"dystopia" poems
You are my pink skies with candy floss clouds
My open fields flooded far and wide with cherry blossoms
and green feathered sparrows singing tunes of your favourite songs that sound kinda-something-sorta like your voice,
The walls in my castle populated perfectly with portraits of you
and you already know portraits are my favourite.
Somehow my imagination bound beautifully with my reality such that I could tell no difference.
You are my Utopia.
But utopia is subject to interpretation.
You like candy floss occasionally, pink is not your favourite colour and I do not even know what your favourite flower is
Without forgetting to mention, you prefer beaches.
You like puns, peaches, foxes and fairies but my world has none of that, I want to accept those but you will not have it any other way.
I want our worlds to collide but in a more subtle way, but when that kinda thing happens it is almost always apocalyptic
So, what is yours will never be mine and what is mine you do not even want at all.
My utopia sounds like it belongs in a book, but we all know how long that lasts.
Be sure to check out Utopian Dystopia Pt. 2!
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 2:00 PM UTC
I’m buried in a cocoon of stories
From poetry,
To biographies,
To dystopia,
And romance
So many stories
Of so many people
Real,
Or just figments of the author’s
Imagination
Sitting atop wooden bookshelves
Waiting for the right person,
To pick them up
And get lost in their story
For everyone has a story to tell,
Some are overly exaggerated,
And other’s are rarely heard
The important thing is
That we share our stories
Through word of mouth,
The internet,
Or in a notebook
To be found by future historians
Tell your story
Believe me, you won’t regret it
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 4:41 PM UTC
When the
mess bred
by ancient
logicians
is put to rest
and we dicover:
The chicken
and the egg
hatched
in two
different
places at
the same time;
Love was
an inverse
relationship
between lust
and time;
Infinity was
a universe
we couldn't see.
Will conversation
cease?
Will silence
replace
speech?
Will the larynx
become a vestige?
How will
we debate
the notes
that compose
silence?
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
only wanted to enjoy the same unusual things
with like-minded people
the concierge of dystopia fnording *******
messing around with the octopus
cyberpunk nightmare with blue sky
expect a deluge and then wonder what happened to it
evaporated anxiety due for a downpour
catacombs rented by the hour
she typically cares about those
who don't care about her
abandoning me without consequence
don't ever come back
ungrateful swine of nowhere!
loyalty exists only in a parallel universe
where they locked themselves up
and destroyed the key
they feed the rich and ignore the poor
in the end the strugglers will prevail
and the ones who had it easy will suffer
game shows that punish the ignorant
rage that never ends
scoring infinite points in basketball
and still losing the game
only wanted to enjoy the same unusual things
with like-minded people
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
We are the people that you created.
A generation going nowhere.
We are the kids that you hated
Brought up by fear sinking lower
The technology era,
distinguished by guns and violence.
Raised and spoiled
telling us silence
Alienated from each other.
Passion and empathy completely diminished.
A dystopian world,or another
word unfinished
ruled by liars and thieves.
the government is like a
tree with falling leaves
Break away from the hate.
Become a better generation.
Before it’s to late
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
The first suicide hit like a bullet
BANG
One of us dead, and at his own hand
The tension in the hallways filed into the ears of all those who walked
through its thick silence
It was a struggle to move through the heavy weight of a quiet hallway
People cried, whether they knew him or not
Teachers made promises,
“It’s worth it,” he said “I swear to you, it’s worth it.”
A moment of silence for the boy who is no longer living,
Whose hidden pain was known by none
Whose family will never be the same
Whose future which once was mystery, is nothing but imaginary
The second suicide hit like a rock
THUNK
The hallways rang with growing confusion,
At every turn, each whisper faded into the next in a mirage of sadness
But mostly confusion
Letters were handed out, but there was no time for more tears and
speeches
They had postponed the moment of silence for the girl who is no longer living,
Whose hidden pain was known by none
Whose family will never be the same
Whose future which once was mystery, is nothing but imaginary
The third suicide did not hit
SWOOSH
It was not silent anymore
There was laughing and talking, as the excitement of yesterday’s
football victory buzzed throughout noisy hallways
The letters were passed out late and no one read them
Teachers continued with their lesson plans
Students continued with their joke making and picture taking
Because people don’t have to keep caring after strike three
There was no moment of silence for the boy who is no longer living
Whose hidden pain was known by none
Whose family will never be the same
Whose future which once was mystery, is nothing but imaginary
This is our dystopia
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
Outside it's raining fire
Inside we're burning snow
The world seemed like a safe place once
Now I don't really know.
