
in the direction of his
moving head, colored
gothic gargoyle in the
dim cloudlight streaming
through dust coated
slit windows

the room transforms
becoming triumphantly,
grumpily, repeatedly
conversational

artificial silence
spreads like a wave
from right back corner
to left front corner
leaving behind
the half of the room
hidden behind the wall
of troublemakers
who will eventually
cause the wall to topple
with the sheer force
of assorted nuts

16
blue hat is scrunched
under the of a fist
pounding on his head,
result of the decibels
consumed, and produced
by the embodiment
of the thoughts around him
which fall from stuffed
cheeks. Bounce off tables
and spread a sickening aroma
as their shells split
exposing, revealing
nothing

17
red face glances upward
as harsh words split
the widening sea of snickers
his words stop, first time today
as whispers spread wildly
of his speed in delivering answers
seconds later, room is silent
as statement ends and lecturer
turns back to him, offering
as always, another wave
of deep felt, anger hardened
quietly whispered, criticisms

thunderous-rush-voice leads
out of habit and necessity
the minutes following
his behavioral digression
each word stabbing split-headed
pointy-nosed papa bird, their
form a walnut-wood spear
crafted from drifted thoughts
of those sitting nearest him

18
on his back lies a pile of nuts
professor’s earthquake
shoulder shaking causes
eyes to open, back to rise
and with a tremendous roar
both physical and meta-physical,
it topples to worn carpet
and the laugh-track plays on

19
silence- pierced into being
by shrill, violent, mountainous
rise, and fall, of thunderous decibels-
hangs, heavier, louder than
the quick gone loudness replaced
or, in all actuality, displaced
mere seconds before being scrawled
into eternal memory
of those whose noses
sniff, daily, nutty clusters
of letters, which exclude
always, the ever-present x
the destructive π
and that y, which of course
flies as high as forgetful
nut-bearers




©Brandon Webb
2012

Within the four walls of this library
sit three walls packed into the corner;
shelves, stuffed full of books with dog-eared pages
and slip-disc’d spines and fraying edges,
and a big white sign, which dangles from the ceiling
like a megabat hung on a cave mouth, sleeping and dreaming,
the word “NONFICTION” is inscribed on its countenance,
adjacent to signs shouting “MYSTERY” and “SCIENCE
FICTION” and “FANTASY” and “ROMANCE”
and a thousand other sorts of words
for myth and fabrication. But in this corner
live the rest, the et ceteras, the miscellaneous,
the kingdom of protists; for instance, care for some ethics?
Marx’s manifesto is stacked lazily beside a heap of essays by Rand;
you can practically see the two of them, shaking hands
uneasily, the will to never understand already forming
in their brains, and others yet remain;
Capote and the Clutters share shelf space
with the Mansons, hiding helter skelter behind
gnostic gospels and silent springs and a thousand
dreams for Freud to interpret (translated
from German for your convenience); nearby,
Orwell sings war songs in Catalan, accompanied
by the universe’s most elegant superstrings,
and the caged birds, singing of freedom,
harmonizing a melodious cacophony with the song
of the executioner. Butler criticizes his performance,
and she probably would have anyway, but Friedan thinks
he has a certain sort of mystique and Dawkins offers his own critique,
going on about genes and memes, extinction and delusion, but
not hallucinations—Sacks makes the distinction; let us continue
to praise famous men, and their children after them,
these naked apes, with minds so ***** that
they’re riddled with the emperors of all maladies; oh, Morris
Kinsey and Mukherjee could tell you all about these things,
maybe over lunch with Schlosser or dinner with Pollan,
minglings with Machiavelli over affairs of the state,
or affairs of space and a brief history of time; but,
if you're feeling too full to eat, or to pray, or to love,
ask Frankl what to do, let him change your life
with words from decades yore as he keeps on
his search for meaning just like every man before, at least
that's the case when these boys’ lives weren’t preoccupied
by artful war or bright and shining lies. And here,
by the holy bookend, lies some old and antiquated glossary
which lost most of its “glossy” many years ago,
for one flip through the pages will catalogue the changes
between what we thought we knew about the stars
and our bodies and doomsday as recently
as your last birthday, and all the things that everyone says
we now know that we know; speak,
memory, remember all you can
about this endless, sundry cosmos, and
the microcosms that it boasts; bury my heart,
if not at Wounded Knee, then maybe at this
library, where comprehension and speculation
find themselves in coexistence, packed into a single
point resembling the genesis, and fear and hope
take dueling forms, those of fact and mystery;
and now all that’s left to do is read,
until the end of history.

