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Riot May 2014
if girls care so much about their hair
why do they take someone elses?
Staring out the window
through the raindrops and my tears
i see my past go by me
as I travel through the years

I'm sitting on a greyhound
all I own is down below
The darkness hides my bruises
and my inner scars don't show

I tell myself "it's time"
I know just where I'm at
I tell myself "it's time"
I know it's time that....

It's time that I took back my life
It's mine..**** it...mine
It's no one elses...it's my life
It's time...yes...it's time
I'm taking back my life at last
Once again I will be me
I'm gonna find out who I was
It's time that I was free

Married nearly fifteen years
with a dozen blackened eyes
More broken bones than I could count
Fixed by I love you....broken lies

I still don't know just what I did
To have love shown this way
I buried myself deep inside
I hid my life I guess you'd say


I tell myself "it's time"
I know just where I'm at
I tell myself "it's time"
I know it's time that....

It's time that I took back my life
It's mine..**** it...mine
It's no one elses...it's my life
It's time...yes...it's time
I'm taking back my life at last
Once again I will be me
I'm gonna find out who I was
It's time that I was free

He doesn't know just where I am
In fact, neither do I
And watching through the rain streaked glass
It's easy now to cry

The nurses called the cops this time
Gave me money...and said run
He'll spend the night in lockup
And you'll be gone before the sun


I tell myself "it's time"
I know just where I'm at
I tell myself "it's time"
I know it's time that....

It's time that I took back my life
It's mine..**** it...mine
It's no one elses...it's my life
It's time...yes...it's time
I'm taking back my life at last
Once again I will be me
I'm gonna find out who I was
It's time that I was free

I have never had this feeling
Not in many many years
There's a voice deep down inside
That's been stifled by my fears

I'm taking back my life from you
I'm me and not your wife
I'm no longer your old punching bag
I'm taking back my life...
I'm taking back my life
I'm taking back my life
Amanda Stoddard Jul 2015
I got 99 problems but hip-hop ain't one.

"Poetry, that's a part of me, retardedly bop
I drop the ancient manifested hip-hop straight off the block"
Nas and Jigga beef was the first I heard of drama in the music industry-
fueled me as a youngin' crowned from my brother's love of it.
Fast forward to when the radio put me on-
in the garage, on my mongoose
I heard someone spitting through the stereo
didn't pay much mind until a high-pitched voice rang through.
"Through the wire-"
no "through the fire?"
I couldn't understand but this dude started rhyming
and speaking through the speakers at me
my hair raised up and I knew this was love-
smile on my face at first listen
never really heard anything like it.
I thought back to the first song like that I heard-
"Life's a ***** and then you die-"
knew that line all too well
resonation in my bones didn't feel so much like a stranger-
my young self started spitting around the older crowd
they looked down and smiled-
a sense of admiration.
Hip-hop was my way in my ticket to acknowledgment.
Started listening to Eminem before I was even 10.
5th grade on the bus rides to and from field trips
"Shut the **** up guys I'm trying to listen"
headphones in, finally found someone to relate
so many thoughts of suicide being taken away-
realized the radio wasn't really my thing
too much pop and not enough soul
the words they sang were nothing to me.
In the beginning hip-hop was just a facade I liked to play
so other people would notice and think I'm pretty cool
but somewhere along the line it took me over
bumping nas, em and pac through my stereo
mom looking in my room like
"where the **** did my daughter go?
she's listening to this ****, she's gotta get a grip-"
But when I hurt the music would listen
bass lines and samples running through my veins
didn't know much about hip-hop
except the way it made me feel..
Technology came abrupt and the computer was my safe haven
the runaway from the abuse I was experiencing
mommy and daddy fighting?
headphones in so I can't hear it.
crying through each verse
and then the chorus hits and I'm better
finally realized I wasn't alone in this hell hole.
Started up a myspace-
more room for discovery
Eazy-e some Biggie more Nas
and **** even some Jeezy.
Every word they spoke
became something that was apart of me.
"Poetry, that's a part of me, retardedly bop
I drop the ancient manifested hip-hop straight off the block."
Nas said it best-
old school rappers speaking to me before bed.
Then I discovered Cudi, more Kanye, andre 3k.  
thought about how I had to write like this
it was my destiny to manifest this passion
put it into my pen until I could learn to lavish
in the luxuries they could afford
not the riches but the rhyme schemes
and the way it helped me
again and again would listen until I got tired
notebooks full of rhymes
my life was on the line and it became wired
then came limewire and my mind blew up
there's an entire world of music I never knew-
download after download the music became me
so much more to go through
****** up my computer
virus to the hard drive
all my music's gone. ****.
Freaking out in my room at midnight
threw a chair, punched the wall
mom asking if i'm alright.
"*******, go away"
She thought the music was to blame
but without that **** is why it happened
never gave up on this **** called rappin'
wrote my first rhyme when I was in 5th grade
poetry turned to rhyme schemes
and samples I liked to play.
Passion turned to aggression
when everyone started spitting
thought this was me and no one elses
has to prove who I was to the masses.
High School came and I was
"The girl who rapped"
freestyle lunch sessions to secure it.
Voices from the crowd
"**** she murdered it".
Slipped up-
started on the pills
too many thoughts in my mind
too many demons to ****-
ran away from the hip-hop
turned that **** to heavy metal
pop-punk and punk rock.
Turned away my from my passion
and started writing poetry
stanzas, sibilance and sonnets
filled my insides.
I suffered without the classics
the dream began to fade away.
We moved-
became a recluse.
didn't eat for weeks
but this time money wasn't the issue.
Heard something bumpin' from the basement
my hair stood up when I heard that base hit
ran down like I was chasin' after my passion again
"what is this?"
my cousin laughed "Life Changes"
"who is it?"
"Wu-tang" he said to me
I bobbed my head and smiled once again
"Wu is indeed for the children"
he laughed and so did I.
Realized my love for hip-hop
would never actually die.
"Poetry, that's a part of me, retardedly bop
I drop the ancient manifested hip-hop straight off the block"
hip-hop you saved my life.
Sophie Woods Feb 2014
In this dream i tried
In this dream i died
In life everyone tries
In life everyone dies
In my mind im trying
In my mind im dying
We will all try  
We will all die
Its not up to us to see
Its not up to us to be
Someone we are not
Someone we forgot
Someone we met
Someone we kept
Its not our plans
As we hold hands
Its not our plans
As we catch trams
Its not our plans
As we lye in a trance
Its someone elses
Not myself
Its someone elses
Its someone's health
Its someones wealth
Its someone's stealth
We just live their life
Trying to stay out of strife
Nigel Finn Mar 2016
Our words have power. Our story is important. I think it's important to remember that, and I know people forget it sometimes (I certainly did), and some people don't believe it at all, but I believe that even if nobody is listening, even if there's no-one to tell your story to; it is still important.

Sometimes it's all we're left with and we have to cling to it with all our might. We're lucky enough to be main characters in a lot of other peoples stories and that's a hell of an achievement. We get the chance to influence other peoples stories,and they in turn influence even more peoples stories. Without us, everyone elses stories get shortened and there ends up being less variation in the story-telling world. If we don't add to the storytelling process then the whole world slows down.
Every single relationship we establish with someone gives them more of a story to tell. Even if you don't make a story of your own you're still a vessel for other peoples stories to travel through, and that's amazing in itself.

The tiniest detail can change everything - the memory of holding a hand, a snippet of information, recommending a favourite ice-cream, falling over in a hilarious manner - it travels through other peoples stories, and without you that story doesn't get told, or gets told at a later time by someone else, by which time the person you could've shared your story with has missed out on the chance to pass that story on to a whole host of other people. That changes the whole storytelling world. Every future chain of events in which you could have, but didn't, tell your story becomes different - there's less of a story, it's not as full as it could have been, and everyone, albeit unknowingly, suffers a little more for it.

