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ryn Sep 2014
Life throws at us the worst practical pranks
Some call them challenges... I call them sick ironies
With challenges you might emerge victorious, and slide up the ranks
Ironies are just mean, bad jokes; locks with no keys

Call me godless, sad and trodden, bitter man
Call me a cynic, call me all including jaded
I've arranged it all in various permutations, much as I can
But my view at this point cannot be compensated

Allow me to illustrate...

•It's funny how you feel very certain or strongly
About the bog of sadness and depression you wade in deepest
You know it's real, you fan it with strength your mind could carry
When it could be better used to rise from when you're weakest

•What's this about having to crash to your fiery death
Into the realm of darkness; into the belly of ****
You'd have to almost die and lose your last breath
Before granted an epiphany, a slim chance that you could turn out well

•When life throws you in the deepest end
Fills your lungs with copius amounts of bad water
Tries to **** you before allowing time to mend
When if we were first taught to swim, it would've been much easier

•Sure... A treasure trove of splendours, life does offer
But like a spin of the lottery, you mightn't get even if you deserve
No matter how far you reach into it's elusive coffers
No matter how hard you worked to get ahead of the curve

•Life is like Christmas at times when it feels like giving
Like the gift of love much coveted by most individuals
Gives us all these fanciful things that need extensive assembling
But mischievously hoarding all the instruction manuals

•Fraught with grey areas and blind spots to fight
Presents ample opportunities to find the place that you'd belong
You go through shitloads of wrongs to get a right
And finally you think you're right, in actuality, you're dead wrong!

"More", you say?

•Friends during good times but not the bad
•The perfect red apple hosting a worm inside
•Faking a happy smile when you're deep down sad
•Putting our blind faiths in politicians we know who've lied

•Achieving superstardom only after death had ensnared
•Using heavy machinery to rid the Earth of impurity
•Shooting your mean motor mouth and wonder why no one cared
•Starlets dying for attention but crumble under scrutiny

•Health warnings on cigarettes but still sold for revenue
•Acquiring your sought after sports car but drive within the limit
•Promotions to idiots in suits who haven't got a clue
•Stretching up for the stars even when you know you'll never reach it


I could give more examples but I've typed enough
Life is but a game we're all playing; a circus we're all living
We can't help being helpless when unable to read and call its bluff
All we can afford is to keep siphoning water out of our boat that's sinking
I know I have been whiny in my recent writes. I also know that living a hard life makes you stronger... When life gives you lemons, make lemonade... Blah blah, yada yada... YAWN... SNORE... Zzzzzz. I know these already and I'm sure they're true to a certain degree. Just want to rant and complain. Please forgive my whining.
Ms Noma Sep 2018
Passion lost
    Passion ran
            Far away
                  I now decay
                  A piece does rot
       To leave a carcass
A lifeless robot
       A special curse
             Without a cure
                     I must endure
                            Can things be worse
                                            Than how I live
                                                      Each day now
                                                                ­          A
                                                                ­         Life
                                                            ­              So
                                                ­                        Foul.
Purcy Flaherty Sep 2018
My estimation is that every human is primarily in the pursuit of love.
That nearly everyone of us is worthy; and that our value stretches way; way beyond the boundaries of the economic machine.
Love is priceless!
Yet we choose to live in a material world; that suppresses love !
and where we are all measured in pounds.
Every one is in pursuit of love;
You can't buy love with pounds.
Yuki Jan 10
We are all museums
of anger and discontent
and we feel obligated to
show our artworks
to the world.
mc ish Jan 16
ships wrecked
disregardable formats and homeostasis
point to where your love lies.
don't tell me i cannot,
i only desire more to crush your expectations beneath the weight of my tap tap tapping keys.
don't tell me i should not,
i will go through my life in silence listening to your meaningless vowels, expressed only in an attempt to stop your head from aching.
hour nine of discontentment:
would you trade your inspiration for a grin?
what do you think of the gasoline and writers block taking form in my dispose?
correct me if i'm wrong but i think i love you.
i wish i could make you understand.
onlylovepoetry Mar 2018
Friday night immodesty