How can I live happily,
When my mother constantly criticizes me,
Refuses to admit when she is wrong,
Rejects all of my friends.
Calls me hurtful names,
Under-estimates me,
Invades my privacy,
And demoralizes me?

& tomorrow morning while she opens her eyes, kiss her neck to make sure she wakes up with a smile. Don’t get up & cook her a fancy breakfast that she’ll only eat half of, instead lay there & play with her hand as the sun rays bright up the room. As the smell of her skin enlightens your life. Despite of how much she criticizes her hands, let her see how much of a perfect fit they are for yours. Of how after long days of sailing her hands are the lighthouse your boat will always follow in search of home. Play with her hair until she falls back asleep & listen to her heartbeat, watch her dream. & while she’s slipping away from the world tell her everything. Of how you at times miss her even after just seeing her. Of how you melt every time she says your name. Of how every letter to hers has become everything to you. Of how she completes you. Tell her how you bruised your knuckles in breaking your walls to have her come in & sat there for days & watched them bleed out every bit of doubt yet you never emptied them out. How you refused to show her fearing she’d hurt in trying to fix them & realizing she couldn’t heal all of me. But tell her she was always enough for me. Tell her 10 or 40 years from now while wheelchair shopping, I’ll still look at her & feel the world stop. How I’ll always carry a piece of her & how she’ll always have a hug saved with me.

She sits at the dinner table
Flattened lips
Tightly-****** hands
Neutral face
She is disgusted
As she lifts the spoon to her mouth
Immediate remorse fills her body as the taste buds get the first feel of the warm food
She is disgusted
As she continues to eat, she can see the food  turning into fat traveling to her cheeks
and to her jaw and to her arms and to her shoulders and to her chest and to her stomach
covering the bones that she wants to pierce through her skin
She can see it travel to her thighs, largening in size, making them touch, covering the huge gap that she wants situated in the middle
She is disgusted
She gets paler and paler with every chew and every swallow
And so to escape this torture, she lies and tells her uncle and aunt that her stomach is upset
and she feels sick
But she wasn't lying
Because her stomach was truly upset because it did not want to be filled
It wanted to stay tiny
It wanted to stay beautiful
It wanted to be more beautiful
She goes straight to the bathroom and locks the door
Washes her hands before sticking ******* down her throat
Removes them once she feels the disgust rising through her esophagus
Closes her eyes as her upset stomach throws away everything unwanted
She is disgusted
She secures the lock in her bedroom
Thinking maybe it will keep the demons away
Or at least long enough for a second of sanity
But they are too gruesomely evil because the disgust that was once in her throat has now traveled to her wrists
She criticizes how her wrist bone isn't showing enough
Disgust travels to her chest
how her ribs aren't piercing enough
Disgust travels to her hips
how her hip bones aren't showing enough
Disgust travels to her thighs
how the space between isn't big enough
Disgust travels to her fingertips
Tension building up in her palms
The demons' silence turn into screams
She gives in
Picks up the knife
and writes an new poem on her body
I
am
*disgusted

We were drinking coffee when
depression showed up at the door of the home we built, pounding.
Eviction notice in hand,
your soul parceled out into donation bins.
Foreclosure sign,
caution tape around the chest that I slept on for a year.

I sit out in the sun
to bleach the tan line from my ring finger.
I hold cold cups and shake strangers’ hands
to erase the mould of your grasp from mine.
I want to sear off my palms.

I miss even those nights when you looked at my fire and laughed.
So I make you coffee (but I know I make it wrong);
your ghost in this house still criticizes.

I made you coffee every day because it was all I could do;
my only way of getting into you, a vector.
As the hot brew flowed past your heart, I watched,
like a child at Christmas, hoping you’d feel my love.
Hoping the glaze would clear up from your eyes.

I only wish this were a bond that stayed,
that stayed when your mind put plugs in your ears:
when I screamed and screamed that I loved you,
that I’d rock every little thing you regret to sleep.

I went to the doctor about this dizziness.
He checked my ears, he asked why my eyes were red.
This vertigo--a hurricane made by the page turning in my life.
I am a bag in your wind.

