"disliked" poems
Mum had been gone a couple of months, six I think… (An ordinary day, feeling hollow but doing OK) …when I realised I could get rid of the sofa.
I thought it was ugly, she thought it was a bargain. A sofa’s not a keepsake and it was certainly no heirloom. I’d not inflict it on my kids. I got rid.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. Even if it meant keeping the sofa.
Redecorated. Bought a new telly. Spent frivolous amounts of cash on scatter cushions. She disliked scatter cushions. I thought they were cosy.
My little boy drew on one of the cushions. On purpose. I was about to smack the back of his legs… (Mum would have, she smacked me when I was little) … I stopped.
I never wanted to. Had known all along, somehow forgotten.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. But she would not smack my children.
Mum had been gone a year… (Planting bulbs, feeling conspicuous carrying a shovel ‘round the churchyard) …and I missed her.
It was as hot as the day she died. There was no breeze up on that hill, no cloud. Beautiful views stretched right out to the sea.
My little boy had grown, he helped carry water and dig holes. My baby was learning to walk, she wobbled on uneven turf between the headstones. I wanted Mum to see.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. No question.
Mum had been gone three years… (Bulbs were doing OK. There was nothing left to plant that rabbits wouldn't nibble) …and I realised it was time to move on.
I kept the ghosts quiet while agents showed people round. The house sold. We moved away. A warm, terraced place in a small town by the sea. Dad died.
Mum has been gone eight years and I miss her.
Looking out from the Downs across cliff-top and sea, the churchyard seems nothing more than a soft-grey fleck on the green edge of town.
If I could bring her back now? Everything’s changed.
Ghosts exist. They sit in empty chairs and speak kettle-whistle. Wishing us well.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
I noticed a while ago.
I am subconsciously
Objectifying everyone.
And when I think about it
Objectified people
Are easier
To deal with.
I don't think this odd tendency of mine is
Natural.
In fact, I'm sure it isn't.
It's the result of a subdued conscience.
A conscience I always had.
I cared deeply for others.
I felt bad
Cried myself to sleep
For the smallest things.
An offhand insult I wasn't sure was even heard.
A chip taken from the lunch table.
An argument to be forgotten and ignored the next day.
I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I cried
Hated myself
Continuously hit myself
Cried more
And had nightmares.
As I got older
These feelings faded
But still I get these pains in the pit of my stomach.
And I remember how I was
Before I was numbed by
Objectification.
I saw people as people.
I cried because
I don't want people to feel bad.
Not because of me!
I can't think of anything worse
Than being that picture on a dartboard
That gives the incentive to
Never.
Miss.
To be hated.
Even disliked.
Thought of as trash
As I often am
I suspect.
Looks of disgust I draw
From people I care for
Who I don't want to hurt
Who constantly hurt me.
It tears me apart
And as I write this I feel tears welling up
Which they haven't done for
Years.
I began this objectification.
"That's just a dumb person."
"He's an idiot."
"Just one of those mean kids."
And I stopped caring if I hurt them
Because caring hurts.
A lot.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 1:42 AM UTC
Her Masterpiece Is Her Story
Her paintbrush is a razor,
Her canvas, her wrists,
"I deserve the pain."
She shrugs and insists.
One day the brush will push down,
And it will cut so deep,
That this girl will fall
into an eternal sleep.
She doesn't remember how she started
What brought her interest to this,
How do you discover,
that cutting is your form of bliss?
No one would have guessed that she does it.
No one would have considered this one.
This girl is forever fighting a battle,
that she thinks the demons have won.
Her artwork is all over her,
Her beauty is on her thighs,
and if you look in her old trash,
you'll find her letters of goodbye.
Her masterpiece is quite disturbing,
Her masterpiece is a little gory,
Her artwork is her escape.
Let me tell you her story.
She compares herself to every person,
She is compared to each girl.
She thinks she's hideous,
And there's this boy that is her world.
She was bullied and picked on,
She was teased from head to toe,
Hard to believe that her best friend,
was her one and only foe.
Then later she disliked every little thing,
Her body, face and even her mind,
Soon she saw she was a failure,
and it was just in due time...
