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karin naude Oct 2013
street cred makes a boy a man
able to take care of business declares manhood
then why are they actin fools around women
playen, traden and, braken hearts
forgetting that is someones daughter, sister, mother, etc
women give birth to men and are trampled on by men
humiliated, disrespected, disregarded, mistreated, abused and, neglected
all with a smile and honey coated words
sweat melting int he mouth bitter swallowing
disturbing to the stomach, difficult to ***** out
trapping women desperate for safety
proudly declaring: "i am man"
sealed with appalling behaviour
this is how i see the generation, from which i have to choose my mate from
party,high maintenance girls chosen
dependable good women ignored
this begs the question what is a real man
lots declare publicly, i am a good man
bias and subjected words to safe faded honor
honor
a word created to make ego taste better
Often, when I’ve escaped the strain,
The weight, the freight, burdening encumbrance
Of human society, community unleashed,
Profound distress, and a bit on the side—
I’ll contemplate
Of their judgements unknown,
Their penetrating, presumptuous eyes—
They tell me they love me, reputation irrelevant,
Trespasses, failures, habits—all disregarded,
And still I laze in my quaking of
Sleeplessness from apprehension
Pondering their thoughts obscured by their words
Heavens, a shrieking invasion!

Please don’t take that as the slightest indication
That I’m in any case a half-benevolent essence of them all
My ruminations drenched with a display of myself, my actions, my appearance
That’s proof enough that I can’t occupy a moment without me as the focal point
How can anyone be so vain
Low self-esteem shall consume my life, my breath,
And all of those thoughts,
So soon to drain...
Olivia Kent Dec 2013
Homeless in Dreams!

Blanket crumpled on the deck.
A mouldy mound of grey.
Tin discarded empty.
Disregarded on the floor.

The hollow echo of the subway.
Thunder crashes rhythmically overhead.
A hundred commuters tear down the stairs.
From train where he laid his head.
And he lies.
Disregarded as the empty can.
No body cares.

In dreams.
He sleeps.
Cares not.
As no one cares for him.
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Mel Holmes Dec 2013
When they came to my island, the
hero and his crew (more like
an invasive species
of uninvited animals)
The rot from their unwashed feet spilled everywhere--
infestations of foul--
They plucked grapes from my vines slowly, with pride,
as if they kept them themselves,
They came into my cave and stole sheep’s milk and cheese--
The blessed feta: vanished!!
And you wonder why I snacked on two--I had nothing else!
They disregarded emptied wine bottles in clusters in the sand,
Kept me awake in the evening with boisterous, hoglike squeals.
And when I let out a scream myself,
A cry to my native land, to my father,
I spotted my herds scurrying from the cave,
with little hands floating atop their fur,
Then came the electrifying pain
I see a staff, feel the hit, become
disabled.
They took everything and left me blinded
And he is still the hero?
He told me he was Nobody.
JJ Hutton Apr 2013
we, mistakes made in groping dark,
ironed and cheekkissed happy accidents,
told we arrived by love, and our purpose forward: to love.

we were chocolate milk runners.
we were completion grades.
coloring sheets of MLK and jagged cutouts of billy goats.
we were girls in sequined jeans with scraped knees.
on the basketball court we pushed pigtails to concrete.
rumors of us kissing in the lobby waiting for our rides
did circulate.

we, skinny white girls of Moore, Okla.,
skipped supper and laid at the feet of TV-watchers
like bleached branches of fallen oaks garnishing their standing brothers.

we were doorbells.
we were passenger seats.
peeking in the teacher's edition and handshaking answers in fluorescent bathrooms.
we were the first ones on the bus and the last ones off.
knees to chin, untied laces on heater's ****, winterlong sweat factory.
rumors of us agreeing to go to prom over fourth-period lunch
did circulate.

we, writers suffered writers' morality,
disregarded right, wrong, norm; lounged, waiting to be under the bus,
suffering for the story. tense matchstick lovers --  dim light for a moment and then.

we were someone else's *******.
we were someone else's hairpins.
as whatever ran so hot in us cooled, dried on thrift store comforters,
so did we. ceiling fans and ***. fingernails and boxed wine.
rumors sustaining.

and so it came, after announcements, after invitations,
after subbing in one bridesmaid for another, we were getting married.
we were grooms with empty pockets and full of sound advice.
our fathers took us behind the church,
chaplipped our foreheads,  and said,
"I know, we promised you were made from love and to love.
But I gotta be real honest here. You were made from whiskey.
And there's always the distillery."


we were jobless in wrinkled suits.
we were brown shoes; black belts.
and this will look good on your resumé. and this will look good on your resumé.
translation: how about ******* this ****? or how about this one?
a resumé was one page. we couldn't fit all the ***** on one page.

we, beardheavy and deodorant-streaked,
lived in dream houses in Ulysses, Kan., drove dream Tahoes,
watched dream Netflix, next to  portly wives who looked like
QUEEN MOTHER OF ALL THE BROTHELS OF THE LOWER MIDWEST.

we were childless.
we were wanting.
after consulting a physician and a bottle of whiskey,
we lifted and pinned the sagging belly of our wives with
a wooden board. one good **** in. one borrowed pregnancy test.

and so it came, the weddings of our sons. behind the church,
we took them aside and said,
*"I know, we promised you were made from love and to love.
But I gotta be real honest here."
x Dec 2018
i no longer have the time,
to coddle the feelings of others
who have disregarded the emotions
i have confided

i no longer have the will,
to beg for the love of people
who don't deserve mine...

i no longer have the heart,
to hold on to, and give my all to
someone, who will
not give even a fraction to me

i no longer have the patience
to apologize for things
that are not my fault

i am growing out of the mindset,
to be upset.
to rant and to rave.
to hurt, and to hold grudges.
to be petty,
and to strain my heart.
... my patience has run thin for those types of things


..... and for things of that such
Chelsea Mullerr Jan 2014
Ive been left
for other women
All beautiful and pure
Simple and elegant
a dime piece forsure
Ive been disregarded
in sudden silence
Left without a trace
Missing you and all we had
Took a step back with great embrace
Left with nothing,
Depressed and sad
But you'll be back
and i wont care
Ill have a new man
and wont be shared
Meka Boyle Jan 2013
Youth has lost it's sweet seduction,
Yellow lemon heads have grown hard and sticky,
No longer resting upon our eager tongues,
But instead gathering lint in forgotten pockets.
Dreams of astronauts and ballerinas
Only exist in dated children's books
And hospital emergency rooms.
There isn't room for foolishness anymore,
Not here. Not now.
Childhood has shrunken into a tiny ball
That would fit perfectly into the hands
Of anyone brave enough to grasp it.
Yet, instead it has rolled off into a corner somewhere,
Out of the reach of subway tickets and smart phones and deli sandwiches and fake leather boots.
Sitting there, stagnant and unnoticed, it festers in the disregarded possibility that is life.
We all grow up and forget this,
We fall into the routine of tooth paste and parking meters and 160 character love notes,
We forget about the astronaut and the ballerina and the president who all once lived inside us,
We shut them away in our minds and starve them,
Only giving in to their innocent requests in the dark of the night,
Where time and responsibility dance hand in hand in blissful oblivion.
Ashes, ashes we all fall down.
harlon rivers Sep 2018
words drift away unfettered
from whence they came,
passing like undreamed clouds
– pragmatic eyes to the sky
   in a searching stare –
unsought thoughts disappearing hence
a fog bow fading into sunlight