The day you left I wrote you a recipe for how you like your coffee,
because you don’t know, but I have it memorized.
My handwriting changes halfway down the page, as I change,
as you drive farther and farther away.

Our love is a child I’ve carried,
now I’m bent over, sick.
Loss took your place in our home,
but it’s unsteady on its feet;
I have to walk it from room to room.

My name has been yours, possessive.
And although these days I correct myself and say ‘I’ during speech,
My thoughts are still ‘we.’
I still think about your lungs when I cough.

So I still make us coffee every day (but I know I make it wrong).

Life, in a mannerism, they proclaim
Is fragile, untouchable, limitless, rather a chain
Life, the folks sing, as delightful and indescribable as it is, is only here to stay

I do not know where, I do not know why
But thoughts mingling within my nerves apply
A paradox of significance within the definition
Of the purposeful journey we call life

Albeit the good, we choose to focus rather unwisely
Precisely of course, over delusional mastery
Understanding only comes in hand when necessary
When it threatens our existence, calling Bravery

You see, humans as smart as we are perceived to be
Might as well be a laughing stock to the rest of the scene
What we value, we fail to pursue, what we preach, we fail to reach

Would it hurt to let go of Prejudice?
An individual who has been imagined by generations beforehand, woven by bits of uncertainty and; well, where is he?

Hold on, here comes another
Violence and Destruction stand on the porch
Should we let them in? Should we not?
They are there, ready, ready anytime temptation hits now

Humanity degrades what she has created
Humiliates what she has achieved, and criticizes her dignity
Worth has lost its value, hence wonder
What have we done to help save her?

Sense has lost all contact
With wicked games being played, selfish pact
Response no longer yearns for Suffering
Such that, we deceive our own sect

Where is Understanding when we need her?
A few doors down the street, go ahead and wake her
She has not heard from us for a while now
Last time we spoke, I reckon, was when our own path was in danger

It was my birthday 2 weeks ago
so of course we have to celebrate this completely arbitrary date
two weeks late
My uncle talks about killing things
smaller than him
My aunt smiles and laughs
but she doesn't mean it
My step dad glares at me
My step sister sighs
my step brother is oblivious
My mom drinks too much
as do I
my grandpa tells me how I'm
the black sheep
of the family
Criticizes me
"She's just not right"
I drink gin in the kitchen
come back smiling and docile
ready to take a beating

is crooning bird with
beehive nest built from soul
is sixty five years inside body of young girl
loves jazz and destructive boy
looks at him the way her voice does microphone
eyes are drawn black like cat's and she
sings the way a tail curls along wood floor
graceful  effortless  confident

shaina maidel with
a gap between her two front bent teeth
echoed laugh and studded diamond above her lip
jewish girl who wears
star of David around her neck belts
songs she writes with scratching fingers against
ink covered arms
pretty girl loves ****** and crack pipe and liquor
has a crooked mouth but hums melodies
smooth as the heart is aching

pink ballet slippers stain red
from ****** between toes
bulimia makes a home in her habits
empties stomach after every meal
makes more room for wine and ***** and whisky with coke
stumbles across a stage she does not belong to while
the audience boos and mocks while
the paparazzi stalks and preys and while
the media criticizes and
a world that doesn't quite understand does the same

we watch her disaster like
a car accident
unable to stop staring at the damage
we watch her downfall like
an avalanche in another city
it isn't ours so we do nothing to save it

this disappearing act is not magic but
a side effect of fame unwanted
dad doesn't understand that skin and
bones is foreshadow of death
says, baby, smile for the camera
baby, just do what you're supposed to
baby, just finish the tour
**** every last ounce out of her like
the wringing of a towel
it is an easy thing for a girl to become
invisible when she wants to
enough

crooning bird falls from tree and
we watch with hands at our side
bodies tilted in confusion
what a shame, we say
there is depth but it is hiding under addiction
all we see is girl destroying herself under
the fluorescents we placed above her
what a waste, we say, shaking heads
we do nothing in response

my love,
you tore boundaries with your swollen hands
they said your honest was too loud
hair too big
voice too bold
they picked with curious fingers and
gap-tooth jew girl with
the audacity to break silence
ended up breaking too

shaina maidel with
a space between her two front bent teeth
echoed laugh and studded diamond above her lip
jewish girl who could never be a star became just that
burned into supernova
graceful  effortless  confident in her
descent back to
black

One thing we know about Trump is that
Whenever he criticizes someone,
It's often for something that he himself
Does or previously has done.