Most of us aren't wise enough or powerful enough to be the true "wise man" that our speices name **** sapians implies, changing the world in a dramatic way in one fell swoop with a single action or in the course of our lifetime, but we're certainly capable of being pans narrans (story-telling apes) and injecting a bit more variety in the lives of others. I can't think of a better reason to exist other than mattering so much that the whole future of the world becomes less varied, and slightly less impressive, if we simply cease to be.

Every moment of joy, every moment of anger, rage, suffering, jealousy, euphoria and even numbness contributes to the stories we end up telling other people, even if we're not talking about those moments specifically. We learn from them, we change because of them, and the stories we tell evolve with each new experience.

You don't even need to write yourself, sooner or later, somewhere down the line, someone will write something that never would have been written if you had not existed, and their work will be all the more glorious for the stories you helped to pass on. You are literally part of a bunch of great works yet to be written. You are a poem. You are a play. You are the beginning, middle and end of several bestselling novels. You are the first sentence in a book that grabs a publishers attention and the last in one that spawns a whole franchise. You are important and without you the whole literary world loses a masterpiece that would make a whole bunch of people feel like they weren't alone in the universe. You are their comfort as they lie awake at night with nothing but a book, and the inspiration that causes a child to believe in themselves. I can't think of anything more important than your words, your thoughts and the story you have to tell, but I know that, without them, the world never becomes as glorious as it could have been.

I love you, I know that others love you as well, and I'm certain that a part of the love that people feel for you will travel throughout the stories they tell, eventually end up in a famous book, song, or an artists brushstrokes and cause someone else to love that piece of a story you helped create.

And then they'll pass it on...
A note I wrote to a friend.
Verdae Geissler Jun 2013
I met a girl when she picked me up while  I was hitch hiking back from the health food store.

Her name is, well, I’ll call her “Mirror”. She was seventeen, with three different colors in her hair,and she was driving this great big mafioso looking thing down an old country road.

AND she picked me, a hitch hiker, up. like it was it was no big thing to her.

My first response after the normal howdy do’s, was;” Okay, first off, we are on this desolate back road, in the middle of BFE ,and corn fields forever. How do you know that I am not going to pull out a gun or a knife and slit your throat, or blow you away for your ride, or WORSE?”

She snickered and said,”Cause’ I can tell .”You aren’t that kind of person!”

My responsewas ,”How can you even  pretend to know THAT?”

She comes back with; “I can just tell”!

“Anyway, aren’t you glad I picked you up?’

“Of course!” I said, “but you need to be more careful!”

She dropped me at my house, and that was that.

I was left with hoards of memories sweeping my mind. Memories of myself at her age, along with her responses to my concern, and her total disposition, I knew I was staring into a mirror of my past!

I would, for sure, be seeing her again!

It was approx. two weeks later that I saw her, in a little mustang, as I was walking my dog on that same old road.

She pulled of as she turned the stereo down, I think it was blasting some new girl band, “Hey girlfriend” she says with this sweet little sideways glance, as if she’d known me for a lifetime, “whatcha up to?”

Having done the small talk thing, we decided ot hang out.
So she came over to the house, we talked.
As I got to know her situation a bit better, I knew.
... I was looking into the mirror of my past once more.
I had been placed into her life for a very special mission.

I also knew in my heart that, according to what she was telling me, she was headed for the same path of disaster and destruction, I had, not so long ago, put my own self  through.
It had all started at her exact age. but I did not, at this point know what to do about helping her.
...But it would come! ...yes, it would!

I found out, a little more than a year later, i could not have done anything to stop it from happening, when I met her. ...In her beginning...
It was during the “aftermath” or the “beginning of the end”, where I would be called back into her life to “play my part” so to speak.
So...
It was about a month ago, I just happened to be browsing through a thrift store, in Spruce Pine, with my neighbor. As I stood there, looking at an old quilt I wanted, but could not afford, I heard that  soft, sweet, little voice call me by my name.

”Romy?’ “Is that yooouuuu?!”
“*** I can’t believe it!”,
.....and so on and so forth.

My sweet friend from the road by my house, was there, was handing out Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

Mind you, I knew what this meant...
...She’d gotten herself into some kind of trouble.
And now, she was doing community service for it.

Sure enough she had.

I gave her my  telephone number, and that was that.

It was about three days ago when I got a phone call.
It was her.
She asked if she could come by to see me that afternoon, after school.
She needed to talk.
She actually did come on by.

Here we are some years later. I am scared.
Not for myself , physically, but something told me my time was up.
The gig was up.
The angels had finally found a way.
For me.
For her.

Now.
I need to back up to two years ago, so that you can get a real sense
of what is really going on here…..

After our first meeting, after she came back by my trailer,  in the cow pasture, the first time,
She hung with me the whole summer, and then into fall.
I got to know her parents very well.
I n their eyes I'd become a big sister/baby sitter for her.
She thought of it as just hanging out.
...a place away from her Dad, but close to her home.
She had never been with a boy, she explained,
but she'd made an attempt at a relationship with a girl at school, which turned out disastrous.
It even landed here in trouble at school, with the cops, and with the DSS, here in Yancey County.
(a place no one would ever want to land!)

Her mom was going through chemo and radiation, and so was I.
I was uncanny.
I had at least SOMETZHING, one thing, in common with almost every member of her family.
I became part of her family!

I knew from my own life and my experiences,  
she was dabbling in some kind of drug activity.
I just did not know what at first.

Made myself a promise.
I would find out what was really going on with t his girl.

Once I got her to open up to me.
I discovered she was stealing her dad’s 40mg Oxycontin and his 1mg klonapin out of his locked box.
This only AFTER he'd been giving them to her when she turned fourteen.
She was not only snorting them, but she was selling them as well!

I also did some digging, and found, she was getting in with some pretty savory characters.
Of course it wan't long, before she met this guy...
He was handsome, manipulative, and cunning.
But most of all, he had a raging monkey, the size of Detroit, on his back!

Only I could see him for the ****** ******* he really was.
I tried many tricks to expose him.
Her partents were blinded by his enamering.
His story was easy:
..he had been in the military, only to come home to a trailer trash wife, on drugs, of course, who had neglected their four year old child.
He'd come home just in time to play the knight in all his armour....!
I KNEW better!

But when I tried to warn her parents
they would hear nothing of it!
They refused to see in him
the evil that i could....

So when she started seeing him, I went to her parents with my premonitions.
They told me I was over  reacting.
And that i had become attached to their daughter, that I should just stay away for a while.
Her mom’s exact words were:
”I mean really, Romy...
" He is a MARINE for goodness sakes... !"
"... and the only reason he is home right now, is to save that yungin' from his drug addicted mother!”

UGHHHHHHHHHHHH!

I had to let go....

Only years later, it would come out,
To her parents and everyone.
...He was a **** and dilaudid ******.
His mother was one, as well.
They used the little boy for food and money,
as well as their own selfish adgenda of feeding
that monkey from Detroit,
and the disease he brought with him.
They conned everyone from welfare, to  churches, to the department of Social Services.

I remember a conversation a had with her mom, while trying to get her to realize what he really was.
It went like this:
mom: “How could you even say such things about him!”
I never said another word.
Only
In my mind I was screaming;
"Because I know this *******!
He is addicted to drugs!  
He told me so, in the beginning!
He bragged to me about how he’d been doing dilaudid with his MOTHER for years.
And, all  of us junkies know, the only way to do dilaudid, is to shoot it up in your veins!

"*******!”"
I said to myself.

"PLUS, I even know his  other name."
"THE NAME is Daniel!"

"I know him well!"
"I ruined most of my young life trying to win his love."
"Only I did not know then what  I was up against...."
"This addiction was more powerful than another woman, or anything else, for that matter!"

"There IS no match
  for it!"