there are days when
   it comes out in my silence
there are days when
   it falls down in my tears:

muse – muted in poet's pause,
heart and soul whispers
  laid bare unwritten
  behind parsing eyes
disregarded words let loose,
        ungarnered
the way low hanging fruit
falls benign — unharvested —

   shortsighted  insight
   from a bird's eye view
silently fermenting traces
and unfiltered memories
come and go unheeded words,
discarded like the passing
   time of our lives

at times  it's  ludicrous
   to follow down
lingering footprints
left behind callous:
when the shoe won't fit;
slogging across eroding
time-worn stepping stones
scattered on this twisted line
these feet have been walking down,
trying to make a getaway
   from myself

walking away from the memories
like so many indelible footprints to escape
– while dreaming stardust into stars
   in nameless constellations –
reaching out from the inside,
   site unseen,
   trying to experience
   the empirical shape
   of  stifling  silence
   in a theatre made by chance

distilling the gifts and burdens
of trying to live a worthy life
   only I'll see...


harlon rivers ... September 27, 2018
pondering reticence, my recent hesitation makes me wonder — do you ever just not write down the poetry that is right in front of the eyes of your soul? This is the last piece i've written and feels as if it could be... but any poet knows — you can't steer a river

"One Man's Wilderness" by Richard Proenneke, is the title of a book I read twice this summer "Alone in the Wilderness"

"poet's pause" a truism/expression coined by Pagan Paul

Thanks for reading.
Trevor Gates Dec 2013
[Fade in, Opera hall; Orchestra is tuning. There is a murmur of people whispering.]

Once upon a time
There was the House of God
And the stage of life

Its key players were man and woman
Supported by Sin and Death

The masterstroke of creation was not of the flesh

But of the souls

[Audience laughs]

I hold in my hand
The diary of a madman

Lined with notes and scribbles
Rotten thoughts to nibble

Food for thought
Or all for naught

Such eloquence and strife
From a torturous life
For these we must share
Alas, who would care?

Would you?

Let’s find out

For in this show tonight, in the heaps of winter fables
And changing seasons
The spectacles and visions shall not be enough


On a magic carpet set for Baghdad
In the Mirror sea of Venus
The performers are all here
For your entertainment

The illustrious Obsidian Theater beckons you all
The Masquerade of the Dream Catcher Ball


With masks, we put on our true faces
Our bare faces are mere disguises
That we wear in public places
But here we’re full of surprises

Mrs. Jujubee isn’t a housewife here
But a sultry dancer, moving to the tune of
Cat house romances

Mr. Wukanlyck isn’t an account anymore
But an eccentric ******* who plays at
Both ends of the field

If you know what I mean.

All these people are able to be their true selves in the light of the stage
How come they cannot be this way in life?
Why can’t they laugh with the bohemians?
Why must it all be a secret life?
Why can they not tell their spouses?
Their parents?
Their bosses?

Why can’t they be what they want to be?

Because…

Their spouses mock the idea of such silly notions and aspirations.
Their parents disregarded their dreams in the hopes they will one day:

“Wake up, get their life in order, so they can get a real job, earn a living, buy a house, get married and contribute to society like a normal person; have a decent life.”

If you can call that a decent life.

Why become another cog in the gears of the economic machine that fuels the fire of excess industry?

Why owe more money to lawyers, bankers and debt collectors in the hopes of owning a piece of property that is just like everyone else’s?

Why push out more unwanted kids into the world where there are already millions without homes, food or even families?

Those “free nations” are ok with owning guns than knowing what’s really happening in the world.  

If another opposing religion or country threatens your comfortable lifestyle then you’re ok with having your government go to war.  

You are slaves to your TVs

Your smart devices

Your phones

Your social networking

Your computers

Your shopping rituals

Your misunderstood purpose

Your narcissism

Your arrogance

Your defensive self-righteousness

Your thin empathy
An obtuse apathy

Indecisive, nail-biting listeners of classroom objectivity
Ridiculing social solicitors of mall shop dogma
The young millennial generations stamped with no discerning identity
Than the loss of critical thinkers which are replaced with
Cultural zombies and robotic masturbators dripping over
Dim screens of cyber people in the millions, filling minds with
Misconceptions, misguided eroticism, racial diabolism that will be
Passed on to friends, family and teachers who will disregard sources and substance
But use the same destructive and dividing strands of unrest
That will define their day to day lives
From the words
The minds
Of frustrated, opinionated
Suburb bloggers
Middle class pioneers that one day
will rule the country
Preaching of the day that all are troubles will be
“Resolved”
And all our past misdeeds and sins shall be
“Absolved”
The crusted, rustic chains of our forefathers’ bane shall be
“Dissolved”

And then maybe we’ll be able to embrace each other
Like in the storybook pages of our dreams
Where men can love men
And women can love women
And the faces, the masks
Will not be needed anymore
Because what we present to the world in the face of that
Higher being
Or simple sun
Will be what we truly are
We will have one life and one face and it will be all we need
Not like before, where our closets have that hidden space
Where we hide our real faces
With that suit of dusty skin
That everyone once in a while we have to sneak away and wear

Little Colette De Salle
Petite college student with features like
Audrey Hepburn
Singing in the underground garage
With Stevie and his troupe
Her songs haunting, elegant and pure
About people she once knew
Her parents
Beaten to death on the streets
By simply reporting the truth to the world
Which their bosses and media supervisors
Will determine what the “truth” is
And what is newsworthy at 7pm

She is Ms. Colette de Saille
And will be dead before she graduates
Because someone didn’t like what she said that one night
Calling out the Pigs and suits making sure no one paid
For her losses


This is Ken Sosnowski
But tonight on this stage he is Aveda Cicada
And she is who she is from birth

Like you all that sits before me

With shadowy smiles
And grins holding flowers, doves
Secrets

And

[Applause]
The Obsidian Theater, entry 16
Reece Nov 2013
Singular door-mouse scuttles in hedgerows, euphoric and chasing nothing
The greying clouds overhead loom low in the evening haze,
and vast orange illuminations in the west are a cold blanket desiring human warmth
Myriad ebon patterns in a southerly direction, ridiculous in their grandeur
She wanted a classic romanticism, not the hand sanitizer before bed routine
He missed the way she lay across his throat, choking in the dead of night
The stoic pool in the back yard was lonely again, when the blackbirds took leave

What day is this, when the apples no longer grow and love lives in another house?

Disregarded and rusted, the deodorant can chimes discordantly along some gravel drive
and a plastic bag is caught on an updraft, emulating some movie or art piece, pretentious in its nature
and whole trees stand naked, swaying in phantom dancehalls to some unfathomable songstress
Only the lonely are walking tonight and he is there, with them... alone
She stands in doorways recounting past dreams and wishing for wishes to be real
The peach coloured blinds are closed and sirens are dead in this, the saddest of nights

What hands are these, that type such things, and why tonight do I see these images in frosty car windows and street lamps flickering?