When he campaigned, he criticized
Obama for golfing. Such a crime!
Now that he's the president,
Trump is golfing all the time!

He blasted Obama for lack of transparency
And accused him of being feckless.
Trump's own transparency comes
To light only because he's so reckless.

Trump says the media should
Be less hostile and model civility.
Then he attacks the press and others
And carries it out with utmost hostility.

Our national security:
An issue to Trump, yet now it's known
How much the hypocritical man
Loves to use his unsecured phone.

Hillary's emails were often a target
Before and even since the election.
Trump's fake concern and constant
Complaints: examples of his projection.

Emails are now in the news again.
This time daughter Ivanka is using
Her private email account for government
Business! Isn't that amusing?

Oh, you hypocrites! You act as though
For you the rules do not apply.
But if there's any justice at all,
You'll get yours by and by.

-by Bob B (11-20-18)

Beauty runs along the coast n core of the heart
Many mistake that by the soft color of the skin

Every night she reflects on the faces she's seen
And she stares at the mirror
Right before her she sees no beauty

Searching for a smooth spot is her desire
Pimple free
But her face is nucleated with pimples

The faces she sets sight upon daily
Haunt her

She looks back n criticizes her face again
She's not that yellow bone
She's  not a size 0

She is curvaceous
She is darker than her knee
But her skin is one of rare soil

She could bleach
Eat greens  

But she believes much that she  was born to be different

She learnt to Love herself
She Felt it inside
And it shone outside
Outlining the curves of her dimples
Surrounded with her beauty spots
Her freckles
Every one of those freckles  retold a story of where she started
When media was centre stage
Questioning her whether light she wanted to be? Or dark as the cave of Africa was her desire ?

She found light
Saw her true beauty.
She was once a victim
A dark victim
But now she is embracing her dark lashes n hazel eyes
Accompanied by her gorgeous dark face
She's proud
I'm proud
True beauty is rare

never once in my journey through poetry
have I ever bowed the knee to criticize another
if anything I send a message of praise
but critics take it upon themselves
to point out your grammatical errors
as though they are there to help
yet can't even help themselves
perhaps its best if I left that discussion right back on the shelf

yet let me tell you your just a jealous little ****
you see you have to harp on the timid to get your point across
it is no tragic loss if you just leave us all alone
go tell it to a tombstone friend
positive reinforcement strengthens one's heart
only negativity kills it you see
but you simply disagree to live with your hate
nothing is right for you always wrong
you present yourselves in the best seats in the house
there you grumble, ***** & pout

Who criticizes the critic
is there some superior other
yet why should we even bother
the blind will lead the blind
soon to fall in a ditch
Critics **** you see living in their vain glory
always like to change the story
no there not perfect who are they kidding
never do they say they are sorry or ask to be forgiven
eyes with blackened shells in their brain
let me be the first to explain
its totally impossible to live up to there perfect standard
yet they think they are always right never wrong
always in the same lame song
yet what will it take before we could get along
we both can agree to disagree
why don't you just let people be

My Principal is forever ready to explore
New things from students who implore
And set a new goal for them to outscore
In their own life. He is ready to restore
Intellect and discipline in school therefore
Stands out and administers students’ footsore.
Cherian sir the one who is fighting war
Against anxiety and worry on door,
Which pester children and occasionally gore
Their morale and self-esteem. They spoor
Away from study which he sojourns before
They reach to larger extent and be cocksure.
Never he criticizes without any reason poor,
As he is a positive thinker. All of us roar
Which is pacified by him but for sure.
He is the man of principles and decor
Whose blessings on all of us ever pour.

There were times in my life
Where I was satisfied with the world
Now it’s different
Because all it seems to give me is hurt

A void in my chest,
Filled with nothing but emptiness
The same sensation I feel when I’m asleep
Or when I try to rest

It’s hard feeling positive when this life’s against you
It seems all it wants to do is grind you up, best you
Bless you,
You’re probably far better off
Got the dreams and inspiration that keeps you going and you can’t stop

So don’t
Don’t ever lose your faith
Because when you do you start to question
Your position in the human race

What am I good for,
Am I just for entertainment?
If that’s so, then why the
Element of overwhelming sadness?