That this girl couldn't take it anymore
She'd decided she was done living this,
So one day she went home
and decided to end it.
Everyday for multiple days,
This girl would try to drown,
Hard to believe this girl at school,
never ever wore a frown.
Sometimes she'd just fall asleep crying,
Praying that she'd be enough,
Because she didn't want to leave her family.
She knew about their sweet love.
This girl found hope in small things eventually,
She soon would see this beautiful light,
and find a REAL best friend,
that helped her put up a fight.
Her masterpiece soon was leaving,
Her artwork was almost faded,
and it gave her a sick feeling,
the feeling of being jaded.
She found a boy that actually loved her,
And showed her love exists,
And this boy too had a masterpiece,
placed close to his wrists.
He related to her and she related to him.
She kissed his artwork and said he's not alone,
When she cut herself it hurt him,
Her masterpiece now wasn't just her own.
Her masterpiece effected others,
Her artwork wasn't just for herself,
She now had people,
who saw her cries for help.
And then her family found out,
So then they saw the art too,
to them they were just scars,
To her they were the truth.
She's trying to be okay now,
She thinks she might survive,
Even though they didn't think
to take away the knives.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
We're not allowed to mention Christianity
A Muslim man discusses Allah, we can't judge.Black people have pride in themselves, so do white people .We're automatically racist and unaccepting. A man gets hired for a high paying job instead of the women.This is a case for feminism because it's injustice. A man cheats on his partner, he has hormones.A woman cheats on her man, she's a ***** A woman is ***** she's making it up.A man is ***** no one believes him. A gay person is disliked by a certain individual .It's homophobia, a black man kills someone and the whole race is blamed, a white man kills someone he's just a ****** You say crusty old white men are making decisions about your body.Should he change his race then decide if you can reproduce? I'm eating Sushi and I'm not Asian, it's cultural appropriation and it's offensive so only Asian people can eat at Asian restaurants? That reminds me of when segregation was going on. We have a right to our opinion but I say something I'm instantly prejudice and you don't want hear it. I made the wrong assumption now I'm a horrible person because you feel that you can monitor my thoughts. You all think that you're all for social justice but it's really going to come back and bite you in the ***
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 5:48 PM UTC
Please RSVP
to the event which is my life
and don't forget to follow me
might you please like?!
<pause>
It's been days
& virtually
no likes.
But that's how we judge our self-worth
and give meaning to proceeding in life.
SLAPPED in the face
by an opening door.
My past flashes forward
as I hit the floor.
Liked by many
Disliked by more
I used to relish in the love of my haters
like a *****
Always high
from the love of my admirers
I did not care to be judged
in the social court room
of people for higher.
A hand pulls me towards
the future
which is now
my present
in the past
Pulled forward
to the door
which took me back.
I liked that girl.
She was an ultimate me.
She did not care
to RSVP.
Yanked forth once more
from the protruding arm out the door.
Hesitant I
shoes nervously glued to space
in this time.
Please RSVP?
to the event
which is me?!
I'm guest of honor
*****
I took my shoes off
and walked in freely.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
Each day is a day like day had before
I don't know if I can take anymore
There's pain in my bones; Weak feeling and sore
I question myself what this life is for
Don't know what's ahead; Don't know what's in store
As happiness hides behind a locked door
The pressure, it builds to find it before
The hourglass now has emptied what's stored
The light from me left; Although I'm not sure
If ever I had a light that was pure
My soul's on death's bed; No hope of a cure
The word's left unsaid; I'll always want more
Waves lapping against the rocky beach shore
Each time takes away; A heavenly chore
Was true of my joy; A tunnel was bored
Inside from my soul true self of me poured
I ********** out myself like a *****
Each day is a lie that I can't afford
I wish I was maimed; Insides had been gored
I can not explain; Knight falls on his sword
But I am no knight; More like one who's poor
Been chewed up, discarded; Fruit with no core
Tried sharing with you; A piece of me tore
But know you disliked; Did nothing but bore
This poem is not new; These words said before
I've whined and cried too like those I deplore
A task left to do; Must settle the score
Each day starts anew; Be happy once more
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 4:25 PM UTC
They say a sister is a blessing
your behavior has me guessing
An absolute annoyance
With a pinch of joyance
From constant fights
To proving you're right
Disliked since the birth
Cause you make hell on earth
You act like a *****
we both know who’s a little *******
A pillar of hope
But forever my dope
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 11:07 AM UTC
One night as dark as my hair
Shines the moonlight clear
One night I got a nightmare
And woke up full of fear
One dream every time I remember
Gave me river of tear
This dream I wrote in a paper
Recalls the girl I dear
I was awaken in a pond
Standing in a lily pad
I was as green as lively grass
Gets fluffy as I breathe so hard
Definitely I am a frog
A frog disliked by everyone
I am a frog treated like mud
Because nobody wants a frog
And as a frog I also have
No care of what is all around
Unmindful of so many harsh
All I know is insect sound
But then once upon a time
Two birds I saw flew apart
And she calmly swum inside
Then the frog and swan collide
But as a frog I still care none
Even the presence of a swan
Standing still in lily pad
Still think I am just a mud
Suddenly I don't know why
I notice tears in her eyes
I am a frog that doesn't care
But swear I can't resist to stare
My body moves on its own
I hop from lily pads to stones
I play dumb and acts with craze
To see a curve in her face
Then the swan smiles so light
And look far on the other side
I notice how she watches his flight
And then another tear subside
I miss a smile from a bird
That bears a broken-heart
Her circumstance was so absurd
Like a very solemn art
In her back I took a ride
We act like groom and bride
We play even under the sun
Comfortably have so much fun
As frog I only croak
But I still sing a song
I croak I croak I croak
That makes her laugh along
But then the sky roared
As well as rain poured
I stop to sing
She spread her wings
Without a word she flee
The swan left me
A tear in my eye roll
Imitating the rainfall
I looked at the bird afar
That bears a broken-heart
I was like gazing at a star
With a shape of a heart
I’m just a frog in a pond
A tiny frog who knows no fun
But for some reason I sob
The reason might be love
Then I opened my eyes
I felt cold like ice
A tear roll in my cheek
I felt so numb to rise
Before I wrote this on a paper
I hunt for the finest pen
Like how the frog wander
To seek the swan again
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
"...Igitur quantitates relativae non sunt eae ipsae quantitates quarum nomina prae se ferunt, sed earum mensurae illae sensibilis (verae an errantes) quibus vulgus loco mensuratarum utitur..."
--D. Isaaci Newtoni.
Time did not relent under the force of speculation. The only trees that could be seen were in the photographs beyond the reach of the faltering jeep. Although it was claimed that such a rugged machine would endure the longer journeys, truth explained that the truck had grown old. It had a ferocious grill to protect the radiator.
cos ln q ( u ) d P d e = mu chi v ( w ) d ( y , par Z ) d ( x , hyp N ) .
The sense of protection fended off any result of error on the highway. Basic footing expressed the hardness, and the light, floating away, came from electric lamps, like eyes, glowing through dust. The name of the purpose implied that sensitive eyes disliked the sudden splash of illumination. It was true; the passengers did not like the expectation of more to come. The new engines were stronger and ran cooler.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
From a young age, I always felt stifled
I wasn’t allowed to be me so I was muffled
Mother insisted at my school I be held back in first grade
Principal said no, she insisted and in her hands he played
She said I'd be better off ******** because someone could do something with me then
Because the way I was, I was unable to learn, refused directions again and again
Mother said I came from a loving caring family that I treated terrible
I just don't know how to appreciate, and made others lives unbearable.
Being me was really not acceptable
So I always felt quite skeptical
Everything I did, wanted to do, said or liked
Was considered bad, wrong, sinful and disliked
My having fun was not allowed
For I’d embarrass them in a crowd
I never knew what I was allowed to do
Because of that I never really had a clue
Never knowing what to do, say or how to act
Since all my actions against me were attacked
My mother said one thing to me and did another
I knew she favored others over me so why did I bother?
My entire life has been quite a farce
Attention I wanted from her were sparse
Always pretending to be such an outstanding mother
To impress the friends and family she shouldn’t bother
Mother said I couldn't work because I can’t get along with anybody
Making me dependent on her in every way, she said I was shoddy.