Still the door-mouse scurries and finds but a single berry, the last thought of seasons past
- the sun is dead, and to that end the moon does wryly nod
Never listen to those voices on ethereal winds for they tell so many lies
and in autumnal twilight a beacon is present but only in distant hills, when the wind catches her breath

The nicotine daybreak comes later each day and the nights are a drag
Burning embers of the cigarette summertime fade each passing second
- conforming to some ambiguous cosmic clock, of which we ignore daily
A steady pulse of whistling nostalgia to guide him to sleep
Hoping to dream, always hoping to dream

There's a mantra carved into a tree behind the old music department at the local school
On it reads a message to every solitudinarian with looming sadness on his head
She found these words carved when the bark was damp and bare
Pursing her lips as she read them aloud, her words vanishing into the crisp evening air
Laying her head in seasoned leaves and forcing her hand to a dull night sky
She sang a song of past lovers, and softly in the breeze, she began to cry
Kirsten Autra Sep 2010
Ohhh the **** I have read online.
The **** that erupts from our mouths,
and through our finger tips,
Mine of course included in that heap
of never ending opinions.

Hey, what buttons are you clicking on now?
Pressing, and touching.
All I hear is the click clack of nothing.
So go ahead, let these very words
distract, distract, distract
You.

Yeah, the world has changed.
Surely it has even rearranged its concepts and morals.
Just turn on the tube, and you'll see the explicit truth
displayed like the movement of our bowels.
**** I tell ya.
****.

It's concentrated into little advertisements
for the endless materials we don't need.
Saturated in the last morsel of humanity,
we disregarded the taste,
and chose to live in the corruption,
believing something
will save us.
We wait and do nothing,
expecting it to just happen.
Well wait no longer,
just keep browsing the web.
                  I'll probably just
continue
writing these words,
into your eyes they will be fed.

Maybe it's just my mind that has become rotten
in all the moments of life that were forgotten,
due to the distractions.
                               All the distractions.
I guess it's just difficult to grasp them,
but still, it is hard
Getting used to the stench our minds have created,
allowing ourselves to become jaded
in technology.

While without knowing
that we are telling ourselves,
                                               Why not let truth be left for the dusty books on the shelves.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2017
Those old comments from the disappeared with no names,
no faces, just a large gray dot and two -- anonymous*




<•>

Those old comments
live on, unremoved,
from the disappeared ones,
no faces, no names
a large gray dot and
two -- anonymous dashes

a most contemporary kind of disregarding,
disregard-me, frak you, cause I disregarded you first,
funeral pyre ******* gesture,
where only your face was consumed,
but your words live on forever. ...  
congrats, in this day and age,
you, managed to get in the last word

who were you?
why was it necessary to leave?
while your comments, pithy,  
cheddar sharp, meaningful,
of just a plain old prdinary
wow,
tender precious to me
drive me now to simple
madness gladness sadness
failing to yes, to be recalling
who you were/are

were you stalked, trolled, gored,
or just bored
with the word-gaming,
needy for some well constructed avatars
desirous for ****** machine gun killing?

did you heart break one last time
into one million parts too many
you did not believe, didn't trusted me enough,
to heal the cuts and paste
you together like I did previously,
no more one more time?

did you get
transmigrated,
move beyond and out of
London and Minneapolis, Katmandu?

win the lottery,
get parental sent away,
super jetting wealthy,
married, divorced, soul lost,
unhealthy in complete privacy,
up and left the poems of we
poor sods behind,
on your way to Monaco or Singapore?

did I offend beyond any mending?
gladly would have kissed you knees,
written a poem just to tickle you pink
or whatever color you so desired but that
gray grey cream dot not,
that makes your disappearing act,
twice as a pain-full, a banner unfurled of,
you pick the word

was I too sweet, too kind, cloyingly annoying
driving you crazy with my midnight clockwork
"jes' me checking in on you"
one liner messages,
go one message too far?

how we conversed, holy roman dialogues
till one day and hadn't heard and
chagrin uncovered no more souling
we two, ragging and consoling,
on each others nonsense,
cause
you cloaked a name in deliberate invisibility!

well ha on you I am lying,
I will know your name, your face,
your funny way of signing off
when fate sits us side by side
on some long plane ride

you will watch me tap on my tablet
in letters so big you won't struggle to read over my shoulder,
the poem I will write for you / just one more
for just you

and I'll see reflection of your turned away head
in the plexiglass window smiling and tearing,
while I hum some Carole King sad love songs

you will salty say
to wound and to love
cause ain't no difference:
now

you're still an idiot,
write way too long
and forget to put the title in, on -- whatever*

and I will nod also,
in that idiotic identical
tonality of whatever,
in holy poem agreement
not saying much, just
tapping grey --
the rest of the way till we land,
thinking mostly about all the gray grey shades and shadows
in that dashed word,
whatever--



9:27pm 10-5-no jive
"Now And Forever"
ny Carole King
Now and forever, you are a part of me
And the memory cuts like a knife
Didn't we find the ecstasy, didn't we share the daylight
When you walked into my life

Now and forever, I'll remember
All the promises still unbroken
And think about all the words between us
That never needed to be spoken

We had a moment, just one moment
That will last beyond a dream, beyond a lifetime
We are the lucky ones
Some people never get to do all we got to do
Now and forever, I will always think of you

Didn't we come together, didn't we live together
Didn't we cry together
Didn't we play together, didn't we love together
And together we lit up the world

I miss the tears, I miss the laughter
I miss the day we met and all that followed after
Sometimes I wish I could always be with you
The way we used to do
Now and forever, I will always think of you
Now and forever, I will always be with you
Bee Jun 2018
To this day,
She can still feel the poison in her veins.
It may only be a ghost
But the reminiscence of her past still harbor the same violent sting
Constantly reminding her
Of when her life changed forever
And what she’s become.

To this day,
She hauls vivid memories wherever she goes.
Memories only allowed to appear
Because of one choice,
That wasn’t even her own.
“Don’t worry,” she was told.
“This will make everything better,” she heard.
Lie after lie, spat right in her face.
The harm they caused wasn’t intentional, she knew.
Trauma that manifested through a veiled attempt to heal.
But by ignoring her desperate pleads,
“Please don’t make me go,”
They were to blame for her suffering.

The girl knew she was a hopeless cause.
Even the most skilled doctors could not help her.
She was too far broken.
Only a few delicate threads held her together,
Stitching up the pain she endured for countless years.
The girl would have been happy to leave them undisturbed,
If she had known what misery lied ahead.

The hospital room may as well be a prison cell
And the doctors the executioners.
Fear was the first form of torture laid upon her.
The girl’s worst nightmare crept its way up from the abyss that was her mind.
This was the thing that would cure her?
An evil, crooked, nasty beast was her savior?
And she had to somehow trust it with her life?

The pungent smell of the first swipe of alcohol across her skin
Followed by the guileful ***** of a needle.
A plastic tube nestled in her arm
Would be the girl’s only companion for the next few days.
It too, promised her relief,
But only offered agony.

Then came the venom.
Empty promises fed throughout her body.
Miracle cures for all her ailments.
But no matter how the doctors dressed them up,
She could feel their truth.
Poison filled the girl’s delicate body,
And she could not escape their wrath.

Excruciating pain, radiating all throughout her body.
Her head was dizzy,
Vision blurred,
Muscles weak,
Lungs constricted,
Stomach lurching,
Throat burning,
She could not have imagined something worse.
Over and over again,
More and more drugs were pumped through her IV.
She almost forgot about the pain they were trying to treat.
A battle was waging through her veins.
Eventually, one of these chemicals would cure her,
Right?

Days felt like years.
An eternity spent inside of the hospital.
Till the young girl could fight no longer.
She wanted to scream until her throat burst.
It wasn’t fair.
She was so young,
Too young to be tortured against her will.

She spat lies right back at the doctors.
“I feel better” was written on a white flag.
But the war was not over.
No, scars were not only etched into her body,
But her entire world had suffered the consequences of battle.
And she could only watch as it crumbled away.

The pain left her debilitated
Unable to function.
For the first time in her short life,
Her perfection slipped away.
She was forced to abandon activities she once loved,
Neglecting friends that counted on her.
The eyes of her peers were filled with disgust,
They only saw her as sick.

Confined to her bed for most days
The girl was utterly alone
With only her pain as her only friend.
When asked how she’s doing,
She couldn’t help but utter,
“Fine.”
It was easier than describing what she’d been through,
Impossible for others to understand.
She was completely alone.
Her suffering was disregarded,
Everyone was going through something worse it seemed.
She knew they expected her to be strong enough
To fight the battle in solitude.

Then came the anger.
A vicious spirit clawing at her sanity.
It almost felt like a dream.
This situation was inequitable,
What had she done to deserve such suffering?
She had spent her entire life helping others,
Offering her wisdom
While tending to her own ailments.
Now, suggestions were being forced down her throat.
Try this, try that.
As if they knew what was best for her.
How dare they.

The girl felt her life crumble away,
Like sand falling right through her fingertips.
Her heart ached of desperation.
She wore a fake smile most days,
And did her best to keep up with life,
Hoping for anything that might rescue her from pain.
Even if it meant death.


And to this day, she can still feel the poison in her veins.
She knows that the sting may never dissipate.
A vile reminder of pain she was forced to endure.
Leaving invisible battle scars,
And a prayer that one day,
She might be free.
this was my first endeavor into the world of poetry -- a description of the most vivid memory of my young life.
Matloob Bokhari Oct 2014
THE ARAB PAGANS
                     MATLOOB BOKHARI

The Arab pagans  were plunged in the depth of ignorance,
Barbarism;  adored idols, lived in unchaste life,
Ate  dead bodies,  disregarded every feeling of humanity,
Allah raised among them a man,  honest, and pure ;
Who called them to  Oneness of God , forbade idol worship.  
Enjoined them to speak truth, be faithful, merciful .
Muhammad taught them rights of  neighbors ; kith and kin:
Forbade them to speak evil of women, or to eat orphans’ stuff.  
Ordered them to flee from the vices, and to abstain from evil.
Offer prayers, render alms,  observe fast and respect elders.
  The Arab pagans rose against him to cease his preaching.
Muhammad with a bloodied face, a busted lip, a broken tooth prayed for them
When they mutilated Hamza’s corpse; burnt off his nose ;  cut off his ears;
Muhammad, the messenger of peace and love, forgiving prayed for the pagans
But the shadow  of  the dark clouds of hate totally eclipsed the moon of love
The Arab pagans ruthlessly massacred the whole family of Muhammad
Hussain ,picking up the body of his young son, an image of Muhammad,prayed:
Praise be to Allah Who is the hearer of prayers and warders off anguishes
Hussain, gathering pieces of the dead body of his nephew trampled by horses , prayed
O Allah! The All-gentle, the All aware! I willingly desire for You and testify Your Lordship!
Hussain, burrying  his six month martyr with his own hand in the sand of Karbala, prayed
Praise be to Allah Who is raiser of ranks and suppressor of tyrants
Hussain  standing on  shifting sand-dunes of Kerbala , smeared with blood. of Abbas, prayed
O All-merciful, O All-beneficent. !All glory be to You! Verily Originator and Reproducer
The grandson of Prophet Muhammad ,left all alone, called  for help
But the pagans threw his headless body  on  the plains of Karbala
Leaving Prophet’s daughters in   raging flames of tents, they celebrated victory
O God Who gladdens the hearts that mourn, dries the eyes that weep
I cannot write the whole story of love and hate,  My heart cries! My pen  bleeds!
Matloob, sky and stars weep upon such sacrifices, angels bow, they don’t die in vain!
Every soul shall  have a taste of death:  We test you by evil and by good by way of trial!
Praise be to Allah ,Hearer of prayers! From God we come, and unto Him is our return.













Jan G. A good poetic account of  the history of Islam. Another Hussein might be required to correct once again what came of the Islamic Republic. Oppression loves to speak in the name of liberation it once embraced. - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poems/by/matloob#sthash.iCoJzCfi.dpuf



RAJ NANDY: To take an universal view I must say, that let religion not come in the way of love and peace! It has been for the Wise to show us the way, banish ignorance and bring forth light always! True faith is love and as the greatest binding force that shall remain! Thanks for sharing, -Raj



Rick Ratliff : I am  a Christian  and moved greatly by this  powerful read


Rev. Donny Doom – Thanks  for this thought provoking read!


Nikluss 6: An excellent story!!
is it from the Koran????
PEACE MATLOOB!!!!



tarobinson - What a great poem . Wonderfully told . RESPECTFULLY TOLD .




    Hussain was supported by Christians too in Karbala
    

Kyle Wittman - Title / intro is: It certainly sparked my attention.


My favorite line is: The last line.

It's a great read! I do love the imagery.






Dark Iris : Such a beautiful  truth! I  Like it.
unknown Apr 2022
I was there.

In times of need, I was there.
Hugging you tight, even though in pain. I stayed.
Always beside you even when I’m too weak to stand up.
When you needed me, I disregarded everything.
Every pain, every emotions, every single problems I have.
I stayed strong, because you needed me.

Endless chances, endless pain.
It doesn’t go away, but then I was still there.
At your darkest days and all the lies you made, I still believed.
But then where were you when I needed real help?
When I wanted to be better, why didn’t you believed?

I wanted to change, I wanted to make up for what I did.
I wanted to be better.
I wanted to be better.
I wanted to be better.
But then I’m all alone, in tears hugging myself.
No one believed and everyone else wants to leave.

Still, I stayed. I was always there.
I
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

       II
Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measures destined for her soul.

       III
Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
He moved among us, as a muttering king,
Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
With heaven, brought such requital to desire
The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
A part of labor and a part of pain,
And next in glory to enduring love,
Not this dividing and indifferent blue.

       IV
She says, "I am content when wakened birds,
Before they fly, test the reality
Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
Return no more, where, then, is paradise?-"
There is not any haunt of prophesy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured
As April's green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow's wings.

       V
She says, "But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss.-"
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
Whispered a little out of tenderness,
She makes the willow shiver in the sun
For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.

       VI
Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set the pear upon those river banks
Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
The silken weavings of our afternoons,
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning ***** we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

       VII
Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
Shall chant in **** on a summer morn
Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
Not as a god, but as a god might be,
Naked among them, like a savage source.
Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
That choir among themselves long afterward.
They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
Of men that perish and of summer morn.
And whence they came and whither they shall go
The dew upon their feet shall manifest.

       VIII
She hears, upon that water without sound,
A voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine
Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.-"
We live in an old chaos of the sun,
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable.
Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
barnoahMike Dec 2010
Push,  Pull,  Click,  Click.........and so the Instructions ,  so Plainly Printed on the Silky Smooth Paper,  SHOUTED-OUT  to the User.   The User,  Pondering in His Best State of Mind,   Glared back at  the SHOUTING black letters on the Silky smooth Paper.    Are they serious,  He wondered ?   Should I actually do EACH of these steps in Exactly the Order in which they are Presented ?   What would happen if I Suddenly ,  as if I had been Engrossed in some Deep thought,  TOTALLY  disregarded the Emphatic instructions?   The User,   not accustomed to such vivid instructions,   was at a Quandary  as to what to do ! !   Being an Observer of the Satirical  Right,  Could the User in such an Abrupt state of Mind,   Actually curb his intentions,  and TOTALLY ignore the Now Blatantly LOUD  Instructions !    SUCH Simple instructions to follow,,   OR  so the Outline  implied !   Simply start at Step #A,  then proceed to Step #B and so on and so on....    ALL the way to the End and to the FULL completion of said Task.   That's All there was TO-IT ! !    but, the words of INSTRUCTION,   Now cut-back at each glance with a much Sharper Edge now,   Making the reading a TASK of Monumental effort.    Push,  pull,  click,  click..   Just that Simple,   Printed right there in Black and White,  in BOLD Classic letter style for the user to read and complete. _WHY were the Words now *SCREAMING?   and even *YELLING ?   All I simply tried to do,  MUSED  the User,  was to "DO-IT"---"MY WAY"--!     But NO,   the next thing  I know , crowing out his words,  Here come these words   Screaming and yelling,     Just like they DIDN'T  have anything better to do ! !   Why Me.   the User was now complaining,  Why Oh,  Why Oh  ME? _"WHY-NOT"   Blared out the Instructions on the Silky Smooth Paper ?    As the EXPLOSION ripped thru  the building ,  Shattering windows as far as 3 miles away.   He COMPLETED  the Instructions,  inserted KEY in door and walked OUT to SAFETY ~ Glancing Back ,  HE   GLARED  at the Smoldering  Remnants of INSTRUCTIONS ,,  THROWING OFF SPARKS,    "AS IF IN DEFIANCE"_of those who *FOLLOW-INSTRUCTIONS"
copyright 2010    barnoahMike        Mike Ham
Steve D'Beard Apr 2016
Beggars line the busy streets
cup and cloth outstretched
the look of desperation etched on their faces
like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph

they don't ask me for spare change
just a simple nod of acknowledgement;
even after a shower and a change of clothes
I must have their look, that broken beaten look
the look of the street.

George Square is busy today
tourists happy clicking panoramic memories
admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph
a list of names they will never know
and marvel at the antiquated architecture
to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone
in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers
while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt

I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance
to the passing of a woman named Judith
the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings
knowing I've been there for 3 hours already
because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts
because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street.

The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway,
the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke
like a coal fired power station  in the sunlight
this is where they go for over-priced craft ales
with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak
a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays
dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded
the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet
that was simply spare change to begin with

I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call
pretending in mime to be semi-OK
that the compadres are running late
and "tell me about the theatre show later"
the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies
while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco
and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me
because I have the look of the street.
Work in progress
James M Vines Aug 2018
I hobble around when once I could run. I am disregarded but I still salute the flag. I gave some and some gave all, yet I went forward and would do so again if called. I am weary of battle, but few will take up the cause. Sacrifice and love of country to me, even over the screams of burn it all down. I kneel before God not in protest. I stand as best I can when my anthem is played. I pledge my allegiance to the flag and observe a quiet moment for those who cannot. I watch as people spit on my way of life and a tear fills my eye. I want to march on, but it is hard as I sometimes hurt. I am a broken soldier, fix me and I will sacrifice in your place while you sleep comfortably as I face the cold and dangerous night.
Dennis g Jan 2013
I trusted you with my heart in every direction,
You disregarded my feelings and affection,
Trusting you Is Destructive to my heart,
Like weapons of mass destruction Hidden in the dark, Trust is a weapon used against one's spark n  heart that allows love inside to park, aside from your attack loving you was my weakness, trusting another leaves my heart speechless,
Maryrose Alarcos Jun 2015
Maybe it was just me
Maybe it was all in my head
That I thought there was something more
That you were something else

Maybe it meant nothing to you
Maybe it wasn't what it seemed to be
That you did it out of pity
That you were there to merely be of comfort

After all the times we spent
After all the memories we shared
You put them all aside
You disregarded everything

I cannot blame you for it
I cannot change your mind
Because you were never mine
And I was never yours

Still, I felt no regrets
I felt only a little pain
Thankful for your existence
Thankful that we crossed paths

Someday, we shall find our own destiny
And learn to settle with our own fate
So that when we meet again
Our smiles will reflect each other's *happiness
made out of boredom
Olivia Kent Apr 2014
A barren field, now I sit wasted.
Had my time, but it's passed.
The children have grown.
Boom, bang blast.
Breaking out as flowers bloom.
Forget me nots, they are not.
As in my barren field I sit.
Unforgiven.
Proliferating as an incendiary device.
A starter of fires deep in my heart.
Filled up my mother of wombs.
Once they burned out of control.
Curse my heart and my soul.
For me, myself, I die insolvent.
Wailing in maladies of loves lost attachments.
Why may this be, I hear thee say.
I disregarded them, I wanted to play.
The heart of the matter.
Who mattered was me!
(C) Livvi
Marina Morales Sep 2014
Perhaps I peered too closely into the abysmal potholes of other people’s souls
of whom I had no business pilfering through in the first place.
Now I ponder about feelings and memories that do not belong to me
some of which are long forgotten, disregarded, or even irrelevant.
Of this information that I have unearthed and processed, I know not what to do with it.
I am perpetually preoccupied with what lies beneath the surface point, which is what pushes me forward, yet could propel me to my downfall.
I just sit here and anxiously ponder this arcane information I acquiesced
through means not noble to my standard of normal morals.
There is nothing else to do.
For I rest here in the realm of reality.
This is no novel of fiction for me to figure out.
I can’t flip through the pages of people’s plights.
Something like that does not fall within my rights.
I am a mere meddling mortal amongst other mortals.
I am no god who sits proudly upon their plethora of others’ secrets.

I am just another human being.
Something else from a year ago. I need to stay humble and worry about myself.
Alexis Garcia Oct 2013
I’ll give you that;
You were my first.
Yet you were nothing but regret,
And I still cringe when I see you packing things in a plastic bag
At the local grocery store.
Sorry it ******,
but I was high and didn’t care.

Now you,
Well you were confident and handsome
You knew how to deal with girls
And it was cruise, I would never see you again,
I was fine with that.
I had fun, thank you.
I guess I can say I’ve got with a black guy now.

We skipped school,
You and I,
Even as my third, I still didn’t love you
Even though we had dated twice before
To think that you were a varsity football ****;
I didn’t care though
And I had fun,
A good two hours of it,
But you were the one that made me realize this wasn’t doing it
That this wasn’t helping and that it made me feel worse
But oh well

Wow,
You were the most unexpected,
the unclassiest,
but probably the most fun
Probably.
We were in a car,
The cliché teenage ****;
I still think back and laugh
Because it wasn’t my car we were in, or yours for that matter
But my friend’s car
and she was driving.
You were a year younger, but rebellious
And I liked that.