I’m not scared, in fact,
Far from it
But it’s just sometimes I struggle
To cope with this ****

I deal with it alone
Gunslinging my way through
Drawing pistols, shots firing
Not enough bullets and I’m *******

I tried pistol-whipping my problems
But I couldn’t
If you’re down on your defenses then
You probably shouldn’t

Call for backup and extra munition
Do it quick and do it soon
Because I left it far too late
And sometimes I feel like I’m doomed

I hate feeling so down
But it’s all I have, a shroud around
Someone who questionably doesn’t deserve
To feel a pain so hard, to be quite so hurt

To feel this **** mad, or to be this **** sad
Is the one consistent thing in life that I’ve ever had
It makes me stop at times, and question my existence
But if this happens to you, shrug it off, be strong in your persistence

Talking helps to solve things
It helps to make me feel pure
It makes me feel good then
Doesn’t last long, it’s no cure

I do try to make it work,
But negativity puts in twice the effort
I was never positive to begin with
So I get twice the hurt

Sadness I can deal with
Because I can make it fade
All I need is a good song
On a cloudy, rainy day

I sing along to sad tunes
And let myself cry it all out
Afterwards I feel a bit better
And my eyes are in drought

So I go outside and smack my bag
The punching bag I have
I like to picture hated faces
When I’m feeling mad

I frame them for my anger
Because they made me go deeply through
And I hate being mad, I’d rather be sad
Is it the same for you?

I called out for help, took half a year to get
But better late than never whenever I feel really upset
I just write a little rhyme, a crazy song a bit like this
It helps at times when I look back and strongly reminisce

Other times it makes it worse, some things you should forget
And when I look back on them I drown in my regret
Some things I should’ve said, others maybe not
But at least I’m not like my other friends who blaze it away with ***

****, where’d that come from?
A well deep down that holds all the **** in this world that I know is wrong?
Sometimes I think that maybe I’m floating at the top
But my psychologist doesn’t agree, whenever I say that she makes me stop

It’s only a voice called Nightmare, my persistent inner critic
Who criticizes my every move, likes to make me feel like ****
He feeds off it, an inner demon set to self-destruct
Telling me everything I do is wrong, that it’s not just the world that’s ******

And I listen, but why should I?
When he asks me to Google tying nooses so I can just ******* die
And it’s only because, sometimes I feel I want to
But don’t listen to these voices, don’t want this to happen to you

I wanna write a goodbye letter sometime, just to have it there
Because if there’s something that makes me scared it’s seeing a loved one’s tear
So if I’m not there, perhaps it’ll make me feel better
I get told I can’t die, but never say never

Humanity has mortality and a lack of morality
Perhaps we all crazy too, a little lack of sanity
But just know, no matter what happens it’s reality
And you should always see the best in whatever is happening

I know I can’t, or at least I can’t yet
Those things I mentioned before, that drown me in regret?
That’s a part of my world, a part of my experience
**** it, what I’m saying is this **** is our existence

I hate feeling so down
But it’s all I have, a shroud around
Someone who questionably doesn’t deserve
To feel a pain so hard, to be quite so hurt

To feel this **** mad, or to be this **** sad
Is the one consistent thing in life that I’ve ever had
It makes me stop at times, and question my existence
But if this happens to you, shrug it off, be strong in your persistence

I hate my Dad sometimes, he makes me really ******
He has PTSD, takes it out on me and gets away with it
I mean, my step mum moved out, she saw it happen clearly
Did anybody stop and take time to perhaps think of me?