My people fall around me
Their blood the color of the sky
Crimson clouds dot the horizon
I have no more tears to cry.
The wind picks up it's forces
I look on to see them go
Skeletal carriages drawn by dead horses
And they wonder why they descend so slow.
I open my eyes and see it
In the field of red and green
She stands there cracked wide open
Our beautiful, dying queen.
I thought that I could fix this
Whatever this may be
But sweat and tears make oceans
And now we're drifting off to sea.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
You used to be my pink skies and cotton candy clouds but now everything is grey, rainy and miserable.
And it makes me want to cry.
We're going in a different direction now and I am not the one who pulled the steering wheel.
I no longer see my open fields flooded far and wide with cherry blossoms and all the green sparrows have flown away.
They are crying now and I can no longer hear your voice.
Instead, it is all a barren wasteland. And the sand is not even at least the beautiful orange the Sahara desert always is.
All the portraits in my castle have gone blank. The castle itself, war torn, brought down to rubble as a result of the battle I fought within myself.
I may have lost the battle but I have not yet lost the war. I hope.
Unfortunately, our worlds did not collide as subtly as I had prayed. It was a violent mishap, an event outside of time.
I sit silently and alone in the centre of my dreams as I have witnessed them being violently washed away by ocean waves with my hands tied and bound by my admiration for you.
You like beaches right? That has to mean something, maybe a reason for you to stay a little longer.
You are my Dystopia.
But dystopia is subject to interpretation.
And what is yours will never be mine and what is mine you do not even want at all.
My dystopia sounds like it belongs in a book, but we all know how long that lasts.
Be sure to check out Utopian Dystopia Pt. 1!
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
A series
of short puffs
from a rekindled
cigarette expertly put out
on the half
reminds you of your
fastidiousness
now you feel like **** as you look
at the wreckage site
of a desk that
is your own doing
That is what you do.
While your ego
floats like the unmelted
coffee you put in cold water
Hardly dissolvable
to anything normal
missing anything temporal
You lash out once more
waging a war
with a nation
of thoughts
You kick the furniture
to send the dust flying
That is what you do.
You attempt to sheathe
an intricate wound
patterned on your
knuckle, as detailed as the
dystopia of your
own human agenda that
can be trivialized by just
"I haven't been myself lately"
when somebody asks
because you're afraid
they might see
you find it
hard
to
belong
Slowly, the dust resorts to settle
on the bedroom floor
And so do you.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 4:31 AM UTC
The worst form
of a dystopia
is the utmost
Utopia
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
The name Theodore has its Greek anthropologies, Jewish anthropologies and also Germany anthropologies. The Greek anthropological perspective of The name Theodore indeed has something to do with the gods.However, the Greek way of looking at life was a frustrated thinking.To them everything was a god. They had a plethora of gods; utopia,cacotopia, Thespis, muse, clio, calypso, and Theodore was a half a god like Gabriel who impregnanted Mary on behalf of God as Joseph the cuckold carpenter patiently looked musing the ballad of a cuckold peasant . So Theodore and Gabriel were godsend.I have not delved to know what it means among the Jews, But am aware of the the cultural and anthropological surroundings of the name Theodore in Germany . It is a name of a male person signifying extra-masculine behavior. I also write poetry in Deutsch, so i know substantial cultural values of the people of Germany. Like in this case the modern social naming systems . I am aware of the anthropology of this Deutsch nomenclatural position.Why would link this name to Greeks but not Germany may due to some silent social and emotional disposition in Europe that the English speaking Europeans have a soft spot for the Greek culture.While at the same time they become victims of high adrenaline level when exposed to anything Germany. they always get repulsed when the word Germany is mentioned.So one's thesis on nomenclatural values of the name Theodore depends on which side of European consciousness one is found; is it Germany friendly consciousness or Germany threatened consciousness? The dystopic component of the name Theodore is purely cacotopic with zero element of utopia , as extra-masculinity is a swine of engendered civilization all the times.