Man, you ******.
It was my first time tripping,
But definitely not my first time dealing with guys like you.
I should have known,
But you were sweet,
You were a gentlemen
And you took care of me.
You made sure I was okay for my first time
I felt so good that night; new shapes and colors swirling around,
I just wanted to lie down.
I just wanted to cuddle, maybe.
Next thing I knew you were on top of me
And all I could feel was your pressure
I felt trapped,
Like I had to
I didn’t want to
But I had to
I don’t know what to think of that night anymore

I’m absolutely positive you existed,
But I can’t remember,
And that scares me.

I think you were the first one I truly cared about,
But now that I look back,
I don’t think I really did.
I loved the idea of you,
Just not you.
But it still hurts to think of it.
It wasn’t that good you know,
Maybe worse than my first,
But I disregarded that because I liked you.
And it hurt even more knowing that you didn’t like me,
That you kept denying any feelings for me.
Ill never forget the things you said right before
“Just friends, okay?”
Well it’s true what they say about sleeping with a friend
It ruined what we felt about each other
You didn’t go deep enough anyway.
Its been awkward with you ever since.
Candy Noire Aug 2014
Find a moment in which the world stops
Becomes idle for a second
Gives space to a dying mind
The membrane of a society
Driven by illusions
Is it all a façade?
The wicked ways we count our money
As if it was worth more than our soul
Worth more than sacred bodies
The wild girls tamed by the men
To close their mouths and hold their tongues
Powerless, hands bound by the ropes of promises
Promises wider than oceans
I swim deep in them
Never satisfied by a life in cold captivity
I insist these doors are left open
Submissive, obey the quiet mouths hard actions
Aching for touch, aching for love
This pretence I figure
To be a shell of what it is in books
An empty box
Embezzled with jewels
Is still an empty box
Your touch remains empty
Your heart turns it’s back to me
Turns it’s back to the warrior girls
With eyes bright with fire
Now eyes dark with ash
Now ask yourself
When did you lose the fight
Against dismissiveness?
Abandoned by the hunters
But the fights of women outweigh
Those of man
Disregarded as merely an object
But do not be fooled
My roar is louder than the thunder of a storm
My bite is harder than the sting of a hand against a thigh
My heart is larger than the mountains you can climb
My words are powerful they can break your spine
My love is fierce, as ferocious as I.
I wrote this based around love and the idea that men are seen as the main power in a relationship. Women are taught that *** is their identity when really there is so much more to them, so much power and soul that stands them apart.
Todd Aug 2018
Every time I went to the bar, I saw him sitting there.
It didn’t matter what day it was,
didn’t matter if it was early or late.
The same man was sitting in the same spot, alone.
Some days he was nursing a beer,
other days he’d be sipping coffee,
but every day he’d be sitting there, alone.
I never heard him speak a word,
the bartender would bring him a new drink
when his was empty, he’d pay and leave a tip,
all without speaking.
There were times I’d feel compelled to speak to him,
make small talk, try to draw him out of his shell.
But, somehow, I could never bring myself to.
Maybe it was because he never looked at people,
not even when the bar was crowded,
or when someone bumped into him.
Maybe it was the look on his face,
neither smiling nor frowning, utterly blank.
Even thought I could never speak to him
I looked for him every time I was there.
Eventually I noticed, he didn’t just sit,
he was writing in a notebook.
Not constantly, he’d sit, stare off into space for a while,
then pick up his pencil, write furiously for a moment,
then stare off into space again.
Once noticed, the notebook was as constant as he,
a thick, five subject notebook, looking battered and worn.
When I first noticed it, he was barely a fourth
of the way into it.
Watching him became kind of an obsession,
I felt drawn, compelled.
Sometimes I would walk past him,
try to see what he was writing,
I never could.
Some nights he’d only fill a page or two,
other nights, whatever muse inspired him
led him to fill a dozen or more.
As time went by I watched him progress,
slowly, but steadily through his notebook.
Halfway, three quarters,
until one night, he reached the end.
My curiosity was still burning,
maybe he had just finished
the next great American novel,
or maybe a screenplay
that I’d soon be paying to see.
Even more than that, I wondered,
now that his project was done,
would he become sociable?
He waved away the bartender, who was approaching,
a fresh drink in his hand.
He sat and stared for a moment,
then wrote a brief something
on the inside of the back cover.
With that, he closed the notebook,
placed his mechanical pencil on the top of it,
placed it gently, almost reverently, and stood.
I watched him walk out the door,
wondering if I’d see him the next time I came out,
perhaps with a new notebook.
When I looked back at this seat,
I saw that he had forgotten his notebook.
I grabbed it, rushed out the door,
hoping to catch him, to give it to him.
When I got out the door, he was nowhere to be seen.
I was about to head back inside, leave it at the bar.
I was sure he’d be back for it soon.
I paused with my hand on the door, battling with myself.
I wanted to look inside, see what he had written,
yet I knew it was private,
he had never shown it to anyone.
I ended up taking it home, unopened.
I figured I’d return the next night, give it to him.
I’d assure him that I didn’t read it, and then maybe,
maybe he’d tell me what it was.
But when I returned the next night, he wasn’t there.
I left my name and number with the bartender,
said to have him call me if he came looking for it.
A week went by, with no call.
I returned to the bar but he wasn’t there,
the bartender told me that he hadn’t been in
since that last time I had seen him there.
I couldn’t believe it,
I was sure that the notebook was very important to him,
and said as much to the bartender.
As I said this, there was a tap on my shoulder,
I turned to see a guy that I had seen at the bar before,
seen him, but had never spoken with him.
“You must be talking about Peter, always sat right there.”
He pointed to the writer’s usual spot, and I nodded.
“Sorry to tell you this, but he’s dead.
Hung himself about a week ago.”
He walked away and I left the bar,
unsure of how to feel.
I got home, picked up the notebook,
it seemed to weigh a hundred pounds.
I wondered if it was the loss of the notebook
that had driven him to suicide.
I disregarded that thought,
he hadn’t even come back that night,
to look for it.
I put the notebook down on my nightstand, still unopened.
I had trouble trying to sleep,
feeling more grief than was warranted,
after all, I had never spoken with him.
Mixed with the grief, was guilt,
maybe if I had spoken, had reached out...
Finally, I fell into a restless sleep,
riddled with half-formed nightmares.
I woke early the next morning, not rested,
the notebook sill on my nightstand
where I had left it.
I picked it up, considered throwing it away,
after all, it wasn’t mine.
But instead, I sat on my bed and opened it.
His penmanship was neat, precise,
almost too tiny to read.
The first page was simple, a list,
titled “The List of My Regrets”.
Nothing shocking in the list, no major sins or crimes.
Friends he didn’t believe,
people he never got to know better,
women he never asked out.
The next page he had doodled on,
a series of geometric shapes, some simple,
some complex, others placed just so,
to form a stark face.
I flipped through the pages, reading some,
skimming others, a third of the way in
I found a poem.
There was more raw emotion on this page
then I had felt in my entire life.
The poem was about love,
and all the expected images were there,
but somehow he had constructed it in such a way
that reading it saddened me nearly to the point of tears.
There were other poems, as I worked my way through the notebook,
even some short stories.
Some pages only had a few words written,
but even these sparse entries had a feeling of finality, of completeness.
Even though everything I had read gave the feeling
of rightness, some sort of unexplained symmetry,
the tone kept growing darker, more somber,
as I neared the end.
The last poem, on the last page, written on his last night alive,
made me weep with it’s simple purity.
“A life filled with loneliness warms nobodies soul.”
The last line of his last poem.
I felt more guilt now than ever, if I had tried,
maybe I could have made a difference.
Maybe I could have eased his loneliness,
warmed his soul,
saved his life.
Then I read what he had jotted down,
on the inside of the back cover,
the last thing he had ever written.
Just three lines.
“I know you’ll take this notebook
and I want you to know,
it’s not your fault.”
More crap from my leaky mind
Anneke Nov 2014
I am dead weight
to everyone around me.

Like coal,
I was a sizzling and crackling inferno,
until the only thing left
was a clump of
Burnt.
Used.
Lifeless.
Coal.

I burden other people
leaving marks
on those
I've barely touched.

I am everyone's coal.
The baggage everyone carries.
The trash thrown away.
The item disregarded, not worthy of living.
Not even given a chance to make a name of itself.
Burnt.
Used.
Lifeless.
Coal.
Tyonna A Jul 2013
No one ever cares to ask how am I feeling.
I always assure that everyone is feeling okay Though noone ever checks on me.
My problems are disregarded.
There are situations worst than mine of course.
I am never the receiver of advice.
But I always give it.
No one cares how sad I may be.
No one cares to comfort me.
No one cares to know.
No one gives me answers.
No one gives me anything.
I dont get help.
After all,
I am the helper.
Katie Miller May 2019
Clumsy Love

It was clumsy the day they first met

A hot day in New York City, photography at a baseball game, purple hair, and overpriced lemonade. There was a 15 year-old girl and her friend, and there was a slight fangirl moment when meeting a 17 year old boy who was famous school-wide for his singing and acting. There was an exchange of names, a photograph, and a friendship.

It was clumsy the second day, too.

Persistently bought coffee from the little round shop with way too many sugar packets, a misguided museum employee, too much root beer, and pigeons that were startled by the boy yelling “44!”

The third day was no less clumsy.

There was a broadway show in Shubert Alley, an unknown desire, and a sleepless night for the boy, though the girl remained ignorant of his new-found crush. If only the girl knew that a year from now, a promposal would be reenacted, a first kiss would be given and taken, and “I love you” would be said. If only the boy knew that his “immature” desire would be replaced with love, and passion, and, well, her. If only they knew what would happen in the next 365 days.

It was clumsy that one night in the pool.

A sticky, humid heat in the air, string lights hung over head, four friends swimming in the girls pool, stars in the sky, and the boy, throwing the girl into the pool simply because he could. The girl loved him then, though she wouldn’t allow herself to think about it, so they remained as they were: friends.

It was clumsy that day in Hershey Park.

There were sharp turn on the Wild Mouse, a stranger met and then lost again, and the boy, who kept telling the girl of other boys who were staring at her. Maybe it was his secret way of telling her that he thinks she’s beautiful, but she never knew.

It was clumsy in the movie theater.

There was crab rangoon and smuggled sushi, an 11:00 movie about superheroes, and a returned wish to hold a girl’s hand, though the girl, somehow, remained oblivious still.

It was clumsy in September and November.

There was a girl with a broken heart, betrayal from the friends from New York, a different boy who was never meant to be, and the boy who was meant to be, listening to every word, watching every tear, and slowly, unknowingly, fixing her heart. Through three hourlong video calls, text messages, and abandoned lunch periods he loved her still, though he remained the friend that he knew she needed.

It was clumsy in December.

There was a realization of how much he meant to her, a lot of poems, a revelation of jealousy of the girl who was flirting with him, and a lot of tears. There was a still 15 year old girl and a now 18 year old boy, and she allowed herself to fall, in the clumsiest way possible, into him.

If was clumsy on Valentine's day.

There was a singing Valentine, as well as one with a bad pun, there was a comparison to a sister, there was a"Crazy Little Thing Called Love" and there was a hug. A question was asked that day "Does he like her?", But was disregarded with a shrug "He said she was like a sister, so I guess not". It stung her her heart just a little, but she accepted the hit that was unintentionally given. And clumsily, once again, she laughed and smiled, after all, he and to her.

If was clumsy at the cabaret Cafe.

There was some pie and ice cream, a song sung to her, though she only wished he meant it that way, a slippery cafeteria for and tights, a confession, and two questions. The confession being to him, that she was happy to know him, a question to her, does she like him, to which she lied "no", and when the question was returned, the boy avoided an answer when the girl returned a question.

It was clumsy the Monday afterwards.

It was clumsy when he wouldn't meet her eyes. She still can't explain how much that hurt her, it stabbed at her heart and caught in her throat. After all: her best friend didn't even want to look at her. Her heart was slippery and clumsy as it sunk towards her stomach. There were tears during first period, and a text after school from the girl who apologized for lying because she liked him after all, and was too afraid of rejection to tell him before, yet no confirmation came from him.

It was clumsy on March 3rd.

There were poems, missing heart beats, and grammar mistakes. There was relief and there was fear. There was nervousness for the next day, knees shaking, heart racing as she turned every corner, waiting to see his face.

It was clumsy on March 16th.

When she fell to the ground. There are six pink roses, a stuffed turtle named Cleopatra, and a PowerPoint slide with a pun. There was an expectation he had wished to live up to and there was success. She fell to the ground and feel into his arms and they both cried of happiness and shock.

It was clumsy on March 18th.

There were silent cellos, empty risers, a dark room and racing heartbeats. There were seven kisses before saying goodbye, they were her first. There were two definitions of perfect, coincidentally, there were also two names. There was a broken water bottle and a boy in a parking lot. There was a girl, now sixteen, and a boy, now eighteen, and they were talking in love in the dark.

It was clumsy on April 3rd.

There was a stairwell, a thought, a confession, and an "I love you" returned in the same breath of air held between them.

It was clumsy in the hammock.

There was an unbalanced swaying, a list of questions and answers, and a metaphor about falling.

It was clumsy at lunch.

There was an attempted hug, an accidental tackle, and a girl who tripped over her own feet.

It was clumsy yesterday, it is clumsy today, and it will be clumsy tomorrow.

There was New York City, coffee, Broadway in Shubert Alley, root beer, Hershey Park and movie theaters. There was a broken heart, video calls, realizations, poems, songs, and apple pie with ice cream. There were grammar mistakes, pink roses, turtles, teddy bears, silent cellos, risers, absent heartbeats, and stairwells. There was love unreturned from fear of rejection born from the roots of doubt. And then, there was love, and memories, and secrets. And they became them, and "us" was their new favorite word.
Paris Adamson Dec 2012
We are lovers in color,
salted scents that stick to covers.
Splayed out on your coral-reef couch
hackneyed and bleeding,
bleary but needing,
I've settled quietly into your imprints of indifference.

Stale ***** tongue                                                           ­     I'm late for work.
      speaks insipidity:                                                      ­       Shower if you want to.
                                                            ­                                 Lock the door as you leave.
                                                         ­                                      It was nice seeing you.

I lay there greying all morning.
Soaking into everything, your carpet seas
brine my feeble, shadow-casting lesions.
                               