No? Just another waste of time?
A bad investment, a depression that took form and left its basement?
**** it all, I never helped anyone
That’s Nightmare for you, I listen to him when I write songs

He gives me inspiration in a way I guess I feed off him
But it can be difficult sometimes, to let him loose because he slips
Up and takes me down, ironically it’s why I’m writing now
To show you all that if you hear him, don’t listen to the sound

Of a desperate voice in desperate times, let him just die
Don’t even try to talk to him, give up let him cry
Don’t feel bad afterwards, it isn’t ******
It’s survival of the fittest  and he’ll eventually wanna hurt her

You got a special someone don’t you? He wants their soul
He will play any card to get a chance to devour them whole
So don’t stop, keep your dreams
And let those pesky Nightmares slip by unseen

I hate feeling so down
But it’s all I have, a shroud around
Someone who questionably doesn’t deserve
To feel a pain so hard, to be quite so hurt

To feel this **** mad, or to be this **** sad
Is the one consistent thing in life that I’ve ever had
It makes me stop at times, and question my existence
But if this happens to you, shrug it off, be strong in your persistence


It may make you stop at times, and question your existence
But if this should happen to you, move along, be strong in your persistence

*Where I can't

Why?
She tells me I'm wrong.
He tells me nothing.
You
care...

Why?
She criticizes my work.
He criticizes my leadership.
You
praise me...

Why?
She apologizes for being jealous.
He apologizes for doubting me.
You
smile and call me crazy...

Why?*
She remains victorious.
He remains wrapped around her demands.
But You
are all that matters...

I am a dreamer
A pure dreamer
Surround myself with the believers
Still I find myself dreaming..
Surround myself with the thinkers...
I dream still of rhymes and unpublished poetry
Surround myself with the doers
Been bombarded with a question...
Is your life a poetry?
I am a dreamer.. yes
But I love to be with the doers, the believers and thinkers,
but most of all,
I surround myself with those
who speak the truth when they criticizes
so I could polish myself...
till I shine...
at least I could still learn...
humbly educate myself...
with the things I don't know
or unsure about...
I surround myself with those who see
the greatness within me,
when I myself  fail to see ....
I may be a dreamer
but nothing begins...
without first a dream.....

To the girl who stays home
from school because shes too depressed to get out.
I love you.

To the girl who stands infront of the mirror crying
unable to fight the tears
That criticizes every inch
I love you.

To the girl ,that can't keep her dinner down
Because shes lost only two pounds
I love you.

To the girl who cries on the cold tile of her bathroom floor
With a ****** razor in her hand.
I love you .


To the girl who wears long sleeve shirt in August
To hide all the scars which memory leaves
I love you.

To the girl who pops a handful of pills in her mouth
Just to feel normal. I love you.

To the girl who watches the one person she loves
Love someone else,I love you.

To the girl who has a family which reminds her she is not
good enough.
I love you.

To the girl,who gets critiscim for being just who she is,
I love you.

Creatures dancing under stars gleam, shining luminescence

s t r i p p ing their bodies
d
o
w
n         to the core
revealing
hearts so bare. Boats sailing away to seas so wide
               s t  r    e   t  c  h i        n     g
                                              o   u      t
to                  infinities endless. But some stretch wider than others, eclipsing
your shallow distorted view on reality.               Shift
your telescope just a little bit to the
                                                                                                 left,
challenge the
blankness between the                       margins like

you actually care.

Liberate yourself from the shackles of love,
dream and

PRETEND

nothing is
                                          everything.

And everything is
                                                         nothing.

Welcome to life epitomizing insanity. Hands  
              guiding bodies       this                   way

until black abyss swallows whatever darkness
remains. Darkness that peels away at your flesh with its unnerving stare as it
criticizes
demonizes you. I am Satan and I build  
             friendships upon
                   silver blades               and
                    fuchsia vials
  laden with venom for
eternal sleep. Let sleeps hands gently
carry you to clouds that absolve you of past
shadows so you can float on. No one will find you
no matter how much you scream screams fall on
deaf ears whose eardrums have been perforated eons ago.  

your voice has been stolen along with your wings, lying
torn and
shattered. You h
                        a
               n      
                g

                                hovered between the
past                                           and                                          nightmares
                                                                                           yet to come. But                                you stay there, forever a ghost

while time
         m
           e
             l
              t
                 s             a w  a     y
    
a strawberry Popsicle
bleeding freely down the
                                                 s
                                                i
                                           d
                                             e         of your face.
So go out
                            fold
your aspirations into paper airplanes
let
them soar
                       f  
                           r e  
                                 e   l
                                           y
before they crash land into
your graveyard, a collection of:

broken promises
unrequited love


*Dreams of what could have been

If you praise me too much
I  will suspect you
If you criticize me constructively
I will respect you

I am no longer a child
To be pleased and appeased
My vanity and ego
Have almost been released

A criticizing friend is better
Than a flattering foe
A friend criticizes you in your presence
And praises in your absence

A foe pleases you to fool you
And make you forget your own view
s/he will mock you at your back
you will be deceived by his/her knack

I prefer the piercing arrows
To softening flower bouquets
The arrows may make wounds in my body
They will never touch my soul by anybody

Flattery is the fools’ food
It doesn’t do me any good
I am ready to enter the dangerous wood
I have an abundant faith in my LORD

It is really complicated being inside my own head.

There are numbers in there that have
nothing
to do with logic.

There are fragments of memories that
may
or may not
be real.

There are completely intact dreams that
I'm pretty sure
really happened.
Or, at least,
they happened on a
more real level
than what's really
happened.

And then there's this bitter old man
who criticizes my hypocrisy.
And let me tell you -
he is one unforgiving, miserable,
person.

Next to him is this sweet lady
who's always telling him:
"Oh shush, she's doing her best".
But she's often too soft spoken
to really make him listen.

There's this crowd of activists who are
usually
screaming
to be taken seriously.

And a young teenage girl
in the middle of them,
who just wants to be like
everybody else.

Often, she's accompanied by
her older brother who
never
fails to remind her of how
idiotic
her aspirations are.

And all the while that they're
screaming,
and sighing,
and crying,
and keeping quiet,
they are breathing the air of
my mind -

a swirling,
whirlwind of
passion
and fear.

Ex-KGB agent
Vladimir Putin knows a great deal
About spying and gathering info
And making a person talk--or squeal.

The FBI, CIA,
And NSA have found a connection
Between Putin and a campaign
To alter the results of our election.

To denigrate Hillary Clinton
Was one of the hackers' primary goals.
By hacking into email accounts
And--with the help of Internet trolls--

Amplifying false reports,
Putin's hackers aimed to block
Clinton's chances of being president.
That they did it is no shock.

At altering Russia's election results,
Putin's expertise is shining.
Anyone who criticizes
The tyrant is worth undermining.

Consequently, Clinton became
The target of Putin's wrath.
A little manipulation and we
Are now seeing the aftermath.

Trump, instead of feeling outrage,
Was really more concerned about who's
Responsible for having leaked
Some of the info to NBC News!

The fact that Russia tampered with
Our election doesn't faze him.
What interests him is vengeance against
Anyone who doesn't praise him.

- by Bob B (1-7-16)

I just want to be invisible
To not have to stand
In front of the world
That criticizes everything

To not have to stand
Against a father
That tells me to just work harder
To not have to stand
At attention
As I receive every insult

But mostly,
I don't want to stand
In front of the mirror
And see my biggest critic of all

thoughts have
a way of being
your only friend
when no one else
is there to hear
you talk. they're
the kind of friend
who criticizes your
choices, even if they
may be the right ones,
and the ones who tear
apart all shreds of
self confidence you
once had. in the end,
you think your thoughts
are a good friend, but in
reality, they're you biggest
enemy.

Why make lines?
To separate and divide?
To choose a side?
For a wall to hide behind?
Why make lines?
Is it to criticizes?
Or to falsifier,
The notion of compromise?
Why make lines?
Is it the circle you deny?
Refusing to give me a slice a pie?
Forcing a goodbye?

Line maker,
You are no artiest of mine.
Line maker,
I see you have not dulled your eraser.
Line maker,
Wasting our time.

Why make lines?
Why choose sides?
Why divide?
Why say I died?
Line maker,
You can't separate that which connects all of us into one class, kingdom, and religion.
That is time.

I saw your spaceship in the sky
For the first time, I was inspired
Whisk down myself from my pallor state
Explore your traces on the other side

I was told to not listen
I was told to not deprive
The agony's waiting
For my ego and essence to combine

Oh, how false it is to hear
That the children know the answers
We are saints who became sinners
Viruses whom itself the healers

Oh, how false it is to see
The people down in the forest
Singing a beautiful chorus
Where anyone's forced to swallow phosphorus

Flicker once, flicker twice
Heaven turns, rocks will rise
Remain untold and remain unwise
A planet where else no one criticizes

Flicker once, flicker twice
March up to the sea
Take me up, seal the door
Though I don't want to march here anymore

The pantaloon
The silver spoon
The lady walks
Unto the moon
Remembrance and escapades
I will perish alone,
Very soon