Yours
Alexander k Opicho
NB/ i kindly invite Theodore to come to Kenya so that we do a joint research on the Swahili perspectives of the name Theodore, in Kiswahili the name Theodore is subverted to bwana tadayo
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
My dystopia is a blue and gray painting
A blurry eyed vision of you losing your smile
A slurred and distorted visit to a promise broken
It's watching the wind defeat the ocean
My fears and worries so great
They weigh down my hope
And bring my dreams to an underground dispair
A seven knotted rope becoming a noose
My dystopia is knowing that you love me
A star-crossed heaven and funeral pyres
Its silence and darkness as a home
Its bitter ashes from a dead sun
A black hole that swallows
An empty earth we shared
Finally meeting the event horizon
Its our destruction
My dystopia is the thought you walk
Away and always as all I need
It's watching as you leave me
Forever
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 2:19 AM UTC
Over on the crescent wing
The bitter gales bring waves of rain:
Listen. Frozen windows sing.
Enraptured by the searing pain
Like pestilence in hurricane.
Buildings rise up to the halls
Impenetrable planet-bane
As summer lost, and spring withal.
Then the writhing storm-clouds bring
A storm of ice and wind again:
The sun rears up, but sets during.
And past the steel-laden plane
Silver orbs first wax, then wane
Then plaster to the mighty wall
Midnight buses, lane-by-lane,
Of nature not, but city fool.
Ascended like a spiteful King
The whispers rise, then sink in shame
No sound is here, no, not a thing.
Soaking in like liquor-stains
The buildings survey their domain
Not city-life, nor life at all;
They wander in the pouring rain
Where love is lost beneath the sprawl.
Tears and laughter, much the same
All are whispers, doomed to fall.
Dystopia without a name:
Not so distant after all.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 5:19 PM UTC
tell me why
the people who want to change the world
are the ones that have nothing
but the ones who refuse to change anything
have everything-
money, notoriety, and most notable of all
greed.
can some please explain why
we send money to hungry kids overseas
yet we're blind to the young ones
that are starving right in front of us?
i just want to know why a hijab is
considered a weapon in america
but a gun is not.
more importantly what i don't understand
is how come women slave around for 9 months
producing the human race
yet we have no choice over our own bodies?
we have made "progress"
things are apparently "moving ahead"
however, the right-wingers are putting that into your mind.
if you look really close at what's happening
you'll see you've been living an american lie.
no one is free, really,
no freedom of love
or freedom our bodies
we are the property of a corrupt government
that apparently nurture us but only lie to us in the end.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 5:40 PM UTC
I am your Dystopian girl
got a black leather vest
here at the bottom of the world,
wearing shades so I can't see the decline.
I stand in the dark and wait for nothing
under this rusted and broken street lamp.
Heat from crowded streets and hustling alleys
keeps the blood moving in my veins for now.
Lament if you need, cry if you want
buy into the creed, it's Dystopia baby
that we made by hand with our friends
we like to call misery and disease.
We're always looking for a hero
to step up to the plate but the
early bird special is apathy baked.
It's Dystopia baby, wake up and smell the decay.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
Large city filled with empty people,
Hollow husks of what we used to be,
Dreams lay abandoned on the street,
I wish to be set free.
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 3:56 AM UTC
Not a single truth is presented to you, as actors, cameras, and green screens adjust the magnitude of your opinions, and attitudes.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
Alexander K OPICHO
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
from north in Kaduna of Okigbo to south in the Rhoben Island
of Mazizi Kunene and D M Zwelonke who sang the song of Shaka;
in Zulu Heroism that beautified our face in the armpit of Ezkia Mphalele,
the sons of Africa in the knighthood of poetry,chantery and incantations
you are hailed with with glory and dignity for your service to humanity
your service to literature and gods of poetry in the spirit of the song
that we chant in the spirit of love and peace the glory of hour heritage
is an eyesore to the lazy ; who though ill will can stop the flow of African river,
Sing our songs and chant our spirituals as you write our poems
open your poetic ***** for the world is a ******
in which the seed of African poetry will plummet and flower
to glory of man the essence of Godliness,
Let Soyinka and Achebe sing our songs without fear of home
As Okot P' Btek revamps from the ashes like a phoenix
to re-plant the bumpkin in the old homestead of Taban Lo Liyong
Who sang the cacotpic song in the dystopia of black diaspora
when he saw another ****** dead in the guest for Nocturnes of Senghor
who feared Marxist poetry and African songs which Aime Cesaire chanted
in the mayoralty of Paris.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
I would hate to live in a world with you by my side,
at least now I do.