While mother was pretending to me that she really loved me
She was going around bashing me to any family she’d see
I’d complain that other family members treated me bad
She said all you do is cause trouble and make me mad
If you could just grow up and learn to behave
Then everyone would be nice and about you rave
I trusted my mother when she said I was born bad, told her I see
She asked the doctor for help but said nothing was wrong with me.
Mother spoke with fork tongue; sold me out, lied to me constantly
Leaving me to wonder how to survive without her cautiously
I'm afraid to have fun, I'm always afraid someone will be cranky
When I did things I'd pay for it because mom would be very angry
Afraid to be me, don't know how to act, who I am, or what to do.
Today I feel the same and for that reason I will always be blue
At the age of almost 60 I'm finding out things were never my fault
I'd like to take all those bad feelings, and lock them in a vault
Copyright 2017
All rights reserved
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 8:40 PM UTC
I won't watch anymore Disney movies because I don't like how Disney treats their fans.
They call us racist and sexist and I've had all that I can stand.
They call certain fans racist and sexist because we disliked The Last Jedi.
When it comes to losing fans, they have lost me, myself and I.
They call certain fans nasty names and I've had enough.
When I say that I'm through with Disney, it's no bluff.
Disney loves to blame their fans but they refuse to accept any blame.
Disney may lose a ton of fans if they keep calling us nasty names.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 1:13 PM UTC
The empty air has a bitter tone
When it bites at my fingers
And yells profanities in an unrecognizable tongue.
It stings when it sings.
It has an aberrant gait
And a detached mien,
This lack-of being.
The tempest’s strides jounce its overly-wide shoulders;
Its prominent brow sends an antagonistic shadow
Cascading down its lip and jaw.
This active silence whispers age-old secrets
Its fingers tousling the amber leaves
Of my autumn’s long-dead trees.
The sound resonates,
And this taunting, all-knowing,
Omnipresent, nonexistent-but-still-there wind
Smiles at my naïveté.
Weary under the weight of the world
And the smog of self-importance.
Its eyes are clouded with grey rain,
Its teeth sharp with a bitter resentment;
“I’ve disliked you since the 1700s,” it breathes,
Throwing an airy, acrid gaze at humanity.
(“I’m sorry, but it is you who made me this way,
With your scornful industrialization.”)
Its eyes are frigid, piercing,
Wicked, yet reserved.
Cruel in their taunting assumptions,
Yet,
In those forget-me-not eyes
I found the sky.
May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
I remember when I was a child I disliked reading books , mostly all of them . They all had a specific ending it could be happy or sad and sometimes something in between. Somehow I knew that I could never read the words writen in my heart by someone elses pen so unknowingly I started writing. I started writing as what a normal child would have to, when he starts to dream and imagine about all the things that one wants and desires and everything one knows he could be. I started writing in the blank page of life . I wrote my desires my ideals my character my adventures and everything else I thought I needed my life to be about. Pages full of happines, memories , mistakes and terrible regrets. All my darkest desires ,darkest secrets my best and worst qualities. Since I was a child the only thing I didn't give importance was time , time was passing fast right before my eyes into the words I was writing on that blank page . I never stood still to realise that until now . My life was turning into my worst nightmare filled only with paranoia and fears. I never realised that getting so hooked into what you want life to be and what it actually is would turn my reality upside down and realised I was living in a lie that I was writing . As I was stading alone in the dark yesterday I woke up . The page I started to write since I was a child run out of all empty spaces , I dont know how old I was back than but now I'm 21 and the worst thing is that I realised that I'm one of those humans helplessly stupid and I've wasted so much time rewriting and correcting on that blank page everything that I thought was wrong and now my blank page looked like the messy adventurous confusion I wanted my life to be. Today I woke up and I had a new page to write on and I've only writed four sentences the only four sentences I decided to keep as a treasure from my life
as far as today.
To desire is to dream
To dream is to want
to want is to do
And to do is to live.
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 5:54 PM UTC
Shlomit (whom most
of the boys disliked)
stood in the playground
holding one end of the
skipping rope while another
girl held the other end as
another skipped. Her wire
rimmed spectacles stayed
in place as she moved, her
holey cardigan had seen
better days, her grey dress
had been handed down so
often that it shone like steel.
Naaman stood and watched
her from the steps leading
down to the playground. She
sometimes smelt of dampness
as if she’d been left out in the
rain and brought in to dry over
a dull fire. He looked at her dark
hair held in place with hairgrips,
the hair band of a dark blue
remained unmoved by her motions.
Some girl pushed her away from
the end of the skipping rope and
she walked to the wall and stared.
That seemed unfair, Naaman said,
you were doing your bit ok. Shlomit
looked at him with her nervous eyes.
They always do that, she said; never
let me play for long. He stood beside
her; he could smell dampness mixed
with peppermint. Maybe you’re too
good for them, he said. She smiled and
pushed the hair band with her fingers.
Her nails had been chewed unevenly,
he noted, her fingers were ink stained.
Would you like a wine gum? he asked.
He held out a bag of wine gum sweets.
She put her fingers into the bag and
took one and put it in her mouth.
Thank you, she mouthed, her finger
pushing the sweet further in. Naaman
walked with her up the steps that led
up from the small playground and stood
on the bombed ground and looked down.
There used to be a house where the
playground is now, he said, it got
bombed out. The playground was
once the cellar. Oh, she said, I didn’t
realise that. The bombs missed the
school, shame, he said, smiling. Daddy
said I ought not talk with boys, she said,
looking at Naaman then quickly around
her. Why’s that? he asked. She looked
at her fingers, the thumbs moving over
each other. He said boys were rude and
mischievous, she said. I guess some are,
Naaman said. She looked at him. You
seem all right, she said. But you are still
a boy and he might find out I talked to you
and then there would be trouble. How
would he find out here in the playground?
Naaman asked. Someone might tell from
here that saw me, she said anxiously.
Last time someone told him he beat me,
she added quietly. She pushed her hands
into her cardigan pockets. Best go, she said.
I like you, Naaman said, you remind me of a
picture I saw of a girl standing beside Jesus
in that Bible in the school library. Do I? she
said, did she have wire-rimmed glasses?
No, Naaman said, but she had a pretty face
like yours. She laughed and took her hands
from her pockets. He saw two reflections of
himself in the glass of her spectacles behind
which her own eyes gazed out. Maybe it was
me, she said playfully. Oh, yes, he said, taking
her thin ink stained fingers in his, no doubt.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
This will be just one more ****** love poem
to ***
to drugs
to rock n’ roll.
You think you’re too young to die, huh?
well, everyday my facebook feed
fills with people who were
too young to die.
Everyday people they loved post
on their walls, memories and pictures,
writing how their hearts ache at the passing
of one too young to die.
People who the dead disliked or even hated
also post on their walls, RIP, sad to see you go,
etc. empty ******** like “only the good die young,”
please.
I try to watch from afar, for if I get too close
I fear I am the next to go.
You think it can never happen to you, until
you wake up in a hospital bed with an IV in your arm and
a head awhirl with Narcan.
But still, it couldn’t happen to me, because
it’s happening to the people all around me.
The last girl I ****** off of Tinder
I stole thirty dollars from to buy
black tar ****** in Colorado
then saw a **** jam band
play their **** music,
it wasn’t rock n’ roll.
The last girl I had *** with
because I was in love with her
won’t hardly speak with me, anymore,
because ***
because drugs
because rock n’ roll
….That was like four years ago.
I miss the rock n’ roll in ***** Philly basements
that felt punk even when it was folk.
I miss doing drugs without ending up
homeless, broke, and emotionally destitute
immediately after.
I miss the *** that meant something,
but more so miss the idea of *** being related
to love, which was it ever even in the first place?
I don’t know.
I like the tenants of pop punk music,
example: I like my friends, I remember that time you were drunk and spilled the apple juice in the hall, I like the ideal of that one girl all the Jesse Laceys of the world write about, most importantly I like the thought that none of this is really my fault…when it is.
I had a therapist, more than one, ask me
to write a break up letter to drugs,
I could never get very far with it
because drugs dumped me a long time ago
and had since moved on.
If I was honest I would write, “Take me
back, I can handle you again and
things can go back to how they
were when we first met.”
But, I know this can never be,
as drugs are busy seeing other people.
Do you remember the day the lightning bugs
began to disappear?
Now, in the stead of those tiny glowing insect dots
is only the sense of a faintly felt fear,
of growing old
and
losing our illusion of safety.
Bring back the insects,
bring back the
***
drugs
and
rock n’ roll
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
C'EST PRESQU'AU BOUT DU MONDE..."
( IT WAS ALMOST TO THE END OF THE WORLD )
She believed that
deep deep inside her
the flame of a femme fatale
burned brightly.
Could imagine herself stepping out of
some classic Film Noir.
Cultivated herself
to look like Marie Windsor
opposite the dangerously gorgeous
John Garfield.
But her life it seemed had her
stepping into an Edward Hopper.
The isolation and the paint
still wet.
The lonely lady
glimpsed in an hotel window
from a passing train
autumnal rain.
Still she acted always as if
she was in her own movie l
walking around her tiny flat
naked
except for red stilettos
red earrings...red lipstick.
Making up her own snappy lines
to some imaginary leading man.
"Are you decent?"
"Yes""
"But you're....you're naked!"
"You only asked if I was decent!"
The mirror laughed
catching the reflection of who
she could have been
given half the chance.
She never
stood a chance.
She threw a cigarette up in the air
caught it between her lips
her one and only
party trick.
Lit or unlit.
Searching for middle C
on a battered piano
her mind off key
abandoning it
the piano's yellow smile.
She watched the sunlight
carve a block of time
out of the dividing wall.
fading the wallpaper roses.
The bed that was always
empty...always unmade.
She danced to Weill's
Youkali Tango.
Put it on again...again.
Scratching an already scratched record.
The needle gathering fluff.
The porcelain milkmaid...dust.
She disliked the way sweat
gathered under her *******
They were always a little too large.
Hated men staring so hard.
Ahhhh the faded romance
a sunset heart attack.
Couldn't have wrote
herself a better script.
Staggering in her dance
gasping that all too unsubstantial
air as if trying to
catch time
the presentpastfuture
falling out of her hand.
The wooden acorn
of the tattered blind
tapping against
the ***** window pane.
Neon going green.
Then red.
Now blue.
And then green again.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 3:16 PM UTC
She was crying.
So he approached
to lessen the anguish,
her life has notched
He exchanged her tears
with his cozy smile;
to calm down her nerves
at least for a while.
The language of tears
has always appealed him;
as to the insects,
the sundew's gleam.
Innate was this nature of his
to weep for the poor,
for the women, for the children
and for the downtrodden, to be sure.
But with hollow chauvinism
then, the men ruled the society.
And accounted weeping as a sin
resulting from inferiority.
They disliked the boy
and his uncommon ways
to heal the sufferer,
to their utter dismay.
They called the boy
and asked him to change
his beliefs and ideology
or to be ready to estrange.
The boy couldn't understand
how his actions have been
outrageous in their view
and thus sentenced as a sin.
He stood against them
and let the proposal decline.
He advocated his logic
to those ****** swine.
But their ears were concealed
to even the rumbling thunder.
Intoxicated by masculinity
they committed blunder.
The men enraged
and reached for their knives.
They shouted, they cursed
and skinned him alive.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
In Silence
The English ex SAS Special Forces member went to the Ukraine to fight. He travelled light and took just a small back pack and a head full of skills. A gun was a gun and a bayonet a bayonet. He was trained to use most things as weapon especially military articles.
He decided to go to the Ukraine after the Russians invaded proper in early 2022. The Ukrainian Army took him to a holding facility where they vetted him. This took three days. Included was basic close combat skills and weapons use.
He excelled and was given a job, being sent to a forward artillery position with a dozen other foreign troops to protect it. The SAS man was in charge and most men and the single girl spoke English. All understood military commands and signals. All were veterans from either conscript or professional armies.
Each was here for their own reasons and all disliked either what Russia had done or Russians themselves. The English SAS member had killed several Muslim terrorists from Daesh and al Qaeda in Iraq and Afghanistan. Now he looked forward to fighting and killing some Russians, officers if possible. After being in the Ukraine six days he was on the front line leading his first patrol. This was better than being a bouncer in a Manchester night club!
The SAS guy ordered his men to only use bayonets as they silently crept to a Russian fox hole a mile away. He wanted blood and the rush of combat, of killing. There was the trench and a single sentry, asleep. He would knife him himself. Then his squad would ****** the rest and take back any weapons, maps or documents. He spoke four languages including Russian. Any Intel was good for his bosses though. Here we go! There’s the sleeping sentry. Gently now, he must die in silence…
Mar 20, 2022
Mar 20, 2022 at 5:33 PM UTC
they want me to be serious, to take it seriously. To look at sunrises calmly and seize coals and watch over red-blooded, man-fueled wars about bravado, integrity, and land. To look at money, a simple representation of labor, and see what it drives other to do, to do for me.
to crush cigarettes and testicles under my boots,
to crawl through mud and barbed wire, smiling
with grit in my grimace
salt rolling, sweaty brows
twisted locks of dark hair
tobacco-brown spit, ground
and filthy, caked in mud
teeth bared like an animal
white eyeteeth crunching
**Scorching earth where my feet touch down.
A cigarette put out on a tongue. No more talking.**
They want me to see and that, in the dark of the night, in the light of the day, when the sun rises and sets, there is pain, always, elsewhere and everywhere. So I will not tarry or joke or be frivolous with the battered souls of others and to think, to think about applying anything I know, to run along with the vigorous social constructs they ask me to dissect and then revolutionize, because I am young, and I will sprint faster, against accusations, and only briefly.
They want me to look at the world like a runner looks at the red track,
with their toes and sinews coiled as hard as steel, a pinnacle of human
at the height of athleticism and possess the ruthlessness of a rabid dog
drool rushed into foam and mad from dehydrating, my brain swelling
with my hormone driven
red, hazy, athletic rage,
gunning my ambition
for some organization.
No.
I will fight, yes, but I will not fight for a name on a card, shield, or building.
I will fight for the sake of fighting because I am contentious and I am wrong.
I side against hero and villain, because I am the ambiguity,
that languishes, resides in no-man's land, antagonizing both.
Being disliked in purgatory is sometimes more easy than chomping at the bit,
for blood and the power of cracking a black bull whip, so I can avoid this terrible avarice and corrupting beauty that comes with working hard, especially for the greatness
that I did not ask
to be ****** upon me, while I wished to remain enigmatic.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
She liked sweatpants, just like her mother did
She wore them her whole life
She told him how much she hated when people tried taking them
They always tried stealing them
He stained the sweatpants though
Her favorite sweatpants
The one she waited months for to get
She tried not to think much of it
Then he stole her sweatpants
She didn't get why
She made it so clear of how much she disliked when people did that
But he did it anyways
Why couldn't he ask?
It was just a simple question
It was what she held on to the most
He took it away
She misses those sweatpants
She misses how it felt when she did have them
Her favorite sweatpants she wore her whole life was gone forever
And there was nothing she could do to get it back
Nov 29, 2020
Nov 29, 2020 at 2:48 AM UTC
the more i try the more it just feels false
my words come out and just like that I freeze-
i regret what I say and keep silent around everyone
then the silence catches up with me
and infiltrates my mind
why did i speak why did i have to be
me, what is it about my existence
that makes life so ******* difficult to
to speak to think to form a sentence or two
why is something so simple so complex
you have kind eyes
i’m not saying anything more except
that’s
that’s what attracted me -
not in a romantic way or
any way at all
just a friendly way i guess,
so some sort of way it turns out,
a really random way or
completely accidental or
oops there goes my mind again
but i can’t help it when there’s someone new
who tolerates me to the point of tears
then drops me on my *** and forgets
i’m even here
i dont trust very easily but i want to trust you,
my eyes want to cry and my mouth wants to speak
but see what happens when the two collide?
this.
this is what happens and
this is how i lose people and
this is how i live
because i’m afraid of being left behind or disliked
because it’s not every day someone with kind eyes
shares an ounce of of their kindness by looking into my
own
kind
eyes
dear god please don’t **** this up
i know i’m an atheist but
****** atheists have some kind ******* eyes
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
My whole life Iitried to live in the body I was given
The body I am in
Growing up I never “saw the signs”
I never knew that there was anything else I could possibily be
I never knew that I was going to change
Or that there was anything else
Something. Someone better that I could be
Someone who is more comfortable in their skin
I had no idea that the reflection I saw staring back at me everyday in the mirror was not me at all
Ive noticed that ive felt different from how I was taught to feel
Ive found out a lot of things in my life so far
But I never thought I would find myself being envius of boy
Not because I disliked them but because I wanted to be like them
I found myself not wanting boys
But wanting to dress like them
Not wanting boys
But wanting to walk like them
Not wanting boys
But wanting to have my hair short like theirs
To have a “boys” hair cut
I found myself not wanting a boyfriend
But wanting to be someones boyfriend
I found myself realizing that so many girls have that muscular physique
I thought it was normal because other girls looked like that
So maybe I can too?
I tried to fit myself in the categories I saw others in
Girls. Boys like girls. Girls like girls too
I like girls. Im a girl that likes girls
But I do not want to be a muscular girl
I shouldn’t be in this body
So why am I?
Why does my mom strictly tell me not to pick flannels when were in the store
Have conversations with my stepdad saying
She wants to be….
But how can she…
If shes not even..
How can she?
She doesn’t like showing skin she tells him
Im too angry to listen to rest
But then he says
Im not saying its right but its her
HE SAID IM NOT SAYING ITS RIGHT
HE SAID IM NOT SAYING ITS RIGHT
WHAT IS RIGHT!?
I was certainly a fool
He never did accept me huh?
That. Is .Right.
But in my eyes im struggling with confusion
The illusion of my body and what I have now
Is the not the reflection of the real. Me
I found myself listening to other peoples stories and comparing myself to them
I should feel the same way because you have to feel the same as everyone else to be trans
But I didn’t. So I brushed the feelings away
Let them fade.
Blind to similarities
Frustrated because I had no idea who, or what I was
I looked at so many peoples stories
And the one thing I didn’t take from them all until the end was
They were all different
NEVER WERE THEY IDENTICAL
SIMILAR
NOT IDENTICAL
SIMILAR
NOT IDENTICAL
WHO
Am
I
Who am I if I am not the same
I am different
I am not supposed to have the same realizations as everyone else
The entire time I was looking around for answers from other people
Truly I knew exactly where the answer was
But. The feeling of trepidation was all my mind knew for the first few weeks of searching
I found myself thinking some more
This house is only bringing me down
Can I just get out of here?
I found myself wondering why she loved to prevent me from doing things I loved
The same ones that praise you
Are the same ones that hate you
I am me. Alittle bit different than most.
But im me
I found myself, while writing this poem
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 7:41 PM UTC
A brown clipboard holding some sheets of paper.
Names,
lists of them all signed perfectly
with the black ball-point pen dangling from a chain off the side.
Him,
a family member, one who I had respect for.
Me,
seven years old
told to wait outside on the porch while he talked to my mother.
A bumper sticker,
two people holding hands accompanied by a slogan,
“Marriage” it said,
“one man,
one woman”.
I was too young then to understand,
maybe I am still too young to understand,
all I knew then is that my uncle asked my mother to sign something,
war declaration for all I knew,
and I guess it was in a way,
a war against people,
and a war against choice.
My mother did not sign the paper,
the one with all the names,
one slot on the clipboard left blank for the next person to choose to pick up the pen,
that black ball-point pen,
and to sign their name,
slowly,
perfectly,
signing away a life,
but not their life,
they would go on, and on, and on,
but signing away another's life,
someone they would never meet,
someone they would never know,
but someone they already disliked.
Why?
If that clipboard were given to me now,
I would be like my mother,
strong in my determination not to scribble my own messy name underneath the list of others,
strong in my determination not to sign away someone else's life,
someone else's happiness,
someone else's future.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 11:02 AM UTC