...I was screaming this all to myself.
...I knew then.
I was talking about my own life experience.
The years I spen, hurting myself, all the while attempting to impress my first, and truest love of my entire life.
He almost proved to be the ruin of me!
...The man on whom I waisted more than half of my life!
He, who became the beginning of my end!
He was the beginning of a lifetime of  ****** addiction, tears, disappointments, lies, and horror!

As I saw it, he and this ******* were one in the same.

More importantly, I also knew, in my heart of hearts, he would be the beginning of  HER end.
He would prove to be the beginning of her  horror.
I also knew, if she were to end up staying with this nobody *******, for any length of time, she would, inevitebly begin sticking needles in her arms.
My bet would be she'd start within one year.

Sadly,  I was correct.
she was,
and had been,
sticking needles in her arm.

The way I found out went down like this:
(and thus my reason for writing this)

She phoned me, upset, and crying.
Don't ask me how, but I knew she was dope sick.
...Perhaps it was the quiver in her voice.
The desperation.
A feeling I knew all too well.

I told her to come over.
She did.
I'll never forget.
She was working at Mc Donald's, to pay her way through cosmetolegy school.
So she still had that Mc Donald's uniform on. (The one, I knew, she loathed with every part of her being!)
And bless her heart...
...She brought me a pie.

I told her she looked like ****.
Then I asked her to explain why she'd gone so long without having any contact with me.
(although I knew the answers to each of my questions, I asked them anyway.)

I gave her motherly/sisterly hugs, while attemting to make her feel loved.
(something she had not experienced often, at least, not without a price!)

I needed her to know, that no matter what she had to offer , for the time I hadn't heard from her, I would love her, and I would help her, and I would hold her, until she needed me to let go.

So.
It was after hugs, love, some understanding eye contact, I made the promise of understanding. She had to know, that  no matter what she might reveal, I would ALWAYS be in her corner. I would always be hers. I would be whatever she needed me to be.
..As long as I was helping her towards her self understanding,  towards love, and  towards happiness.

It was a few seconds after our long embrace and our moment of connection and understanding, when she took me into the bathroom.
She uttered these words, nervously, and with shame;
”Romy, Do you really want to know how bad I've gotten, how far I have now fallen?”
...Or perhaps her words were, in actuallity, more like "Romy, look at how bad this has gotten."
I am not sure which of the two is more correct, but I got the message loud and clear, and my heart broke.
Litererally, it broke into a million pieces.
My heart broke for her, but it also broke for the girl I once was, before my own demons came to visit.

I knew then, from the depths of my being,
how the scene would play out...
I knew the ending,
before it ever began.

In a moment I will share with you, the dialog that went on between us on that cold, cloudy, winter afternoon in Nowheresville, NC.
This is one conversation I shall, forever, remember until I take my final breath.
It will remain with me through lifetimes to come.
...It has become a part of me.

ME: ”So. have you learned how to do yourself?”
“Or is that why you are here?”
"If it  is the later, you've come to the wrong place."

She started to cry.

"I know how to hit myslef", she said.
H uge tears runnig down her face.
"You warned me, Romy." "And I didn't listen."
"How DID you know, anyway?"

I could not hold back the tears.  
They poured straight from the depths of my being.
Again, he I stood, once again, in front this georgous girl, who was destroying herself!
Again, all I could see was myself in the mirror!

I have yet to felt such a sadness within me, as the one I felt at that moment.

As she rolled up her sleeve, there it was...
a site too familiar..
Uncanny, it was.
How could this girl be the SAME?
Seriously!
...The same arm.
...The same hole.
...The same sore.
...The same color.
..The same sad and bewidered expresion.
It said. No, it screamed;
"Help me please! I'm so ******* gone!"
"Help me please!"
" You're all I've got!"

I wanted to turn and run a fast and far as I could get.
Heer she stood in front of me
Here she stood.
The exact ******* same as me.
I couldn't move.
I couldn't think.
I wanted to puke.
She
was
MEEEE!

The silence was broken by her voice, and by her expression.
She obviously saw my transition from a strong woman who cared so much,
into a womean who had turned white as a ghost.
Then she asked;
” How did you know, Romy?”
“How ever COULD you have known?”

I did not.
I could not.
Begin to answer her then.

But I thought to myself;
"How could I not?"

I left that tiny bathroom not knowing WHAT to do, or what to say.
I, for once,was at a loss.
For the first time in my life,
the words  would just not come!

I couldn't speak my usual words of incourgment.

Until she came to me, and gave me a hug.

...she has just left my house.
My heart is heavy.
She'd  come to me today, for reasons,
she herself,
could never have understood.

I went into my bedroom, whee she sat.
I asked her what she'd been up to that made her decide to call me.
She said she did not know.
She'd been out driving after work,
and so she'd just ended up calling.
Now she was at my place.

I shared with her the importance of truthfulness.
With oneself even more than with others.

Then I shared with her my story, and my reasons for caring so very much for  her well being.

I told her about the mirror I saw between us from the beginning.
..of my battle with herion addiction.
But I told her  also of the stubborn dream I'd carried with me for eighteen years because of a guy, just like hers.
I answered all of her questions.
I completed her sentences.
She completed some of mine.
I felt her heart breaking.
And I helped her to let go.

She was so shocked at what I shared with her, about myself,
and about my own life,
that it  literally brought her back to her self. I had somehow, reached her inner being.
She was able to return to her own reality, away from the deceit.
And away from the web of lies which had been woven around her.

I feel good!
I feel like she will be alright.

May hope is, through me, she was able to see how easily we can fall into someone else's need and addiction. How we make it our own by allowing someone elses demons drag us down, down into oblivion, and how their misery can, so easily, consume us. Then take over our very life!
IF we let it!

....I held her for a long time.
We cried together.
I cried for her.

I also cried for me.

I cried for the girl that I once was.

...Before Daniel.
                              ...Before Manhattan.
                                                      ­                                                
                                                                ­       ...Before the misery.

She cried her own tears for herself,
her kind heart,
and for what would never be.
She cried, grateful tears, knowing now she will no tso easily loss her way,
she knows the angels now. She can feel them guide her every day.
She is not alone.

I will forever be there for her.
wherever she may be.
...we are connected now.
...Little Miss Kim and me!

Her spirit is strong.
She will succeed.
She recieved what she needed most.
... A friend
... A kindred spirit.
...and  a bit of wisdom from little old
me.
Oh, and now I know why my Blackie walked me down the old country road.....
My sister, Kimberly, needed me!
Raina Grace Oct 2014
Cheers to the sailboats awake in their harbor, tucked under the chin of the city.
we admire the lights and their potential to dance, with motivation to run, once again, on the big road, then, a bridge to somewhere elses...
Away from a city of eyeless people, garbage catches on our antennas. we gotta keep moving, get the filth of money blown off our skin, on the big road again, a bridge to somewhere elses...
The fountain water of vapor to the skies on our barefoot souls, the heat of the draft through the grid. all together now, on the avenue, we won their eyes, on the big road again, we are a bridge to somewhere elses...
As we let go of the places we've been, we do  not reach for the places we are yet to be. Oh, but half-certainly on the go, on the big road again, a bridge to somewhere elses...
Alex Fontaine Jul 2017
Free will is
getting out of someone elses bed,
putting on clothes someone else made,
under a ceiling someone else raised,
walking across a floor someone else built,
pouring coffee someone else grew,
into a cup someone else bought you,
driving a car someone else designed,
powered by fuel someone else refined,
down a road someone else planned,
to fulfill requests and make demands.
Freedom is
closing your eyes
and being okay.
softcomponent May 2014
Betwixt of any sense beyond experiment, I sat on the bed between shifts and out-whipped the bag of Concerta given to me by Matt, o'timey hard-worker-soft-souled Matt, who felt, perhaps, that I had a legitimate reason to explore this legal avenue of pharmaceutical mind-manipulation for reasons he would rather fathom in retrospect. I popped a single pill, and voilà, the legal-cocainnabinoid began to flow between my red and white blood-cells playing cops and robbers.

It is when I feel nostalgic that I feel the need to write. I remembered, at work, with all those strange everyone-elses faces gliding past (and myself annoyed at the general lack of positive reception "Hello there!" "h .. i ." is one sour-looking businessmans sultry whispered reply.. once, a woman told me 'look, I know that you are told to say hello at the door to everyone who enters, but I don't like it. I just want to shop in peace, and no, I don't need any help' and without case to what my managers could say, I somewhat-hissed-back, "if you don't want to be greeted, then perhaps you shouldn't walk into big private corporate establishments to find the books you're looking for," and she shrugged and muttered some ****-talk under her breath and glided upstairs to find a copy of Ayn Rand's Fountainhead or Machiavelli's The Prince to validate her bitter attitude, I bet, the sour witch), my time spent living in that backwater Esso suburb of Port Coquitlam back in 2011 when Occupy Wall Street was still a hungry potential, not yet bogged down in procrastinates over herbal teas and talk of chakras and enlightenment and how the typical Wall Street businessman probably never had a real ****** and hence had never truly satisfied the energies now burnt-to-crisps inside his Root Chakra or whathaveyou, where I believed I would find a better, more interesting world further from the musty-smallness of forest-drenched rain-drenched Powell River, only to discover I may be right outside my front door, but that's EXACTLY where I was, no further than right outside my front door.. I mean, for Goddaskes, I was born in Vancouver, this isn't a culturally-shocking move to New Delhi or Kathmandu--- and so on and so forth is how I once berated myself thru constant cycling thoughts of no-escape, I, a little walking hell of devils-advice and panic disorder-- the Great Big Port City of George Vancouver only succeeding in further overwhelming my already delicate attempt at false optimism thru self-voided Buddhist smalltalk as I travelled from bookstore to bookstore reading Alan Watts in shady attempts to save-myself but only digging my walking grave even deeper into the soil of feared-insanity.

Port Coquitlam itself was a small-town wearing a business suit and holding hands with an angry father forcing him to college for computer networking as it's the most economically viable market at hand.. at first, I did not see this. I saw my idolized imaginings of Vancouver (never Port Coquitlam), the shining water-reflected skyline of my past and present legacies, where my father once snorted ******* with a bohemian group of someones, and my mother tried LSD just to prove to her friends how bad it was (and lo and behold, what a terrible time she had!), all this Otherness, Strangeness, yet still Connected-- an Otherness with which I was taken, left to whisper into empty Campbell's cans so-as to speak with the city from a distance, two children growing older together 'til my inevitable return and our agreement to share costs on rent.

I returned, as planned. I returned, and found that old-best-friend hating the Homeless and loving the Rich-- spending time with the Peppy Plutocracy whilst enslaving the Middle Classes (first Letter Capitals to Assist YOU in Grasping my Anger with All Five Thumbs) and the horrors I saw in my already delicate state, all the starving addictives slouching-inching down the sides of ***** old walls, the only thing missing a smear of blood to follow their corpseish collapse, all just footnotes to history, footnotes to wealth and progress-reality, all footnotes with no shoes O my God O my Goodness and O Canada, Our Home and Native Land!

It hurt like it did, but I felt powerless and gaited. Felt like it were just as well me (*** it just as well is), I, in Vancouver.. *Great Big Port City of George Vancouver
.. saw the end-stretching-cold-legs of Nietzsche's Dead God.. those in cutthroat-black-suits armed with calculators and wives could afford private jets and yearly trips 'round our globular strangeness whilst others had to beg and berate and debate and break-down to get a crummy old bagel and a past-due mostly-empty jug of old milk and perhaps a 'side of fries with that order.'

What crushed me so much about this playing a Witness to God's Death (or, not so much a 'witness' as a relative asked to the morgue to identify the body) was my intuitive grasp that this is the poverty of the First World.. this is not as bad as it gets and on a scale of 1 to 10 this would only be a 3.. all the poor and displaced of Eastern Europe.. Moldovan families indifferent to the whims and what's taken.. someone called me a Socialist and said I would later grow out of it as 'reality' angled its rearing-ugly head to chop me smithereens like it did so mercilessly to the Poor and Irrelevant.. I looked at them and still look at people like them and think 'that is evil unsure of itself.. that is evil unaware... that is evil and evil is  evil to watch..' the Evil Act being the use of Money to purchase the world, demanding us all to pay royalties (mass royalties) for the privilege of life so afforded by them.. (the Sons and Daughters of God first stabbing their father then stabbing themselves then locking away and ignoring their young brother with cerebral palsy '*** he could never be armed with a calculator, nor wife)..

I learned, thru practice, to cope with these evils as laws-for-now. Coping did not mean tolerance, nor did coping mean agreement.. I had charged at life expecting hugs and bottles.. what I got was hugs and bottles.. all while I watched over the shoulder of whoever embraced me and saw young-others doing the same, where are the hugs and bottles..? they sank into the nether as the crowd ebbed past, ignoring the cries of pleading love, pleading love over time so traumatised as to distort this love (so inherent and implied in the Heart) into confusion, confusion into loss, and loss into hatred.. as the crowd ebbed past, the crowd ebbed past..

After 3 and a half months, I moved back home to Powell River.. the soggy ol' calm of what I already knew.. the warm arms of the rest, the warm arms of water-reflected sunsets.. and I got my hugs and bottles.

but was this really a happy ending?
Chris Voss Oct 2013
Dear Mom,
Hey! How’re things?
So, LA is weird. It’s all sticks and stones and billion dollar homes. Last week on the Metro I forgot my headphones, but it all worked out because there was a homeless man who was naked from the waist down except for a pair of Spiderman underwear with the tag still attached who was singing “Sweet Caroline” at the top of his lungs.
Everyone here is someone important. They live the philosophy of Descartes like scripture.
I think therefore I am... exhausted. I haven’t been sleeping because my mind has taken up running, which means it’s acclimating to the culture here quicker than my body because everyone in this town ******’ loves running almost as much as they love vintage shoes and car horns.
It’s strange though, I can’t shake this feeling that I’ve lost something.
Anyway, I love you.

Dear Mom,
Thank you for the eyes.
Last afternoon a stranger told me they were beautiful, and on a day where every mirror seemed to be of the funhouse variety, it was a welcome compliment.
I’m sorry I haven’t called in a few weeks, please don’t think it’s because I don’t miss you.
It’s just, lately, I’ve been feeling a bit like a marionette whose had his strings clipped.
Slumped and crumpled.
Small.
Collapsed and sprawled cracked in some forgotten corner--the hollow knock of wood bouncing across the walls of this mezzanine dressed in finer things than me that have been fostered by
Father Time and his Mistress Stillness.
And I know how you worry.
You worry ‘til bones bruise and still your skeleton aches to shoulder my melancholy yourself, so I can’t bear to bridge this distance with crestfallen phone calls where the past year locks fully loaded on six-shooter lips--the way heels cling to cliffs edge--before finally, reluctantly, free falling; firing off each round.
Six words aimed with eyes closed as if it were up to God to decide where they’d hit:
“I wish I could come home...”
Then your silent, empty-cartridge, catacomb sigh would just teach this telephone how cavernously a mother’s heart aches for her children.


Dear Dad,
I know it goes without saying, but thank you for the check and the note attached to it.
It’s hard to describe how much home I find in the deft curves of your surgeon’s cursive.
I hope you’re doing well. Last time I saw you, you seemed a bit like a lit cigarette filter tip watching the singe approach.
Maybe it was just the embers of your eyes glazed over by one too many heavy handed nightcaps.
And this isn’t to say the Superman who stayed up late nights holding me through fits of anxiety has up and flown away, this is just to say you seem to be flickering.
This is just to say I hope you still laugh at bad movies with the thunderous bass of July fourth fireworks.
This is just to say I’ve been staying up late nights holding on to yesterday.

Dear Mom,
The care package was unnecessary.
I now have more Skittles than any one human should ever consider consuming in a lifetime. So thanks. I know I told you, at some point, years ago, that they were my favorite… but *******.
Really though, waking up to that box on my doorstep choked me up quicker than a swift kick to the nuts. You have a way of weaving through this heartland like a Middle-American interstate and I love you so much for that. It’s just next time, maybe try something that doesn’t have the nutritional value of flash-fried butter sticks.
But not too healthy. Maybe fruit leathers?
P.S. Keep the homemade fudge coming.

Dear Dad,
Forgive the handwriting of an earthquake.
My hands are shaking again like when I was young. I’ve been finding stillness, though, in between sips of five dollar coffee and midnight cigarette drags beneath and incandescent moon that seems to use breeze hands to play cat’s cradle with strings of smoke.
Life is fast here. It’s all gas pedal and touch-and-go breaks.
P.S. If you see mom, don’t mention the cigarettes.

Dear Mom,
I got your e-mail about smoking and the ensuing health issues it leads to. Graphic stuff. That was super informative and totally unprompted. Thanks for that.

Dear Dad,
...

Dear Mom,
Stop worrying so much, you’re making my bones ache.

Dear Dad,
In my dreams I am a lighthouse with an unfocused beam. I’m searching for something, I just don’t know what.
At least I’m sleeping right?

Dear Mom,
These days blur together with the fading speed of a half-life hardly lived to its fullest.
Was it different for you when you were my age? I shift between a drifting stick stuck in a current and desert stone.

Dear Dad,
In my dreams I’m a lighthouse.
There’s a fog horn distant.
I’m still searching for I don’t know what I’m searching for something and there’s a fog horn far off like it’s from someone elses dream but at least I’m sleeping.

Dear Mom,
Do you believe that streams take sticks where they need to be?

Dear Dad,
Have you dreamt of fog horns lately?
I am a lighthouse looking for a nameless something in fog so thick I should be choking.
But I’m not.
At my feet there are rocks and they’re jagged but I’m not anxious because they stay up late nights holding me.
And in the distance there’s a fog horn that seems to be saying “All is not lost.”

Dear Mom,
Do you think that desert stones are waiting for something?

Dear Dad,
In my dreams a lighthouse is built upon jagged rocks that are shaped like your hands. I’m searching for something and even though my lamplit electric torch eyes can’t touch the sky through this ******* fog, I keep them burning because I should be choking but I’m not, I’m finding stillness in the way breeze plays with smoke strings and far off there’s a fog horn distant promising “All is not lost.”

Dear Mom,
This town is all sticks and stones and broken home drifters.

Dear Dad,
All is not lost.
Lyn Senz 2 Apr 2018
by Danny Smith

The old man rises from his chair
gently cursing the ache that crept into his bones
when he wasn't looking

His slippered feet scuff the carpet
making a journey they know without him
to the window

He watches down on the cars
as they flash through the rain on an urgent journey
somewhere

Leaning forward to rest his forehead
on the cool damp pane that shields him from it all
his prison wall

The cars seem to softly merge
as fragments like a broken mirror
tease and torment

A lifetime of dreams and tomorrows
that somehow became painful yesterdays
much too fast

Squeezing his eyes tightly closed
he remembers her face and the soft scar on her cheek
a perfect imperfection

The laughter and cries of children
running to him with chocolate smeared mouths
grown now, gone now

All of them to different worlds
ones where he was afraid to travel to
out there

Plenty of time to make it through
but the nights seem to skip the sunshine days
sentenced

he shuffles back to the chair
lowering himself with limbs that can't be his
removes his slippers

Reaches for the polished shoes
years old but hardly worn and still uncreased
laces them

Moves slowly through the house
turning of lights, collecting a wallet
a pack of cigarettes, a photograph
pocketing them

The old man stands at the open door
just a fragment of someone elses memory, as he walks
into the rain


©Danny Smith
one of my favorites. it may be the only
copy on the internet. I couldn't find it.
it used to be on the 'Poemish' website
which is gone now. He had maybe only
12 poems in all that he submitted, and
they were all good, but sadly this is the
only one I decided to save. He lives/lived
in England as I remember.
SelinaSharday Jul 2018
Who Am I!
Who am I to be!
Where Do I belong..
Where will I end up..

Why was I designed and what Do I live for.
Wonder why I am who I am..
  Wonder why I do the things I do.
    
People....
  I wonder why people judge the way they do..
    I ask how people hold on to the judgements and criticisms.
      I often see how people keep others in tight cages.
        I see the hatred and it often amazes.

Even with all the answers......
I'd love some favors, I'd Love some forgiveness..I'd love Grace.
It'd be so wonderful to love others as we love ourselves.
It'd be so Blessed should we let go and let God..
It would be so humbling should we forgive as we need forgiving.

See how we don't all have the same views....
See how we all don't believe the same things...
   See how we each reason and have our own logics.
    But can we all at least see we are all still human beings.
Who all needs those basic Things...
         Love! Redemption. Safety..Trust..Peace,,Understanding..
Food..clothes.. shelter.. and family and friends...
  Can..
Can we place ourselves in someone elses shoes..
Show some empathy..show some coompassion..
   consider what if you were me.
Live the best we can with the life we are given..
  Open the cage and let the hated free..
Give them To God let him Be..
What ever it is to them He wants to be.

S.a.m 2018 Protected!
We all have been given Life..we wonder what our purpose is..But can we all just love and let live..No matter what our differences..And Forgive and let others be forgiven.. "let God be God for those that believe he is Who He Is..
ShFR Nov 2013
Her shallow waters, I dove in
head first trynna be someone
I shouldn't sin
suicide
if she wanted I would jump again; terrorist all she needed was a turban with a Taliban as a wristband
chants written on her body they were lyrics then
tattooed, and I was thinking more like angel wings instead she brought a dress from the devil on the ****** sands
tainted, glasses even tinted, everything Instragram everything vintage, everything is everything to her im just a witness; a blast from the past, a mistress of a mistress Killed it.
matter fact **** me this not what I wanted and I not who I should be; you say the sky's the limit but my limit is a frisbee my sky is a ceiling of a feeling of what could be
I don't think I want you any more!
MTA
stand clear closing doors
gasoline
burning bridges to the floor abandon ship ***** you don't wanna fall alone
but it seems im stuck in Davie Jones and swimming in her waters is the only way to roam,
grown
daughter of the music angel so; burn
Sean is the only way to go; swerve
I had get up outta there but no one elses water taste like Everclear and no one elses water I could jump in bare
matter fact there was never water there i could jump in raw, the rain coat was never there
Hold up, but what was I thinking
I knew her whole song she never had to sing it
I knew that it was wrong, I couldn't stop reneging
***** after ***** after *****
cut after cut with a blade
clubs I would cut cause of shame
I knew her whole hand so who is up for blame,
Or is this just a phase but maybe I was wrong, to think theres something better and maybe Im alone in thinking that there was palm trees and maybe nicer weather after I was giving up but I cant forget her.
so I
jumped in again, head first
she was wet all clear, slick roads
traveling full speed on her **** curves words slurred vision about to go
I'm bout to give it all up to this girl
my mans like I don't really think you know
cause once you go in raw you already sold your soul
and once you eat her fruit she already took your clothes.
© 2013 by S Fraz All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of S Fraz
Hank Love Sep 2020
I moved to the city
When I was still a child
And people then
They knew something was wrong
They'd always stop and stare
And cut me down to size
Saying "the boys too different
He doesn't belong"

It was 7 years ago
When I came to know her
Someone who saw the man inside
The only one who could see
The man behind the myths
And who could hear the truth
Behind the lies

No one even knew
What I felt for her
No one cared enough
To ask me why
I think the thing
I loved about her most of all
Is how much better I saw myself
In someone elses eyes

One night a man came to my door
With a badge of silver in his hands
He showed me her picture
And he pointed his finger
He asked me why I did it
But no one ever knew about our plans

No one even knew
What I felt for her
No one cared enough
To ask me why
I think the thing
I loved about her most of all
Is how much better I saw myself
In someone elses eyes

We had plans to run away together
Go somewhere where we knew
We would not be hurt
We would Leave town and run away
And start a new life with another name
Until a jealous ex
Boyfriend found her first

No one even knew
What I felt for her
No one cared enough
To ask me why
I think the thing
I loved about her most of all
Is how much better I saw myself
In someone elses eyes
I long for her touch,
Her body,
Her curves,
Her lips,
Her eyes,
Her lust,
Her hair,
Her thighs,
Her...

I lust for her,
Whom I cannot find,
anywhere at all
She is missing

I wish for her to be
On top of me,
Under me,
And most of all beside me

She is nowhere to be found,
Sometimes I have to wonder
maybe I'll never be that lucky,
maybe that privilege is not for me,
nor will ever be...

My biggest wish may never come true,
But atleast I'll be someone elses wish come true
That's the least I can do
Remembering those that are keeping it all together whilst being screamed at, humiliated, insulted, offended and hurt.

Those who feel like screaming but holding the meltdown in check.

Those who are frustrated and trapped and killing somebody seemed the best option but just do not have the right state of mind.

Those whom in the ugly face of violence, are still fighting for their right to freedom of choice.

Freedom for a right to live equally because, life has dealt them a hard hand. A right to be who they dream to be.

Those that are being mistaken for their tears as mere weakness.

Those that have lost their spirit to fight but are hoping-still.
Those who are in their lowest now but still faithful and pressing on despite everything.

Those that feel the need to cry but had to smile instead.
Those who live within their means but wish there could have been more or be more because of another brother, sister, relative in need.

Those who put every one elses need ahead of their own.

Lest we forget, you are remembered today.
Dagoth I Am Dec 2014
come down in the flatland
show me your shoulder
wait now where the black hand touches us
we'll both grow older

and the sky above us
and the ground beneath us
and the air around us
and the ocean to the right

measure your arm length
i can't live without it
i treasure those thirty inches
i want to talk about it.

and the sky above us
and the ground beneath us
and the air around us
and the ocean to the right

love you in the cold air
your long hair makes me shiver
above you i see the sun
light up every sliver

and the sky above us
and the ground beneath us
and the air around us
and the ocean to the right

and the sky above us
and the ground beneath us
and the air around us
and the ocean to the right
It's been a while since I have written
I get so wrapped up in everyone elses words
But it takes one to realize
The truth in all that is said and heard
Some people need to learn to be respectful
To the members of our group
Because what ever it is stuck in some ******* ***
Can cause a load of ****
Poetically QUEEN Mar 2014
If my love was personified as my hustle
I’d take you into my heart and never let you go.
I’d cling tight onto you  and no matter how hard you fought
I wouldn’t let go
I’d let you know
You. Are. mine
No one elses
Your home is hear
Listen
to the beat reverberating through my chest
Cavity
Rotting me from the inside
You’d make me blind
Like an error  
my mind
I wouldn’t understand how you infiltrated my veins
I’d kiss you like you were my forever
Love you in pure desperation
Because my present without you is bleak
At best I know that if I blink
the moment could pass
A risk I can’t take
Won’t
Never
Losing wouldn’t be an option
You would be my dream
you
the very earth that I walk on
The pillow I lay down on
I’d lay down
What  ever I would have to
To make you my reality
I would blindly dive into the opportunity
to make my dreams come true
THEY wouldn’t deter me
I don’t need  their
approval
permission
opinion
Not to love you
Because the core of me would want you
And the lack of THEM understanding my vision
Means that I’m about to make history
If my love was my hustle
We’d never end
You would be my dreams
And without you I would be nothing
What if it were socially acceptable to love someone with the same intensity that we pursue our dreams?
izzi3 Dec 2014
sparks flew as you stared at me, your eyes full of galaxies of shooting stars, and dreams of a love that so easily could have been, a beauty that i could barely contain in my heart as it burst in a slow motion shower of everything i am and was.
now that i'm alone, sitting in the backseat of a car where we once sat together, i miss you. realizing now that most of what you said to me was merely cruel deception,
there's this empty feeling in my bones that makes me so cold because i thought i was your everything.

but someone's nothing is someone elses' everything. and i was your nothing and i thought you were my everything
[i.k]
sketchy, not quite sure, think it's okay, lacking ideas,oops . besides its christmas, so HAPPY CHRISTMAS people:*

quin-i hope you like
Anthony Moore Jan 2011
Over royal tombs and palace walls,
moonlit dreams spread whispers of the rising sun.

Come to me says the sirens song
Come to me, lay down your sword, lay down your shield
Come to me


Shadowy figures gather within the dark spots of her eyes
to share secrets of why she can't see.
Vision stolen by the greatest of thieves,
capable of stealing things that aren't yours to begin with;
Nor anyone elses.

But when the stars come down to kiss goodnight
and she rests her head on the softest planets,
sprawling across galaxies, wrapping her body-less soul in a warm nebula,
the sweetest dreams will cradle her new born thoughts,
tugging at the strings to her wings,
drowning out every siren that sings and brings their destruction
with out having to touch them.

Standing on rooftops chanting paganisms toward the heavens
like a heathen taunting the sky fire.
And it comes,
like the rain from home it comes;
It always does.

And as the gentle sunrise graces her face,
lighting up and opening the windows to her soul
I see that it's burning cyan-hazel flames;
Make moonlit dreams become sun soaked realities
Anthony J. Alexander 2010
softcomponent Sep 2014
the adderall dripping down the back of my throat tastes like sour oranges. little patches of sooty blackness caress the strange dips under my eyeballs as a sign of overworked modernity eating filth to break the fast of a dinnerless evening. cars... more and more cars... glide up Johnson Street on direction to an anywhere packed with reason and meaning, travel-wrung after hours of work and play like Greek tragicomedies written in an Indo-European language lost to the passage of endless time in the Urals. Trailing behind us, the Cossack signaled for the rest of his entourage to approach a little slower if the city were to be won from the Mongol horde approaching Baghdad at the eastern gate (A.D. 1258) and within the little eyelid movies drizzling through my mind every time I close my eyes, I heard screams and scrambled hashtags pleading for humanitarian assistance.. pleading for a chance to rescue the Islamic Golden Age from the brink of its twilight battle with obliviously obvious tired-eyed savagery reveling in the soft moonlit warmth of Mesopotamian beachsand. Blood was being worn as some sort of slimey undergarment, leveling the entire populace to a place so far gone, the mind could no longer discern the universe as a set of tetris patterns blocked and connected with a light string of consciousness, the light of intense college-student starvation as if tuition were the bloodlands trapped between ****** and Stalin.

There isn't much to be said for the way she used to dance. It was sort of like a jimmied cow-- I say 'jimmied' in the context of a cow, out late, midwestern meadow, center of the winter, shivering... shivering so profusely, it was almost as if it were dancing. Dancing, jimmied, silly, frightened, escapist sentiments pulsing through his beef belly blood as if he were capable of some sort of latent sentience, some sort of ability to discern love from hate, black from white, ethical standards from matters of the spirit. That's the way she danced.

She'd shiver to the beat like a dangling mango, misplacing herself in the music. She would cry a little, too. You could see the tears in her aura, flagrantly asking to be left alone. Flagrantly leasing themselves to the moment and whatever delight the moment could afford.

She asked me; "so, what do you look for in a girl?"
I said: "a decalcified pineal gland."

She jingled her keys in front of me, and smiled. I lost myself in someone elses talking points; across the room, I could hear the chatter of some teenage lip-reader repeating her every word line-for-line. It was 12:58 AM, the Mongols began their destruction of the Abbasid libraries. I just stood there, amazed at the near ventriloquism of this strange pretender. Was he, perhaps, pulling her strings? Was she, perhaps, a puppet? Was there, perhaps, an instant connection between these 2 brains on the quantum level, one effecting the other, regardless of the distance in space and time?
Gia Garcia Jan 2016
Im still gonna love you
Even when you wont
Even when you say goodbye
Even when you have some else to call your own.
Im still gonna love your eyes
Even when they look at me different
Even the way they look away from me
Even when theyre looking at someone else
Im still gonna love your cheeks
Even when somebody else pinches them
Even when you turn them at me
Even when someone gets to hold them the way i could
Im still gonna love your nose
Even when they tickle someone elses
Even when they dig into someone elses shoulder
Even when theyve fallen for someone elses scent
Im still gonna love your lips
Even when someone else gets to feel your kiss
Even when someone else can kiss em better
Even when they speak of me negatively.
Im still gonna love you
Even when you forget about me
Even when its over
Even when you say you dont love me anymore
Its a cruel world out there lol
kaitlyn anderson May 2014
it's hard enough with your own
but it's harder to take on someone elses'
you want to be a pillar of strength
but you're just a blade of grass.
Cherry Oct 2018
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.
(Write artfully)
Don't let words of the past scream at you hysterically in  angry crying voice .
I saw Heaven hanging over my head like a chandelier, it's
angels were swimming in the light, whispering sweet hymns,—
in a kaleidoscope filled with broken dreams.
The gates fell open like a strand of hair, trumpets were blaring for kings, with thrones like rocking chairs, of my ancestors and their heirs. On earth, I had cattle trodding around my heart to pay for love; as dowry couldn't pay enough for who I once loved.
I drank the tears of Heaven's rains, to tie my tithes wrapped
around my neck; waiting for their fortunes reigns.

I kissed an angel that melted my lips, and had suckled on the ******* of mother nature, who fed me milk and honey to keep me alive. I danced around the edge of an end, where life begins once again. My toes felt cold as a tear drop lost in snow,— my ears were ringing like the church carillon, calling me to repent.
And from the stained glass window frames, it all immediately painted out my pain.

I thought of you, just before I took my last breath, begging the favours from the mistress of Death. I felt like a flower in your hand; each petal being picked away, asking the question of,
"does she love me or love me not." I thought of being holy enough to fit in your heart, but I was as holey as the holes in my socks. My prayers all stunk of the lie behind them all. I looked into your eyes to see heaven inside, as I was living in the world.
I bit on time to have it for seconds, and served a dish of revenge only in my heart,— I was taught it will always be a cold meal; so
I'd use my spark of love to keep it warm. I shared stories with
the world, told my biggest secrets to the sky, and left
breadcrumbs to them, in every word of my poems.

Still...in the chaos of my mind, lied a still river flowing with worth. Drowning myself in your eyes, as your every tear was the inspiration of what became our story. But I know in the end, our love will just be another person's story...
Brycical Sep 2013
We are the change we are searching for. It's no surprise we're having a hard time finding it,
like a trick question the answer's inside.

Some, like me have high expectations we're trying to erase
because they limit the places our minds can go.

And we know it's not to race to conclusions or exclude any info but
like a kid on Christmas our impatience can sometimes take hold. But it's ok, we're humon.

We are youth in revolt of the old ways that are clearly keeping us chained
to the ground like slaves to didactic socio-political religious segregation.

And like me, sometimes we forget that change brings growing pains.
Do you know how much force it takes for a flower to sprout through pavement?

We are growing everyday, that's scary to some, leaving many parents to wonder
why their children aren't driving on the roads they paid to pave and ride on.

It's because WE have our heads higher, in the sky and beyond.
Roads are antiquated when you can fly--dropping the gas pump for light trying for a brighter future with nature as a guide.

Don't get me wrong, it's a long flight and there's going to be lonely low dark parts in the timeline but I find some comfort in knowing I'm going with my own flow on my own ride and no one elses cause then I'm not myself which is where all our pride should lie.

Not on material & wealth, but health, body and mind.
I didn't write this per-say. It's complicated. If you're curious, ask.
Mondriel Andrews Feb 2015
sing my song.
use the angels tone as you remember our hands touching like
the feathers of a dove.
hold on to the fact that this isnt love.
this isnt lust
this is the human holding on to the strings of its own reality .
the ideas of hate fading into the background.
use your hands to craft amazing things.
but use your voice to proclaim your stunning ideals.
make me fall for you.
like the feather of a dove i will soon fall away.
dont give me the memory of your hand if you plan to pull it away.
because as the feather falls it might soon be picked up to be put into the headdress of women with just enought time to make it fit.
but our shared emotions might be enough to engulf me in the passions of flame more powerful that the strength of my frail form.
and nobody wants a burnt feather in there headress.
if you plan on  extending your hand to me. then do so knowing that i am a fragile feather,  attached to you, because every angel needs a set of wings.
When you grow tired of me, make sure to let me fall slowly. so that when i am used in the lining of someone elses memories, they can use me as they need.
I am a feather. something that is used for other peoples needs and desires.
when you grow old and remember me, just remember to sing the feathers song.
it starts with your name.
and ends with mine.
sing my song.
just thought id right something not depressing for once lol
Nigel Finn Dec 2015
My poetry has no consistent theme,
Or single writing style,
I simply jot down what I dream
Every once in a while.

I appreciate the daily sight
Of words someone elses owns,
That inspire me to try to write
A better work than Sticks And Stones

I always thought it seemed to be
A glorified, extended limerick
Compared to others on the daily-
All of them! Take your pick!

This rhyme is an apology
To those who may have thought
That I may show some consistency
In the writing of my poetry,
When I have not.
Danielle Rose Oct 2012
She walked along the side walk slowly
watching the cars go by
All the while there was an unshakable feeling
that she was held in someone elses design

Since she was young like everyone
it was engrained how to think
how to act
how to dress
and with in such a vast and astonishing world
there were so many limitations

She stopped for a moment and took off her shoes
but could only feel cold pavement
Jordan Dec 2013
letchor blood currdle like wild flowers melting in the mid day sun, let your fire dragon breath beneath the mess of leaves falling from a calm breeze.
Bring peace to a world where silence is comfort and passion is the tulip under the shade. Let the water trickle across your from and watch the skies turn from blue to grey.
The world is a heartache but a heart none the less, you needent suffer because suffering come from ones whose enlightenment leaves no mess.
Be a star in a sea of diamonds. croon for the howling of a dewwy morning.
Believe in a seed that can plant a whole world, never let the thoughts alter your disposition. Your true calling already exibits strength, quite lying to yourself, sleepless this and sinner with saints.
An enegmatic dissolusion of propriety and oath, formless and scouring we delve deeper into our shelf.
Cables and wires sing with praises of stables and liars, klu klux ****, peanut butter and jam, what a contravity of mystery and a hairless dogs epiphany. We told you once and we'll tell you again, your night stand secrets bar no weight in this land.

soldiers ships sail without a captian your ballroom gown looks like a tale unfathomed. please exsist in me as i believe in you. let your gaurd down and let me take the bow. please let my love pass through you like grasses ablaze, set my lingering sentient body free i have no more purple haze.

the morning will come and the night will shrink an exhaled body as yours dissapears in a blink. Together and forever a seemless reality, one blood runs through the oceans and cowers down the river stop breathe, you exist in moments like these

everybody sees you but no body nods, your a stupid little quip on someone elses radar. help yourself before you **** another be your best friend your mother your father your brother. let the ragsw turn to riches and the wine into the blind, let yourself ferment and **** the cat that explains your time. keep to yoursel fan dnever let them in, your a blind man with a stick and everyone else is screaming let me in. to each there own and to own a martyr is a shame, refrain from self obscurity and procrastinate your brain. Reach for the truth kept in a jar glass with the words mason like the illuminati keep in there car. your a vehicles for self enhilation a explosion of confusion, embrace this mess, it all you have to keep. like a safe bares a rope your only job is to escape..

brimming with hatred and filled up with angst your an emotional writer trying to die on the page.
**** yourself kindly and **** yourself well, your death will be celebrated like a child blowing out the candels at his birthday from hell. tears hit the icing and the presents all rott, something was a miss did his mother forget to love him not. the poor childs life went up in ruins the cycles of existance dug him into ruins bleeding and rotting a child life ion time be the future self that your chilhood friend can find. Be with your death like your beside your life. in the middle lies the truth betweent he lies of existing between pictures of books that no one took the time to read. death of a salesman the drowning of a rat, **** yourself with kindness eat your cake until your fat.

whats the problem with that? *******. you ****, you did it you ****! lol. :) ;) emote.

dying by numbers

illusions of granduer
life in a breath
**** the pitch man and take your breath

dont edit yourself absolve yourself

write for a feeling it is fleeting write for death and become alive
Jeff Gaines Apr 2018
I know a girl, everyone does.
All she wants is fun.
She won't be having cereal today,
she'll have everything under the sun.

She don't read the paper.
She don't watch no news.
Why would she care about someone elses troubles
if they will never buy her shoes?

She don't need no man.
She don't need no gun.
So many rides to take her there,
she don't walk, much less run.

She's got no time to cry.
She's won't listen to the Blues.
Nothing in the world matters to her,
unless it's something she can use.

She has lots of friends.
She'll dance with them all night.
But she cares not that they ain't real,
cuz she's forever high as a kite.

She don't care about no art,
unless it's something she can wear.
The thing she loves to look at most
is in the mirror there.

She's just loves making trouble.
She's always causing a stir.
But she don't bother about anything in the world,
cuz it revolves around her.

It's almost sad to watch her live her life,
always seeking to ring her own bell.
A living, breathing, ******* a mission
to fill a vacant, soulless shell.

She stares down into her pond, from her big ivory tower.
She'll never be happy and even less so,
as a helpless little flower.
If you don't know who this is really about, the first line is a clue ... they can be seen on their own reality shows (past and present), gossip shows, tabloid shows (and IN the tabloids) and any and all social media. Naming names would only beg a flame war. If you don't understand the last line, then Google "Narcissus" ... it will explain.
William Murray Feb 2012
My life is the sand in an hourglass
Slowly falling down into the bottomless abyss
Waiting for my time to break free of the imprisonment
Ive been forced into.
My life has been twisted and manipulated to the point
That I have been forced into submission
And I am no longer my own being but a
Creation formed from somebody elses mold
My life is a lie, a story that has been
Passed down from generation to generation without
Any hesitation at all and I once again start
To fall through the hourglass.
i had a broken toy box full of broken toys

flotsam and jetsam of a childhood
filled with playthings shattered and forgotten

in later years I would open that dusty
chest filled with dusty remnants of happier times and weep
for the friends I had left behind

shattered chunks of preformed plastic that
kept me safe when
barely out of diapers my Nuclear Family went

nuclear

lead paint and lawn darts
loose pieces and lost innocence

i learned the value of love through
spending time with cast off friends

i learned the value of respect through
seeing the pieces of the stickers that I
tore off my spider-man helicopter immediately

after

my mother and father in their last
act of love as a couple spent hours
placing them exactly as

instructed

i did not learn that one day i would
be a dusty old cast off toy in someone elses
box of broken pieces

in that world
toys are replaced before their

time

broken not by love and use but by throwing
them against the wall in a tantrum looking for
the next

shiny

new

thing
A discourse on our childhood playthings and how they affect our adult relationships.
Winter Sparrow Nov 2019
I admire you.
The honesty, the purity
The seconds of happiness
The moments of passion

How does this moment last forever?
Without secrecy...but the same intimacy.
How does one feel?
How should we react?

What is right doesnt mean it will lead to happiness.
What is wrong doesnt mean its worth loosing what is.
But how do we know?
We dont.

Its all risks. A risk worth taking?
A risk worth fighting for?
Whatevere it was...
All it took was a single spark.


All it takes is a singe spark.
A single spark that set ablaze not just the heart.
A spark felt throught.
It never felt so good to be on fire.

But how does a spark end?
Pour water on it?
No. Not this kind of spark.
This is one that merges.

Before it dies out,
It catches fire with someone elses spark.
Fight fire with fire.
And all you get is a bigger fire.

Could the flames burn for eternity?
Die out in a day?
But, how did the spark catch on this much?
Whats so special?

Sirens preserve theirs under the moonlight.
Where the smoke creates the plantes.
The planets then orbit the earth.
Fall down and blaze up the fire again.

The Sparrow is a little more chaotic and less poetic.
She lights up her home, but she keeps adding the twigs.
Does she destroyed her own home?
Or has she created a weapon?

All it takes is a single spark,
To start a fire, a revolution, a war
And the most important thing of all.
To start the shimmerin your eye.
Jeremy Betts Sep 2022
Listen closely when I say this, I don't want to be this, seemingly utterly and socially useless, maybe I spoke it into existence
Best case scenario, this is a ridiculous place to claim as my residence but I never bothered to put forth any resistance
I sit motionless yet some how makin' progress but of course it's lackluster at best, barely a measurable distance
Still forced to press on through 39 rounds of this rigged contest, feeling foolish in lue of my new found cluelessness
Pretending my grip on reality isn't bogus, wishing it was possible to possess more than just a faulty compass
And what good is a shoulder angel drunk off two fifths, ******* me with the devils fist and a strap-on apparatus
How'd it get like this? Was there an exit I missed? Who put destiny up to this?
It's been a continuous loosing battle with this mentality of a defeatist and it means business with tape from wrist to fist
Feel as helpless as a fetus once outside the ****** in the eyes of half of Congress, ******* preposterous
An optimistic pessimist trapped inside a pessimistic optimist, chew on this, I claim the glass itself is a myth
Flip flop from avoiding to chasing deaths kiss, back and forth with reckless abandon that's settin' dangerous precedents
Hiding this incurable, terminal illness in plain sight, a relentless and ravenous sickness
Cancerous thoughts are more than an irritating noosance, it's a merciless menice encased in madness
What am I supposed to learn from this? They say everyone plays the fool sometimes but this is ridiculous, plus, I don't see the purpose
A phony realist, a visually impaired key eye witness. Who hears the crys for help from within the shadows of darkness?
Don't tell me it's the same heartless putts in charge of forgiveness, I need real help so I'm gonna pass on the self-righteous
Is there anybody who knows and could possibly tell me if then why I actually exist
Could they, would they let me know how long all this bull shiits gonna persist?
An existential crisis, I'll give you the knife if you promise to twist and leave it in my back for others to witness
There I am, atop of my own hit list and shiit list, racing toward the top spots like it's a goal I refuse not to witness
Take a shot, I insist, do or do not, there is no try with a mind overwhelmed with sadness
Tripped and slipped and fell head first into madness, it's my ****** up opus, I don't know where hope is
The line between good and evil seems seamless, can't beet 'em join 'em so I tried to harness the darkness, obviously a swing and a miss
I'm the catalyst of my own demize, an apologist for this Hyde side I can't evict with any permanence
Utterly incapable, physically and mentally unable to trespass him from the premises
So I come unglued at the seems and fall to pieces below the surface, letting life continue it's nonconsensual coitus
Here's my thesis, it's better for the masses if I continue suffering in silence and not be anyone elses regrets
Build a wall around this temple, turn open boarders to a closed fortress
No exit or entrance, not allowing me in your presence while keeping life at a distance
Not sure I'll survive this but let's be honest, I don't really need to venture a guess
Let's just say the answer is not a simple yes but it's my reality none the less

©2022

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