        Unsure if you've left me ***** or clean                 (this time)
I drag my body down your tainted hallway.
In stark fluorescence, there is no clarity
but the echoes, like reflections
of the emptiness of eve.

Blood-letter run dry
          somehow still high,
                                                ****** into the thoughtlessness
                                                 ­                                                      of
                                                              ­                                                       your
                                                                ­                                                                 ­     tides
                                                                ­                                                             (I am disregarded, but alive.)
I have recently asked a number of friends what their favorite word in the English language is. I have used each single word as a starting off point for a poem. Here is poem 1.
April Hapner Apr 2012
It's Cold and Deserted
Like a ghost-town,
In the middle of Nowhere
Barren, Dry, [...] seeking the life of Rain
Easily Ignited,
By the slightest Flicker of Fire,
Ones of life, passion, and certainly-- Desire...
Shivering to Death inside,
What secrets does it Hide?

Hungry for affection,
In a desolate arena,
Lost... in a sea of Faces,
Seeking the moment,
to Quench her Thirst,
Wondering, Who first?

On the prowl,
Like a Lioness,
Simple in nature
Convincing the others,
in the matter of dress
Desiring only the affection of an embrace
Seeking the chance,
To Have the prey she Stalks in Stealth
Have her, Face to Face.

It's a Warm,
Welcome Change
in the Barren, Dry, Abandoned Cold
to have the Urge to Curve Hunger
and Quench the thirst...
With just a Singular look.

Enraptured with thought
From the slightest sense...
one wonders why
She Strayed from This?

Cold and Barren
Very understanding
Now a Martyr in her Own Equation
in mathematics AND her love life
causing her to be Reprimanded
And Shunned From Sight.

Instead of trying to find the words,
OR Making her opinion heard,
Here she sits,
amongst her peers,
Against the wall--
Waiting-- for one step,
One Dance--
A True Romance?

to fall, enumerate the senses
will she ever get it?
or will she wait--
in glances?
or short sentences?

stricken down, unwillingly
given a moment, Just Breathe
struggling, to keep up time
wondering if--
she's on his mind...

is it only admiration?
of the male incorporation--
to only denote, then abandon-- with fury
and see the lights of the big city?

having come unglued
un-stitched, ripped at the seams,
still-starving...

often choosing between hunger and thirst
thirst often wins
only through the sweet touch
a moment of shared bliss
dreamt on-- gentle, kiss. [getting listless]
competition, she recognized
"i'm awfully behind"
without play, and force fed
flown south, back to bed

to ignite the dry, barren, abandoned arena
to have it all for the Assumption
that it all may be for the next
prey sought, never forgotten

work on self
glow,flow, and blow a fuse
life still desolate
possible, emotionally-- called abuse?

"why the lies?"
secretly, she began to despise
the person, the predator, the fear,
now revamped,
Her personal rage, to Rattle His Cage,
show his Immaturity,
oh to be so humane
his loss, his soul to blame,
all her gain, to remain Sane.

she was left barren
when all three blessings were--
revoked, token--unapproved
wrapped in a disregarded blood market
filled with pain
never should this lioness feel
the loss of something real
or ever again.

often lost in translation
stuck watching the station
now a change in the weather?
or just the same?

to be cold,
the felt desertion, abandonment
now becoming the predator
and opening the line of communication
realizing, that the isolation
is the best medication.
This was started 1/2010, finished 6/ 2010. it took so long to write because it is my own personal account, and if you read carefully-- you can feel what I have battled with the abusive relationship I often refer to as hell for me. But this is the emotional down fall post that relationship.
In walks One,
So it begins with Primal desire!
On stumbles Two,
And Heaven and Hell brutally conspire!
Here comes Three,
Bow down to the Holy Man!
Standing in the corner is Four,
My Love constantly alters his contour!
Lying outstretched is Five,
All his senses irrevocably combined!
That precise symmetry is Six,
What Luck his Lady must bring!
The Sinister player is Seven,
Deviously uniting mortality and divinity!
Nose in the air is Eight,
His Perfection won’t dare be disregarded!
Out walks Nine,
His destination distinctly Eternity!

And here I stand, curiously observing the scene,
Figuring life is nothing but Numerical Folly!
Kimberly Rae May 2010
Thrown aside shattered, broken…
I’m in tiny pieces
A reflection of a half lived existence
of one great big sad lie.

it’s funny what we settle for
in times where we want more.
it’s clever that your words are exactly
what my ears have longed to hear.
it’s sad that all they’ll ever be are meaningless.
promises you made but never meant to keep.

I’m in pieces here
disregarded
you left me on my own.
I’m in pieces here
I gave you all my love
but you don’t want it anymore.

Ego bruised, Heart torn
the melancholy of me blows restless
on these winds of change.
I’m not sure how I can carry on.

it’s crazy the lengths we go to
just to keep from being alone.
it’s maddening how easy
you can walk right out that door.
it’s scary to fall so helpless
into the darkness of what’s no more.

I’m in pieces here
disregarded
you left me on my own.
I’m in pieces here
I gave you all my love
but you don’t want it anymore.

you don’t want me anymore.

Unpublished work © 2010 Kimberly Rae Albright
Samara Nov 2023
birthed into a golden birdcage
safe behind upstanding spindles
endless nectars and suet at your beckon
knowing only the showcase of your plumage
and the sound of your tunes

layers remain
between you and the grackles
painted a nuisance
yet they stay unshackled
only poisoned and disregarded.

still they know the freedoms
not found atop
swings and perches
dig deeper
until you find what lurches.

the gate can be opened
when you realize yourself
to be the gatekeeper
yielding what's mine
using wings of more than feathers
making up for lost time.

looking back at the captivity
you couldn't see from inside.
entering a new world
with the grackle as my guide.
me again Oct 2017
the most dangerous person I know was a beautiful girl,
with a singing voice like white chalk:
when you came into contact with that voice, even momentarily
you found your fingertips lightly dusted
and the taste of chalk in your lungs
She settled on you.

This girl left pieces of herself everywhere--
anchors.
to things she knew should be
important to her, but instead she couldn't find the commitment
enough to make them important.

she could only find
fragments of a conversation
about anything
that affirmed her
self-importance
or made her feel
important.
even if only for a second.

she disregarded the pain that lumbered just beneath those
glimmering retinas,
only to step closer and see the light
was just a reflection of whatever stood before her.

so she anchored herself to humans.
she chose to connect with people
based on the "mutual" stars in
their eyes.
and how they felt important.
she anchored herself to
the expectations held aloof in
the eyes of her unattached lover.
Eyes that swam with the imaginary meetings and hopefulness
to obtain girls not her.

and so she swam.

at first, she treaded water like it the thing to do in the eyes of your
"lover"
then, the ropes she tied to herself
to make anchors began to drag her down.

the people she anchored herself to reached out as far as the cold depths would allow
but she refused to tread the last few feet and take hold
of a shoreline filled with
finite praise for not drowning herself.

The most dangerous girl I knew
made drowning the important thing.
and now she waits, sunken and waterlogged
with the weight of eyes that are not hers.

The eyes of her lover, who sparkle artificially
as the light is just a reflection of whatever stands in front of him.
friendships that feel like relationships. she made it my problem. and everyone else's..

— The End —