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Taciturno a mal acompañado,
pues el viento es fiel
y con el me quedo.

Camino cual lobo estepario,
entre las sombras
y el silencio
pero canto con grito

Mi mirada te dice te quiero,
mi lengua miente al intento,
mis piernas de espagueti,
que fingen no conocerte,
tiemblan y se quiebran.

oscuro caminante
Al May 18
20yrs, 5 free.

Nokia keypad.
Isolation free.
A smart user ?

Freaked out by early morning alarm calls.  This life we create - symbols on monopoly boards, roll the dice, wait ya turn, play your part.
Stephanie Amadio Apr 2017
A place of life
Where you can hear
A cheerful loud voice
And view bright around

I'm not fond of
Watching the time flies
As we create lies
Just like throwing dice

As the night times
Where the cheering dies
Feel like empty skies
Where I only cries

Walking on my way
Don't want to stay
The stars are flying
I knew they're falling

Rhythm of the wind
That makes me stop
An empty space road
Where nothing but me
Caio Consoli Mar 2018
In a Strike
Lightning in Dice
I'm no Psych
Just a Mice
With a Slice
Be the Treasure
There's no Rice
But whole Pleasure
It's a Measure
To be Safe
Y'all Immature
Learn to Strafe
You a Wafe
Me a Pure
This is Chafe
I am Sure
See is Azure
****** my Gut
The must Alure
Who can Cut


Battle will Begin
Their's no Mercy
Who can Win
With no Trirsty
Don't be Nasty
Ships will Fire
They are Classy
Like a Choir
With no Tire
We will Roll
Do not Retire
That's out Goal
Burn the Soul
Fight with Urge
Do your Role
Let's Purge
We won't Merge
Enemy is tricky
To the Verge
Give them Hickey.
Flip it, hidden or showing
Head or tails remains same coin
Just like water, liquid or ice
Roll a 6-sided once or twice still same dice

Life is like a throw-able object
That can rest in multiple positions
But not a gambling device or gadget
For causing random seasons

For each step forward feel your back
For the lack of eyes invites a stab
Elevation heads towards enemy attack
When the wise bite like a crab

When you only stare at the window
You don't see outside and beyond
And the world is a mirror, smile for this sake
But your real one can invite another so fake

A buffalo by a riverbank
Only sees the water and it's own face
Quenching thirst expecting no attack
By the crocodile below the surface

Chickens are better for they stir up dust
To pull out worms and ants
Humans are clever for they hide in masks
To pull some stunts
Sylph Oct 2018
Im tired of being a piece in these games.
Im tired of being a lonely **** against a Queen and a bishop
I dont want people to starve at the hands of the capital, NO more Hunger games
Sorry. Is all me because im constantly making people upset in this silly game..Im sorry

Monopoly is coming, Im almost completely broke to where
People are giving me their pity ones.

I wish i could find my mate just by rolling the dice
I wish i could get that good of a job
I wish had that much money or even my own house

Life is the game i want to beat

                          ­             Im so tired of playing Gods game.
Of aaaaaaaaallll these games Life is the only game i would want to beat more then anything.
Samantha Cunha Nov 2018
roll the dice
of intrigue
shake hands
of treachery
long dreary
nights of sin
quite thin
his heart
beats  null
mind is dull
sings me  to lull
while he
seeds of
in my soul
BJ Donovan Aug 2018
They're mostly who we see. They
deliver news, good and bad.
We sit in waiting rooms just
waiting forever it seems.
Staring at a TV or floor until
a door opens and a nurse
appears and we all wonder
if our loved one is here or
gone and what does one
do in death? Who to call
who to hold onto in tearful
Death a dice roll away?
Storm Albertyn Sep 2017
"Honestly if you dont care
You could just say it
Or you'll keep being haunted,
But if you keep it inside
Forces will collide
Cause we both know that this is

Your unsteady hands
And awkward glances
Seriously wont last forever,
We should sit this down;
Put our issues to the ground
Cause its better now than never

I know how you feel
I understand your pain
But there's no need to push it farther,
The dice has been rolled,
The game has begun
We'll end it one way or another

You think you're not worth it
And the world wouldn't mind
If it lost another angel
To the other side

If your time has not come
And your star has not shone
There's a reason you have not yet won
For the choices you make
Have already been placed
For success is a job well done"
I am sad Π^Π
i can't explain how i feel
numb simply doesn't suffice
just watch me trip and reel
while the world re-rolls its dice
when can i go home?
or just back to bed?
i can no longer roam,
my demons need to be fed
i feel like a lot of people have similar feelings, but nobody seems to talk about them.
no need to worry about me, im feeling quite ok right now.
i wrote this a while ago,
just drawing from old emotion.
Akira Chinen Aug 2018
it is in the language
of the stars
and the secrets
of the leafs
it is the smile
and laughter of children

it is a tear blooming
into an ocean
it is the lost sands
stranded on the shores
that time has forgotten
it is the infinte sorry
only eternity can hold

it is a blanket of forgiveness
warming the beds of sin
it is the lips
and the color
of a first kiss
it is the serenity
of a dying breath

it is the birth and life
and beauty of love
it is loves lust
and desires prayers

it is yesterday's tomorrow
and todays yesterdary
it is the here
and the now

it is the air in our lungs
and the song of our hearts
it is the blood and marrow
of our souls

poetry is in everything
and everything is poetry

poetry holds onto
what death takes away
so we will know
that no matter how long we live


is always
too short

so always remember
do not squander this gift away
this may be
your once in a lifetime life
this could be the only
heaven you walk through
the only hell you suffer in

poetry does not lie

so in no circumstance


lie to poetry

poets however will lie
almost always
except for the ones who don't  
they always tell the truth
the devil cheats at dice
and every other game he plays
and even angels can decive
be careful in who you belive

always be kind
hug daily and often
love who you love
no matter the odds
or situation
or how ridiculous
or improbable
or illogical it may seem

break the rules
when you must
trust your gut
and belive in your heart

it may not work out in your favor
it may break you
and if it does
it will feel terribly unbearable
but you will get through it


it will not always seem fair
it will not always feel good
but in the end


is what will make it
look beautiful
when you take
your last look back
at the life
that no matter how long it was
will have been too short
Liam hopson Sep 2018



Zeeb Jul 2015
Verse I

Wrenches clanging, knuckles banging
A drop of blood the young man spilt
A new part here, and old part… there
A hotrod had been built!
A patchwork, mechanical, quilt

Feelings of excitement not unlike those of Christmas mornings long past paid visit to the young man, his head under a raised hood, hands occupied, the job nearing completion.  Did building that Lionel train-set so long ago form some type of pattern in his brain, now being so pleasurably served?  The good feelings would dissipate though, as quickly as they came, as he cursed himself for stripping a bolt, or cursed someone else for selling him the wrong part, or the engineer whose design goals obviously did not consider “remove and replace”.  He cursed the “gorilla” that never heard of a torque-wrench, the glowing particle of **** that popped on to the top of his head as he welded, the metal chip he flushed from his eye, and even himself for the burn he received by impatiently touching something too soon after grinding.  He, and his type, cursed a lot, but mostly to their selves as they battled-on with things oily, hot, bolted, welded, and rusty – in cramped spaces. One day it was choice words for an “easy-out” that broke off next to a broken drill bit that had broken off in a broken bolt, that was being drilled for an easy out.    Despite the swearing, the good and special feelings, feelings known only to those with a true capacity for this type of passion, would always return, generally of a magnitude that exceeded the physical pain and mental frustration of the day, by a large margin.   Certifiably obsessive, the young man continued to toil dutifully, soulfully, occasionally gleefully, sometimes even expertly, in his most loved and familiar place, his sanctuary, laboratory… the family garage.

And tomorrow would be the day.
Fire extinguisher? “ Right there”
Battery? “Charged and connected”
Neutral?  “yes”
Brake?  “Set”
And with hard learned, hard earned expertise and confidence, in this special small place, a supremely happy and excited young man commanded his creation to life.

Threw  a toggle, pressed a switch
Woke up the neighbors with that *******

The heart of his machine was a stroked Chevy engine that everyone had just grown sick hearing about.  Even the local machine shop to which the boy nervously entrusted his most prized possession had had enough.  “Sir, I don’t want to seem disrespectful, but from what I’ve read in Hot Rod Magazine, you might be suggesting a clearance too tight for forged pistons…” then it would be something else the next day.   One must always speak politely to the machinist, and even though he always had, the usual allotment of contradictions and arguments afforded to each customer had long run out – and although the shop owner took a special liking to the boy because, as he liked to say, “he reminds me of me”, well, that man was done too.  But in the end, the mill was dead-on.  Of course from the start, the shop knew it would be; that’s almost always the case; it’s how they stay in business - simply doing good work.  Bad shops fall out quickly, but this place had the look of times gone by.  Good times.  Old porcelain signs, here and there were to be found, all original to the shop and revered by the older workers in honored nostalgia.  The younger workers get it too; they can tell from the men they respect and learn from, there is something special about this past.  One sign advertises Carter Carburetors and the artwork depicts “three deuces”, model 97’s, sitting proudly atop a flathead engine, all speeding along in a red, open roadster.  Its occupants a blond haired boy with slight freckles (driver), and a brunette girl passenger, white blouse slightly unbuttoned,  both in the wind-blown cool, their excited expressions proclaim… "we are free!" (and all you need is a Carter, or three).

The seasoned old engine block the boy entrusted to the shop cost him $120-even from the bone yard.  Not a bad deal for a good block that had never had its first 0.030” overbore.  In the shop, it was cleaned, checked for cracks, measured and re-measured, inspected and re-inspected.  It was shaped and cut in a special way that would allow the stroker crankshaft, that was to be the special part of this build, to have all the clearance it would need.  The engine block was fitted with temporary stress plates that mimic the presence of cylinder heads,  then the cylinders were bored to “first oversize”,  providing fresh metal for new piston rings to work against.  New bearings were installed everywhere bearings are required.  Parts were smoothed here and there.  Some surfaces were roughened just so, to allow new parts to “work-into each other” when things are finally brought together.  All of this was done with a level of precision and attention far, far greater than the old “4- bolt” had ever received at the factory on its way to a life of labor in the ¾ ton work truck from which it came.  They called this painstaking dedication to precision measurement and fit, to hitting all specifications “on the mark”, “blueprinting”, and it would continue throughout the entire build of this engine.  The boy stayed  worried the whole time, but the shop had done it a million times.

After machining, the block was filled with new and strong parts that cost the young man everything he had.   Parts selected with the greatest of effort, decision, and debate.  “ You can compromise on paint”,” live with some rust”, he would say,  “wait for good tires”, “but never scrimp on the engine”.  Right on.  You get one shot at getting that right, and this proclamation demonstrated wisdom but also provided ample excuse for the rough and unfinished look of the rest of his machine.  But it was just a look, his car was, in fact, “right”.   And its power plant?  Well the machine shop had talked their customer into letting them do the final engine assembly - even cut their price to do it.  They were looking out for the boy.  The mill in its final form was the proper balance of performance and durability, and with its camshaft so carefully selected, the engine's “personality” was perfectly matched to the work at hand.   It would produce adequate torque in the low RPM range to get whole rig moving quickly, yet deliver enough horsepower at red-line to pile on the MPH, fast.  No longer a polite-natured workhorse, this engine, this engine is impatient now.  High compression, a rapid, choppy idle - it seems to be biting at the bit – to be released.  On command, it gulps its mixture and screams angrily, and often those standing around have a reflexive jump - the louder, the better - the more angry, the better.  If it hurts your ears, that’s a good feeling.  If its bark startles, that’s a good startle.  A cacophony?  No, the “music” of controlled explosions, capable of thrusting everything and everyone attached, forward, impolitely, on a rapid run to “red-line”, and it keeps pulling hard and delivering power while spinning fast because it is breathing right and proper and producing the power that thrills, and the only reason to shift gears is to preserve connecting rods, eager as the engine may be to rev further!

This is the addictive sound and feel that has appealed to a certain type of person since engines replaced horses, and why?  A surrogate voice for those who are otherwise quiet?  A visceral celebration of accomplishment?    Who cares.  Shift once, then again - speed quickly makes its appearance.  It appears as a loud, rushing wind and a visually striking, unnatural view of the surrounding scenery.  At some point, in the sane, it triggers a natural response - better slow down.    

He uncorked the headers, bought gasoline, dropped her in gear, tore off to the scene
Camaros and Mustangs, an old ‘55
Obediently lined-up, to get skinned alive!

Verse II (1st person)

I drove past the banner that said “Welcome race fans” took a new route, behind the grandstands
And through my chipped window, I thought I could see
Some of the racers were laughing at me

I guess rust and primer are not to their taste
But I put my bucks mister in the right place

I chugged/popped past cars that dealers had sold
Swung into a spot, next to something old

Emerging with interest from under his hood
My neighbor said two words, he said, “sounds good”

The ’55 I parked next to was “classic rodding” in its outward appearance.  The much overused “primer paint job” channeled “Two Lane Blacktop”.  The hood and front fenders a fiberglass clamshell, pinned affair.  Dice hanging from the mirror paid homage to days its driver never knew, but wished he had.  He removed them before he drove, always.

If you know how to peel the onion, secrets are revealed.  Wilwood brake calipers can be a dead giveaway. Someone needs serious stopping power - maybe.  Generally, owners who have sprung the bucks for this type gear let the calipers show off in bright red, to make a statement, and sometimes, these days, it’s just a fashion statement.  Now, expensive calipers, as eye candy, are all the rage.  What is true, however, is very few guys spend big money on brakes only to render them inglorious and seemingly common with a shot of silver paint from a rattle can, and the owner of this ’55 had done just that. 

Two things seem to be at play here.  One, he needs those heavy brakes because he’s fast, and two, hiding them fits his style.   Really, the message to be found in the silver paint, so cleverly applied to make your eyes simply slide across on their way to more interesting things, was “sleeper”.   And sleeper really means, he’s one of those guys with a score to settle - with everyone perhaps.   The list of “real parts” grew, if you knew where to look.  Something I had defacto permission to do since my rod was undergoing a similar scrutiny.  
“Stroked?”, I asked.  That’s something you can’t see from the outside. “ No”, the racer replied.  
“Hundred shot?”  (If engines have their language, so do the people who love them).   Despite the owner’s great efforts to conceal braided fuel and nitrous lines, electrical solenoids and switches, I spied his system.  The chunks of aluminum posing as ordinary spacers under his two carburetors were anything but.   “No”, was his one-word reply to my 100- shot question.  I tried again; “Your nitrous system, how much are you spraying?”  “Two hundred fifty” in two stages, he said.  That’s more like it, I thought, and I then figured, he too had budgeted well for the machine shop – if not, he was gambling in a game that if lost, would fly parts in all directions.   Based on the overall vibe of the scene, and the clean work on display, I believed his build was up to the punishment he planned.   I knew exactly what this tight-lipped guy was about, seeing someone very familiar in him as it were, and that made the “sounds good” complement I received upon my arrival all the more valuable.

The voice on the loudspeaker tells us we’re up.

Pre-staged, staged, then given the green
The line becomes blurred between man and machine

Bones become linkage
Muscle, spring
Fear, excitement

Time distorts ….
Color disappears …
Vision narrows…
Noise ---  becomes music
Speed, satisfaction

Bill MacEachern Nov 2018
Ezra Schwartz  
Oct 1, 1997 —  Nov 19, 2015

The dice of terror
Was cast that day
Young Ezra’s life  
Was taken away

He went to Israel
For his gap year
To study at yeshiva
And volunteer

During a Mitzvah
To feed some soldiers
The van was ambushed  
By Jew hating ogres  

It mattered not  
They knew not him
Or that his heart flowed
With Simchas Hachaim

To those you touched
You were a young Mensch
To all who knew you
Your loss is immense

Young Ezra Schwartz  
I’ll never know you
For they took you away
For being a Jew

But what they don’t realize
You’re still here with us
You’re everywhere you smiled
And in everyone you touched
Ezra Schwartz was from a town not far from me, he went to Israel for a year to study and Volunteer before he started college back in Massachusetts. The van he was traveling in on his way to drop sandwiches off to Israeli soldiers was ambushed, young Ezra, at 18 was shot and terrorists .
Zachery Oct 2018
I'll walk down the halls
Hand in Hand
Ready to take a stand
Music of macabre origin then plays
"This dance if I may?"
I wear my best noose.
So obviously Obtuse
This ball
Is the ultimate call
For the crazy's
To have a death day party
Our lives never were so hearty.
Shoes made of razor blades
Bloodied nursemaids
Punch is spiked with cyanide
To evoke a lethal tide
Pop a pill maybe 4
That way there is less gore
Less to clean
Please don't be mean
Knives glitter darkly
Our faces grimaced tartly
Cut and slice
Stab and dice
Blood will fall
And run down the halls
For you see my dear
Do not fear
For in these halls
Lurks the suicidal ball.
Suicidal Ball is my fave to write.
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