theater on East 4th street @ 8:00pm,
so the girlie stuff commences on schedule
90 minuets a-priori and the medley music
(adele+amy+alicia+ pink bach for some zing)
a harbinger, a pioneer Greek heralding of
Friday night immodesty

the clothes laid out upon the bed, the shoes,
pumps selected and already on,
(always a puzzler to me,)
the subdued lower east side jewelry possibilities,
on the dresser drawer,
indifferently hoping for selection, but
casually beaming quietly,
like those kids waiting for interviews in the waiting room
of the college Admissions Dean’s office,
all with serious smiles
and tiny tearing eyes

helloooooo, I am in a poetry polo with my best jeans ready to go
2 hours before the curtain calls out,

she sits at the makeup mirrored desk,
clad in only her underneath garments of varying utility,
when I sweep in imperially
and with one hand twist gentle her hair upwards,
her neck nape which is again
the sujet of a poem aborning

like a Greek lyre strings, pluck, the tiny hid hairs never seen,
her instant moans at the never fully expected motion poem,
beg more mercy but no quarter given despite repeated cries
of you’ll mess my makeup,
the best defense known to a lady!

god gave men two thumbs to lift up,
simultaneously stimulating,
slide down each of the thin black brasserie strap invitations,
upon each, a writ,
upon her flesh colored shoulders,
“what was she thinking!”

my lips,
now polar explorers, those power (filled) poles side by side,
(east/west for the designer was a smart
bipolar guy-person);
the lips play silent night progressive jazz,
tinkling with higher noted keys,
nape to shoulders moving down to the back’s prefrontal lobe,
the small of her back, the body’s quivering,
a con-federate flag of surrender

her last defense swept aside, we drink honey and milk,
celebrate the week’s mellifluous finish with immodest touching,
the lower east side will belong tonite
to only the hipsters, the millennials,
as our hips are milling and  otherwise
pre-theater and post, occupado

some hours later, watching TV and eating delivered Chinese,
she laterally and literally arm punches my arm
intensely to mark her discontent,
still annoyed,
for I

1) messed up her makeup,
2) best blouse to the dry cleaner and
3) the tickets wasted, and worse,
hits me again!

after I laugh and giggle upon proffering
most modestly, most assuredly,
seconds of

9.21am Saturday
thank you all who liked this tale of
the poetry in the details
of our lives.
Poetic T Dec 2018
She is the girl that speaks
             upon  no ventures.
She only gazes with the sorrows
                            that graze your heart..

Feeding her own discontent.
                     And when she seeds the shallow fields
of your mind.

Only her reflections grow
             showing you the seeds
of not your sorrow
but the flowers of jealousy
                           blooming deep within her.
frosted Feb 2017
The Tuesday in September I woke up to you singing
The Friday in January when my mom sat me down
I know how much you loved him broke a sob and dropped me to my knees
After that it was just broken glass and bruised knuckles
More in love with the memories than the person in front of me
I think I made you up inside my head

Two years later and  
The old you is calling. I want to answer, but he is a whirlwind of
Here and not here, discontent and content
But have you seen him smile?

Wednesday morning and the birds are singing back to me
The old you is calling and I am picking up the phone
Arianna Oct 2018
What Sadness
Weights my soul with anguish
For freedom from this faltered form!

What Dreams are these ⸺
What reveries? ⸺
Of passing Time,
Or Time unmoved passing?

What Sadness weights my soul?

What Hunger
Drives me relentless preying
Upon the echo bones of yore?

I search:
Dead men’s musings ⸺
A legacy of Grief! ⸺
These Sadness thoughts.

Will I find the answers
That my fathers sought?
"Prayers and Musings in the Temple of Fire, No. VIII"
It is the winter of our discontent tumultuous times, when
pain and suffering are most prevalent. In the year of 2019
a nation once filled with hope and promise have betrayed
It's dreams. Our leaders have been vanquished replaced
with disgrace, cold unflinching  evil wearing a human

It is the winter of our discontent when colors clash over
words of hate, false rhetoric is fed to the disinchanted
sweetened with promises unkept, while using racial hatred
as the bait. There is a cancer among us thats feasting upon
our fears, If we (America) continue to allow him to do so
our nation will be redused to cinders in a matter of years.
I have said this before and I will say it once more, the clock
Is ticking. where will you be when the bombs start to fall?

It is the winter of discontent, where no one is safe from
a twisted mind that would bring about war between the
races, the real truth hidden behind a wall of deceit,
slandering the Mexican, Latino Homosexuals and the
poor. All the while convincing  his sheep that there is
an ongoing boarder war, when the criminals who run
his empire he chooses to ignore. Our country Is under
siege from the Inside we can only save Our nation
with understanding and love no more will hatred be
our (America) legacy. In the words of the great man
Dr. Martin Luther King. from every mountain
top Let Freedom Ring.
alia 5d
An odd feeling to describe at best
Feeling like a bystander watching my life
Confused and scared
Feeling out of touch with reality
Like I'm caught in a never-ending haze
Life moves on but I feel stuck
I feel alone in a crowded group,
these people I surround myself with truly don't care
Physically present yet mentally absent
every moment of each day
I wonder if I'm in the right place for myself
But then again no place will ever truly "feel right"
They say you're never alone
While I may not be physically alone
I feel mentally alone
I don't have that one person whom I can express myself to
Im left to be my own confidant
GreenTrees Sep 2018
Man is hate.

Man is discontent.

Man is  ****.

Man is malevolent.

Man is ******.

Man is death.

Man is fear.

Man is pain.

Man is wrath.

What kind of Man do you want be as asked God?

The man answered. I do not want to be a man.

I want to be a God.

God answered.

You are neither.

You can be a God.

But First you must learn to be a Man.

And to know what man is destined to become

You must first already be a God.

Karl von Mecklenburg
Grace E Apr 1
Lies next to me
His breathing blending with swaying of the trees
A comely fragrance of forever wafting around him like a costly oriental perfume
Next to me in our bed
His black hair
Growing from underneath the sheets
Contentment fills my heart
& is pumped through my veins
Like a rogue spark
Catching dry brush creating a wild fire
Of gratitude
Consuming me and feasting on my every discontent
Thankfulness takes its throne in my heart
Long live the king
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
Greed and sin and fatigue possess our flesh,
we wear the richest quartz
to wash away our stains.
Like a pet we feel the guilt,
our tears lull us to remorse.
We sink into a pillow of a million writhing worms,
too stubborn to move,
Each day our Free mind will **** and kiss vapour
We’re discontent to show our secret streams of captive cries
Into the stinking pit of Man’s Will,
& turn back to our woeful design,
each day we offer vows of faith and
charms to each other,
but turn to filth to flow into our lungs,
A tormented art,
A banal fate,
As we deconstruct passion,
A solitary riot,
A shrivelled nerve,
A flask,
A phantom,
A Madonna skull.
Poetic T Aug 2016
My ink isn't dry,
it just heeds the needing of release,  
   and in this moment it is reserved
                  behind a dam of wowful thinking.

Will I unleash the gates, or stem the tide of
Letting it linger in pools of what I feel deeper
                                       than what others think.

A puddle is an illusion,
for it can linger in minimal space,
                 but beneath it
is a lagoon of sadness
                   that swallowed all I now think.
avalon Nov 2018
can't go back. talking to you at this point feels like trying to unshed a skin. uncomfortable and discontent, i think i am better off without the feeling of you looking at me like this. as if i planned it, as if i knew the taste of you would bend and snap, like an unwrapped ******* that sat too long. i knew people sometimes got stale like food but who was to say it wouldn't be different with you. unfortunately nothing is different; you are only you and i am only me, only a girl with a thousand shed skins
at a loss for how to proceed.
Poetemkin May 2018
When I before the LORD will stand
and fall o'erpowered by glory grand
I know that, yet unworthy, I'll go free

My sin deserves a judgement fierce
my soul with pangs of torment pierce
in death and **** for all eternity

I know my guilt; I am ashamed
'twas by my hand God's Christ was maimed
I am the one led Him to Calvary

I built His cross, I drove the nails
by my spear was His side impaled
and my mouth mocked and jeered His agony

I live my life, day in, day out
my liberty, my freedom flout
as if I am my own authority

Angér and malice, vengeance too
bittérness, ****, to name a few
are fruits that I bear — Ah! too frequently

But on a cross, atonement made
the Son of God in stone tomb laid
then raised again in mighty victory

I am not worthy LORD to share
the triumph, nor to be an heir
of majesty; but say Thou "Come to me?"

Thou art exalted on the throne
all-glorious, lifted up alone
all falling, bowing to Thy sov'reignty

What credit dare I claim to own?
what merit have I ever shown
that Thou wouldst come to bleed and die for me?

O! Praise the Lamb Who paid the debt!
the ransom met, the sinner set
in place of blood-washed, snow-white purity

O! Praise the man who in my stead
was beaten, smitten, slaughtered dead!
This miracle: that God would die for me!

Thou art The Life, The Truth, The Way
Thou art the Everlasting Day
Thou art the Son of blesséd Trinity

Thou art Creator of the world
Thou art expressed though Thy Son: Word
Thou art the Father in the Trinity

Thou art our Comfort, and the Breath
of Life that comes at our sin's death
Thou Holy Spirit — third in Trinity

We cry "Holy, holy, holy!
only Thou art LORD Almighty
Thou Father, Son, and Spirit; Trinity!"

O! LORD my God show my Thy face!
Encompass me with Thy great grace!
"Behold, my child, there is a place by me"

O God I long to hear Thy voice!
I aim to make of Thee my choice!
"Seek my face is my message unto thee"

I did not know — could not foresee —
that by His death I'd be set free
that through His wounds my path to heaven be

He knew the pain, He knew the loss
He knew that shame came with the cross
yet bore the sin His Father would not see

What will it take keep me true
to Thee, the One Who bore me through
in love took on Thee my just penalty?

What can I say? Where can I go?
Which poor souls can I make to know
the gospel of Thy great act of mercý?

I could have been Thy servant sent
unto the world, if I but went
when Thy call came to me with clarity

I cried that I would surely go
if where Your call was I did know
but in Thy Word Thou saidst to all "go ye"

I claimed I'll spend and will be spent
affirmed to serve whate'er it meant —
if only I had spoken truthfully

When I for Thy pure presence cry
I still yet by my life belie
that this request is made in honesty

I walk the race; I beat the air
I wallow deep in my despair
I live in sham of Christianity

Discontent, self-satisfied
I ought to be contrariwise
and grant to myself base ignominy

Without I am not seen profane
in heart I have with many lain
they — innocent — are ravaged lustfully

My eyes my master, I, the *****
feign to resist, then comes the cave-
in to that thing from which I ought to flee

In grief I curse my wicked heart
I hide, afraid to seek new start
ashamed of my great sinful misery

I strive to make the outside clean
within the bones of dead men lean
on white-washed walls of stone-cold vanity

Depravéd I keep under lid
those sins to which men's eyes are hid
confessing not, to liberated be

Just yesterday, lift' up in pride
of holiness (but my heart lied)
I thought was in me; my great piety

The fool! I, ignoble soul
my mind under fleshlý control
why do I not surrender now to Thee?

Surrender true? Surrender not?
Surrenders of the past forgot:
surrender now with freshened fervency

Jehovah — Thou the Holy God
original, uniquely odd
the awesome fullness of all Deity

My God Thou must by Thy hand draw
me to Thy side and I in awe
must simply yield and fall in faith on Thee

My God, the Master, Lord of Peace
My King, the source of all increase
The Faithful One, and my security

The Great and Mighty Holy One
Who sent to us His only Son
The One with Whom I will forever be

In my dark past, a world of shame
Where I — unworthy — wore Thy name
Thou in Thy mercy drew me unto Thee

But still within my wicked heart
Lay sins from which I would not part
The lusts which I have clung to desperately

Thy peace I cannot ever know
When still the seeds of sin I sow
When I yet practice flesh-fruit husbandry

I know Thy Word doth fully show
For Thee to come my sin must go
Thou wilt not stomach my coregency

My body's temple, my heart's throne
But one may have it; one may own
And only I can ever take the knee

Thy sovereignty will bow to none
At our world's end we'll bow as one
I must submit — so why not willingly?
megan Aug 2018
with every click of Their tongues,
i am acquiescent.
Their words fill my lungs,
audible discontent.

i swallow Their disgust,
mostly misinterpreted,
i nonchalantly combust,
now i am free.
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