Who knows? Maybe by next week I’ll feel different
because that’s just how we are,
how we always were.
Stability was never a part of the plan for us,
settling wasn’t an option,
nor was it desired.
In a perfect world, you would be mine,
but in a perfect world, you wouldn’t exist.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
_las mujeres nacen de la tierra en la gloria de la más alta_
dys·to·pi·an/disˈtōpēən/adjective: dystopian:
relating to or denoting an imagined place
or state in which everything is unpleasant or bad,
typically a totalitarian or environmentally degraded one;
_"the dystopian future of a society bereft of reason"_
noun: dystopian; plural noun: dystopians:
a person who advocates or describes
an imagined place or state in which
everything is unpleasant or bad;
"a lot of things those dystopians feared did not come true"
[A dystopia from the Greek δυσ- "bad" & τόπος "place";
alternatively, _cacotopia, kakotopia_],
or simply anti-utopia; a community or society
that is undesirable or frightening; It is translated
as "not-good place" & is an antonym of utopia,
a term coined by Sir Thomas More
par·a·dise/ˈperəˌdīs/noun
noun: paradise; plural noun: paradises
in some religions; heaven as the ultimate abode of the just,
heaven, the kingdom of heaven, the heavenly kingdom,
Elysium, the Elysian Fields, Valhalla, Avalon;
"the souls in paradise"
the abode of Adam and Eve before the Fall
in the biblical account of Creation;
the Garden of Eden/noun: Paradise, Eden
"Adam and Eve's expulsion from Paradise"
an ideal or idyllic place or State;
"the surrounding countryside is a streetwalker's paradise"
Utopia, Shangri-La, heaven, idyll, nirvana;
"a tropical paradise"
bliss, heaven, ecstasy, delight, joy,
happiness, nirvana, heaven on earth
_a ********** who seeks customers on the street_
"this is sheer paradise!"
Middle English: from Old French paradis,
via ecclesiastical Latin from Greek paradeisos
‘enclosed royal park,’ from Avestan pairidaēza ‘enclosure, park.’
_Superficies terræ puella_
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
alexander k opicho
(eldoret,kenya;[email protected])
Theodorousness is now on me
it will eat me with aghast ravenity
where will I hide my body
an ugly and ripe corpus of my tomfoolery
where will I exile my gadabout heritage
flipping the world in quest for cultural bliss
when Masculine theodority is relentless
in the Armour of intellectual masculinity
determined to thrash the sludge of flappishness
out of my rectitude heart that is pulsing in derogatory fear
where will i pigeonhole myself from the theodorous theodoristy
of herculean Theodore
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
you draw your self hatred out like a kid draws out small pictures
and play double dutch with the hands on a clock, knowing how
unsafe it is out there, flirting with death and flicking me off when
i wrote out the reasons why you should stay, that this autumn fallout
is only a misconstruction of your mind's witching hour, that dystopia
won't linger and utopia will be home soon, it will blossom into your lungs
and turn the simplicity of your broken soul into something completely
quintessential and complex, like an origami rabbit, i fold my sharp edges
and twist myself to be malleable and secure for you, maybe i'm not too certain
of myself or you, but i'm not too certain on a lot of subjects, i'm worried
of being thrown into the arsonist world you started, covering up the sky with
black dense fog, the type of fog that would happen only in dangerous wildfires
i'm a controlled wildfire, but i let my fire spread just to help control your fire
- kra
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 5:23 AM UTC
The melody of the strings of life
a substitution for the institution
take my arm, let it reach a far
in creativity and sensitivity
beats bouncing the zombies
from the graves of impotency
created by mundane manipulation
mutilations of the happiness we long
as we capture the tides of everyday
The harmony of the universal love
screaming with a tantalizing mission
a remission from the decay of the society
sugar coated with lengthy dices of lies
then iced with laces of illusionary secretions
tis' me who embrace the skin you wear
as we seek a new phase of revolution
solutions that are delusional and waking
rising through ever dense curved valley
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC