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"entitle" poems
☮ ☮ ☮ **Society needs more Social Justice. Humanity needs peaceworkers.** Peace and Social Justice must be promoted aggressively. There are inequities that must be addressed. Power is not equally distributed. Neither are resources or wealth. Neither are poetic gifts or vision equitably distributed. Unearned privilege is rampant. Poetry must confront this global crisis of capitalist exploitation and manipulation. Poetry must speak to the masses. Poetry must radicalize and inform consciousness to new levels of social change. Marginalized citizens must be empowered. All ****** gender-based, racial, religious, age-based, homophobic, xenophobic, and gynophobic bigots must be brought to see in a new way through our poetry. Community building and local empowerment are of the order. Our poetry must be global in scope – yet rooted and grounded in local community empowerment. Selfless acts of service to promote and increase Social Justice are needed. Lives selflessly devoted to establishing social justice are called for. Our poetic lives must be laid on the altar of the dis-enfranchised and unrepresented. We, as consciously aware poets, must advocate and speak out for those who have no voice. We, as poets, must, through stirring words of Social Justice, embody through our radical verses the burning hope of a just and sustainable future. This future must become increasingly collective as formerly marginalized consumers become empowered community-builders  –  through our poetry. As poets of the sustainable future we will empower and inform. Our poetry must collectivize, entitle and enslave. We must speak with ONE VOICE: the voice of change and social justice. Our words will rise with healing in their wings and lift whole communities from despair to radicalized self-awareness in communities filled with strident, intolerant and maniacal practitioners of PEACE & SOCIAL JUSTICE. All poets who do not lay their entire creative and lyrical selves on the altar of struggle to bring CHANGE and SOCIAL JUSTICE will be LIQUIDATED by our own EMPOWERED POETRY. IN THE END WE WILL WRITE A PURE POETRY OF SOCIAL CHANGE, ALL IN CAPS, AND THIS POETRY OF SOCIAL JUSTICE AND EMPOWERMENT WILL BE READ OVER THE GRAVES OF ALL SELL-OUT, CORPORATE, FASCIST, SNITCHING, SELFISH, UNEMPOWERED AND UNEMPOWERING TRAITORS AND ENEMIES OF SOCIAL JUSTICE.  IN THE END THERE WILL BE NO PUNCTUATION OR EVEN WORDS ONLY PURE IMAGES OF CHANGE + VISIONARY COLLABORATION IN SOCIAL TRANSFORMATION/MAYBE SLASH MARKS/OKAY MAYBE EXCLAMATION POINTS TOO BUT ONLY THOSE ! WHY? BECAUSE THE ONLY GOOD POET IS A LIVING POET WHO HAS LIQUIDATED EVERY FALSE POET NOT COMMITTED TO THE STRUGGLE FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE ! LONG LIVE POETRY IN ACTION THROUGH CHANGE! WRITE/SPEAK/AGITATE FOR  SOCIAL JUSTICE  & EMPOWERMENT ! **POETRY IS STRUGGLE☻ STRUGGLE IS CHANGE☻ CHANGE REQUIRES SOCIAL JUSTICE☻ SOCIAL JUSTICE BRINGS PEACE☻ PEACE BRINGS WAR☻ WAR BRINGS CONFUSION & DEATH☻** (SO DON’T BE CONFUSED)
0
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
Agitating the Spin Cycle
☮ ☮ ☮ **Society needs more Social Justice. Humanity needs peaceworkers.** Peace and Social Justice must be promoted aggressively. There are inequities that must be addressed. Power is not equally distributed. Neither are resources or wealth. Neither are poetic gifts or vision equitably distributed. Unearned privilege is rampant. Poetry must confront this global crisis of capitalist exploitation and manipulation. Poetry must speak to the masses. Poetry must radicalize and inform consciousness to new levels of social change. Marginalized citizens must be empowered. All ****** gender-based, racial, religious, age-based, homophobic, xenophobic, and gynophobic bigots must be brought to see in a new way through our poetry. Community building and local empowerment are of the order. Our poetry must be global in scope – yet rooted and grounded in local community empowerment. Selfless acts of service to promote and increase Social Justice are needed. Lives selflessly devoted to establishing social justice are called for. Our poetic lives must be laid on the altar of the dis-enfranchised and unrepresented. We, as consciously aware poets, must advocate and speak out for those who have no voice. We, as poets, must, through stirring words of Social Justice, embody through our radical verses the burning hope of a just and sustainable future. This future must become increasingly collective as formerly marginalized consumers become empowered community-builders  –  through our poetry. As poets of the sustainable future we will empower and inform. Our poetry must collectivize, entitle and enslave. We must speak with ONE VOICE: the voice of change and social justice. Our words will rise with healing in their wings and lift whole communities from despair to radicalized self-awareness in communities filled with strident, intolerant and maniacal practitioners of PEACE & SOCIAL JUSTICE. All poets who do not lay their entire creative and lyrical selves on the altar of struggle to bring CHANGE and SOCIAL JUSTICE will be LIQUIDATED by our own EMPOWERED POETRY. IN THE END WE WILL WRITE A PURE POETRY OF SOCIAL CHANGE, ALL IN CAPS, AND THIS POETRY OF SOCIAL JUSTICE AND EMPOWERMENT WILL BE READ OVER THE GRAVES OF ALL SELL-OUT, CORPORATE, FASCIST, SNITCHING, SELFISH, UNEMPOWERED AND UNEMPOWERING TRAITORS AND ENEMIES OF SOCIAL JUSTICE.  IN THE END THERE WILL BE NO PUNCTUATION OR EVEN WORDS ONLY PURE IMAGES OF CHANGE + VISIONARY COLLABORATION IN SOCIAL TRANSFORMATION/MAYBE SLASH MARKS/OKAY MAYBE EXCLAMATION POINTS TOO BUT ONLY THOSE ! WHY? BECAUSE THE ONLY GOOD POET IS A LIVING POET WHO HAS LIQUIDATED EVERY FALSE POET NOT COMMITTED TO THE STRUGGLE FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE ! LONG LIVE POETRY IN ACTION THROUGH CHANGE! WRITE/SPEAK/AGITATE FOR  SOCIAL JUSTICE  & EMPOWERMENT ! **POETRY IS STRUGGLE☻ STRUGGLE IS CHANGE☻ CHANGE REQUIRES SOCIAL JUSTICE☻ SOCIAL JUSTICE BRINGS PEACE☻ PEACE BRINGS WAR☻ WAR BRINGS CONFUSION & DEATH☻** (SO DON’T BE CONFUSED)
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16
in track of attire that my grudge require a witch so blue with idol now witch with hers will entitle our country was permanent waves in Hatboro that I'll always gander with a yarl
0
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 7:45 AM UTC
eagles
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs my woman, she's a snuggler and spooner. burying herself on my, no, in my double barreled chest, her blonde hair, my field of gold.^ she landscapes my life, paralyzing me with the simplest of gestures. she sleeps holding my thumbs. locks me up. locks me down. so I cannot transcribe the lines of poetry mindful, landlines shut, land-mines of verse unexploded, till these now, hours later. a few notes ago, a few days ago, heard an octet, eight voices singing of five letters, five vowels, a  e  i  o  u. you can hear what I heard too. after you listen, better understand vowels are the butter of language. the anointing oil of connectivity. more than a line of code, they are the keys to the code, that make words and life musical. I suppose we could mange without them if we had to. spsz v cd mng wthot thm ff v hd t. but not so well. I suppose we could manage without opposing thumbs. learn to type with my nose, paint with my toes. but not so well. here is how it comes all together. a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs, never give them more than a never thought, passing over, assumed. oh yeah, on some tv show, you can buy a vowel. these glues are the things that give me the chance to tell this: this poem it is a bit about me. this poem it is a bit about her. this poem is really about you. I could live without a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs. but I could not live without her landscaping my chest. but when I share this knowledge with you friend, it becomes a verified, realized, acknowledged truth. So you see this poem is about a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs, but really about you. In fact, I am thinking, that if I did not love the title a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs so much, would entitle it instead, a wholesome democracy of love. you, a registered voter, vote then with both all the a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs at your disposal.
0
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC
a e i o u and opposing thumbs
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs my woman, she's a snuggler and spooner. burying herself on my, no, in my double barreled chest, her blonde hair, my field of gold.^ she landscapes my life, paralyzing me with the simplest of gestures. she sleeps holding my thumbs. locks me up. locks me down. so I cannot transcribe the lines of poetry mindful, landlines shut, land-mines of verse unexploded, till these now, hours later. a few notes ago, a few days ago, heard an octet, eight voices singing of five letters, five vowels, a  e  i  o  u. you can hear what I heard too. after you listen, better understand vowels are the butter of language. the anointing oil of connectivity. more than a line of code, they are the keys to the code, that make words and life musical. I suppose we could mange without them if we had to. spsz v cd mng wthot thm ff v hd t. but not so well. I suppose we could manage without opposing thumbs. learn to type with my nose, paint with my toes. but not so well. here is how it comes all together. a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs, never give them more than a never thought, passing over, assumed. oh yeah, on some tv show, you can buy a vowel. these glues are the things that give me the chance to tell this: this poem it is a bit about me. this poem it is a bit about her. this poem is really about you. I could live without a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs. but I could not live without her landscaping my chest. but when I share this knowledge with you friend, it becomes a verified, realized, acknowledged truth. So you see this poem is about a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs, but really about you. In fact, I am thinking, that if I did not love the title a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs so much, would entitle it instead, a wholesome democracy of love. you, a registered voter, vote then with both all the a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs at your disposal.
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75
I have Scratched your name into my Calendar Your name sits on the lined of my diary poised for consistent use At what point did you become so natural to me So that when I said your name, it tasted like nostalgia and hope and the Cool Fire of our words warms me to contentment It wasn't until you spoke and I smiled That I knew I missed you when you were gone But how can I miss you When you're only an hour away Still I'm regretting the wasted July Mornings When my nerves swallowed up the sentiments that said that I think of you sometime, even when you aren't around It sounds frivolous to say that I'd hope for events that would draw your lens near But now I'm budgeting you into my time and Just hope that it's not wasted The effort it takes to write these sentiments down is Nearly incomparable to that effort which must be taken to Remind the heart on my Sleeve to stay put and not seep into that vein that will Surely carry dreams across my body The word that I could entitle Perfect And since that word is unattainable here I'll only say all the others You're that feeling right after a pull And you feel yourself slip under the friendly drowse You're that feeling when you feel a set of eyes on your blushing cheeks You're the laughter of a clever retort You're a Melody thats gives spirit to my word You're that fire that burns with a bravery that you cannot see You're that ticking clock, there to remind me that Time is Precious and Soon I hate that circled square on the Calendar & I pray that that circle does not act as a deadline for when your heart can be mine Because I like the sweetness of our fresh beginnings And I do hope I may call it a beginning Instead of a short story. I'm all over the clock, Yearning for more firsts with you But even still, hoping for a second or 12. And some first that could count in a way that didn't get chalked up to Naive Sentiments Meaning I want you too much And My head is rushing Hours into this Instant. Fast Forwarding to our Next Kiss Sending me on a Clockwise Whirlwind to times that may not even exist But I still hope and Gamble for More hours to play Procrastinating the Seconds into convincing us all That It's Casual It is not Casual, to me.
0
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
It's Casual
I have Scratched your name into my Calendar Your name sits on the lined of my diary poised for consistent use At what point did you become so natural to me So that when I said your name, it tasted like nostalgia and hope and the Cool Fire of our words warms me to contentment It wasn't until you spoke and I smiled That I knew I missed you when you were gone But how can I miss you When you're only an hour away Still I'm regretting the wasted July Mornings When my nerves swallowed up the sentiments that said that I think of you sometime, even when you aren't around It sounds frivolous to say that I'd hope for events that would draw your lens near But now I'm budgeting you into my time and Just hope that it's not wasted The effort it takes to write these sentiments down is Nearly incomparable to that effort which must be taken to Remind the heart on my Sleeve to stay put and not seep into that vein that will Surely carry dreams across my body The word that I could entitle Perfect And since that word is unattainable here I'll only say all the others You're that feeling right after a pull And you feel yourself slip under the friendly drowse You're that feeling when you feel a set of eyes on your blushing cheeks You're the laughter of a clever retort You're a Melody thats gives spirit to my word You're that fire that burns with a bravery that you cannot see You're that ticking clock, there to remind me that Time is Precious and Soon I hate that circled square on the Calendar & I pray that that circle does not act as a deadline for when your heart can be mine Because I like the sweetness of our fresh beginnings And I do hope I may call it a beginning Instead of a short story. I'm all over the clock, Yearning for more firsts with you But even still, hoping for a second or 12. And some first that could count in a way that didn't get chalked up to Naive Sentiments Meaning I want you too much And My head is rushing Hours into this Instant. Fast Forwarding to our Next Kiss Sending me on a Clockwise Whirlwind to times that may not even exist But I still hope and Gamble for More hours to play Procrastinating the Seconds into convincing us all That It's Casual It is not Casual, to me.
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69
with bodies relaxed, but eyes observant, they sell five dollar bags of ***** weedy poetry mixed clientele, there is no age or gender or ****** preference discrimination, certainly none requiring critical taste, in the buying and selling of ***** weedy poetry commercial savants, organized by topic, available for purchase love, depressing, rants and whines, discounts for pre-owned anti boyfriend rhymes in his day, they say, Whitman partook, ferried up from his Brooklyn nook, William Carlos Williams too, from New Jersey came, better to understand the most common patois they'll do custom stuff, the suppliers, mix and blend  all kinds of **** their database exponential, give them the requisite hashtags, and within it, in it, thirty minutes, no more, they'll requisition, providing an acquisition - you'll get your name-your-own-hash, Freedom to entitle your own ***** weedy poetry or you could grow you own on the window sill in the earth of your discarded despair
0
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
on quiet Manhattan street corners, in two's and three's
To be love and respected. Means to respect yourself. Which falls in behind loving yourself. Those that you would feel the most secure soul. Seem to be the ones that have the most. But once the books are written and the picture becomes clear. You realize, they were on putting on an image. To be love and respected. Only means you earned that right. Yes, you're entitle to be honor. You don't hold yourself higher than others. You just enhances that you deserve recognition. For you carry yourself pretty well.
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Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
To Be Love And Respected.
If you are able to authorize or To entitle to do what you like ,then Remember that God is over there ... Man is a weak creature ,but Sometimes he goes beyond his abilities To authorize himself to do what he likes ... It's better for everyone To control oneself anytime ... Everyone and everything have limits ...
0
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
Authority
Am I intended to be jealous? Should I have such contradicting emotions? You confuse me, dear love. “I love you”, is your claim, But I am tangled, twisted, feeling tiny- Like a bump on a twig, grown out of a branch Among all the branches of your large tree called concerns. It is not pleasant; It is not right to be this way. You are hurtful, my love. Why are you not the happy thing they say you should be? I have longed to find in us what I believe is joy. So I try my best. But your actions cut my confidence; Your words burn my hope. And still I stay close, As though on a chain. It’s a leash you’ve created with your manipulation, Your way of leaving me without self esteem And your false cadences of affection. So this is how you wound me. And now I resist. I hold my shaking hand up and finally declare, “You can not make me feel this way.” Did God give you this right? Did He entitle you to my heart, And along with it present to you authority to do as you will? I dare say no; I dare say he gave to me that place. So at last, I will not let you do as you have any longer. I refuse to be so small. I end this. And I dare say I am allowed to find real happiness now.
0
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 9:13 PM UTC
My Power
Just who the hell Do you think you are? In your house that is so Twee Just who the hell Do you think you are? YOU are NO more different than ME Just because You have a car Just because Your old man works YOU think that these entitle YOU To all those extra perks! WELL **** YOU ALL **** YOUR WAYS THE TIME HAS COME TO RE-APPRAISE ~ I am angry you were nasty I am angry you were cruel Surprised YOU didn’t march us to the ***** Ducking Stool And what exactly was the crime? In the safety of your home? Were there far too many children? With a natural freedom born to roam? Did not one of you ever stop to think? What went on behind Closed doors? Or were YOU Indignantly repulsed? Fervently abhorred? Well … Let me tell you for nothing My father was a **** Yet YOU hid behind your curtains Surely WE were WORTH A PUNT? I even fulfilled your small town prophecy When I learnt to rob and steal It was never about the money It was only ever about the thrill Seven little vagabonds Seven little ***** of sin “Be careful where you step my sweet” “For, they do not hold our Lord within” Mr Roberts … “How dare you walk these streets? Glowing with civic pride Did you not know your wife’s back home with her pumpkin leg’s spread open wide! Oh…. Yes … your brother was often a frequent guest While you brown nosed on your Monetary quest” Mrs Philips … “Hubby … taking the boys to camp again? He sure likes to drill them hard Does he make you take it up the **** Does he leave YOU His CALLING CARD? I could go on … with tales of pain I could go on … with tales of woe But That is NOT MY PURPOSE For it was so very long ago I just want to make you realise the pain left in those children’s hearts They really were so much more Than the Sum of all their parts So next time you cast aspersions With your Judgemental eyes Remember Each time the knife’s stuck in **A Little piece of that child dies …**
0
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 9:11 AM UTC
Awareness
Just who the hell Do you think you are? In your house that is so Twee Just who the hell Do you think you are? YOU are NO more different than ME Just because You have a car Just because Your old man works YOU think that these entitle YOU To all those extra perks! WELL **** YOU ALL **** YOUR WAYS THE TIME HAS COME TO RE-APPRAISE ~ I am angry you were nasty I am angry you were cruel Surprised YOU didn’t march us to the ***** Ducking Stool And what exactly was the crime? In the safety of your home? Were there far too many children? With a natural freedom born to roam? Did not one of you ever stop to think? What went on behind Closed doors? Or were YOU Indignantly repulsed? Fervently abhorred? Well … Let me tell you for nothing My father was a **** Yet YOU hid behind your curtains Surely WE were WORTH A PUNT? I even fulfilled your small town prophecy When I learnt to rob and steal It was never about the money It was only ever about the thrill Seven little vagabonds Seven little ***** of sin “Be careful where you step my sweet” “For, they do not hold our Lord within” Mr Roberts … “How dare you walk these streets? Glowing with civic pride Did you not know your wife’s back home with her pumpkin leg’s spread open wide! Oh…. Yes … your brother was often a frequent guest While you brown nosed on your Monetary quest” Mrs Philips … “Hubby … taking the boys to camp again? He sure likes to drill them hard Does he make you take it up the **** Does he leave YOU His CALLING CARD? I could go on … with tales of pain I could go on … with tales of woe But That is NOT MY PURPOSE For it was so very long ago I just want to make you realise the pain left in those children’s hearts They really were so much more Than the Sum of all their parts So next time you cast aspersions With your Judgemental eyes Remember Each time the knife’s stuck in **A Little piece of that child dies …**
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97
Baptized in death incarnate, shown the worlds reality at a age of inspiration, with dreams dance upon the wings of butterflies in fields of daisy's, ******* the nectar of life, to sustain the biological imperative, that everything is connected beyond life and death. Merge pen and ink, upon the fallen trees, show the world, the vulnerabilities of a soul lost in the shadows, were light fights the darkness to escape to another day, beyond the pages you write, beyond internal dialogue of devils and angels upon your shoulders. Shower your soul, in the tears of angels, who have lost their wings and laid to rest upon the battleground, the lives of men, to stain sacred ground with life sustenance, every breath a battle you must tell now, so they are remembered in the pages of history Purify this ground, with the ink within your veins, poet, rise from the ashes of reality, sprinkle the air with stardust, of fallen souls, in languid waves of desperation to live again, beyond the tragedy of death you've witnessed, here today. entitle, designate and cleanse this world a new, so every heart may know, deep within the recess of darkness within your eyes, incandescent flames burn the birth of a poet
0
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 3:33 PM UTC
Birth Of A Poet
I often wonder How people would react If they could hear The thoughts that trickle through My mind How often I tell myself It's my fault Everything is my fault You're not pretty enough Not smart enough Not talented enough Not nice enough Not skinny enough But I cannot speak These thoughts So instead I could write a novel Entitle it Nicotine and broken dreams And fill it with all my thoughts It'd be written in blood And stained with tears Pages upon pages Filled with hatred And self loathing It will be considered Tragic and poetic When in reality I'm just pathetic I mean nothing Not a single thing I'm unimportant Worthless Pointless Good for nothing A monster A monster who gives her love To everyone else And saves none For herself A monster who leaves Herself empty And the empty spaces Are filled with negative thoughts That I must write down To release
0
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 1:54 AM UTC
Autopoem
Soma a pharmaceutical usurpation some subjunctive psychedelic noxious decoction of the capital  kind wrought by unoriginality a conjuring elixir to ignite the  material  mind Maya will have you if you don't recognize behind appearances is always a disguise beyond the superficial over what eyes can surveil   may entitle you to what is to be entailed Yuga beyond the ages beyond the sages epochs and eras multiplied to infinity expecting some recourse exponential beyond sanity gauges of the cyclical planetary Akasha ubiquitous aether all pervading all invading revelations' recordings substratum of then and now rife marshaler of how Ishwara great atman ultimate overseer transcending all time cosmic conscience consciousness sublime beyond everything sight unseen Samadhi reign over me the be all and end all of life's raisons d'être superconsciousness enlightenments bestowal of divine grace and mercy Gunas by knowledge of these moods this will allow you ambrosia of all roads in your journey ahead to navigate solely without flag or fail through equipoise unassailed Ahimsa through this your lips can no longer trespass over your welfare or the welfare of any other true liberation from human inebriation true love for one another Siddhis they will misunderstand you not being like the same eschewing commonality for the perfected mindscape a narrowed perspective to focus more completely upon the rarest of views Om what can be said of this holiest sound that permeates all ethers the skies and the grounds Brahman of this plane and all that surrounds now perish all that confounds
0
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
East Meets West in the Infinity of Eighths
Soma a pharmaceutical usurpation some subjunctive psychedelic noxious decoction of the capital  kind wrought by unoriginality a conjuring elixir to ignite the  material  mind Maya will have you if you don't recognize behind appearances is always a disguise beyond the superficial over what eyes can surveil   may entitle you to what is to be entailed Yuga beyond the ages beyond the sages epochs and eras multiplied to infinity expecting some recourse exponential beyond sanity gauges of the cyclical planetary Akasha ubiquitous aether all pervading all invading revelations' recordings substratum of then and now rife marshaler of how Ishwara great atman ultimate overseer transcending all time cosmic conscience consciousness sublime beyond everything sight unseen Samadhi reign over me the be all and end all of life's raisons d'être superconsciousness enlightenments bestowal of divine grace and mercy Gunas by knowledge of these moods this will allow you ambrosia of all roads in your journey ahead to navigate solely without flag or fail through equipoise unassailed Ahimsa through this your lips can no longer trespass over your welfare or the welfare of any other true liberation from human inebriation true love for one another Siddhis they will misunderstand you not being like the same eschewing commonality for the perfected mindscape a narrowed perspective to focus more completely upon the rarest of views Om what can be said of this holiest sound that permeates all ethers the skies and the grounds Brahman of this plane and all that surrounds now perish all that confounds
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81
Saturday morning, well armed coffee cup and newspapers, from days past and miracle! even future, Sunday news, prematurely birthed. Content to content. Pandora supplies the music, outside, clouds of steam tinge, decorate a pale blue sky, freshwater pearls from man, a choker to grace nature's blue purity. All's well, a weekend day as God meant it to be, labor free. Then I am weeping. Dan Fogelberg, poet songwriter, cancer victim, longtime gone, weeps me into a memorable mess. Leader of the Band, a tribute to his father, shipwrecks me on his river of souls. So much more, needs adding. But songs end, and so do I. But the tears keep reforming, falling freely as I acknowledge freely, my father too, a good man, a cancer victim, who led his band, his fellow patients in the doctor's waiting room in spontaneous uplifting song. I have no idea why I was so entitled. I have no idea what to entitle this. As Dan wrote/sang, cry when you have to, it's part of the plan.
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Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 10:49 AM UTC
To be (en)titled
No title no title words slither in the mind subtold like serpents to behold No title no title a choice so unmade no words in braids not one word or two not even just a few No title no title no time to entitle that title so futile cast out the title and leave it untold but the ending--- contemplate the insatiable ultimate story must unfold. No title no title Though no title surfice the ending tis precise like a run for the mice the maze is the challenge but--- the escape is the goal. © Written by Linda Bates Terrell
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Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 1:12 PM UTC
No Title
Splashes of ink Scatter amidst the land Harrowing it may seem, All in a tremendous disarray. Thou cannot strain As substantial as the others, But thy will strive For thine destiny. Thy purity had been lost Innocence, stolen Engrossed in war, Several, forgotten Innumerable lives had been adrift In an inexorable execution. How could this be? Humanity has not yet been conceived. Could not they concede, Their ways were transgress Thou say to thee, You are solely mere grime. Hope is still existing Freedom will be the next For thine liberty, Captivity won't ever transpire. I thank thee for the fortitude All who ventured in lethal combat As thou reminisce the occurrences In what ye entitle now as "history."
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Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 4:25 AM UTC
In Thy Time
The world doesn't owe you a **** thing. Hard work doesn't entitle you to a better life, neither does lineage, money or otherwise. You aren't entitled to ANYthing. Some people get more than they "deserve". Other people get less. "Deserving" is a manufactured concept to allow us to pity ourselves when we acquire less of a good thing or more of a bad thing than we expected. When something bad happens to you, you didn't deserve it. When something amazing happens to you, you didn't deserve it. Our very existence is a gift, and saying we deserve anything more than to be alive is purely arrogant. Be thankful for every drop of water, every grain of sand, and every speck of dust you have because one day, you may not have those anymore. So cherish the ones who you love, because one day, they may no longer be there either.
0
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 11:47 PM UTC
Sobering Reality
Have you ever seen the pockets ? My thoughts sit inside my sockets. I only see when i feel. Only, feel is as heavy as steel. So when i walk i put my hands inside them. Pen searching the sky's. For something deep. Patience makes man wise. So does defeat. I see them all the time. Its just Pockets full of nothing. Every now and then its just Pockets full of money. Full of fear, envy, and sloth, so they never see it sunny. Pockets full of red-handed people i see you running. Keep reaching, keep reaching, now it's hard to find it. So used to throwing your trash in there, never never mind it. Set yourself unconscious, welcome to the blinded. Pockets used for hiding. Take cover from the lightning. Big pupil needs tightening. Why is it important for us to have these ? I want my surroundings to be a product of me, that's why i pick 'em good. Mine capture your focus and entitle your attention. I use my pockets wisely, hence the quantity of tactic. Pockets full of holes. I've seen Pockets full of acid. I keep notes to myself in there. Reminders and prayers. Usually it's secrets and worldly thrills that make the pairs. Stick my hand down in deep to grab and ****** whatever is left in their. Other peoples Pockets.
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Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 8:54 PM UTC
Pockets
When in the Course of events, it becomes necessary for a   people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's Powers entitle them;                       [a decent respect to the opinions of mankind                       requires that they should declare the causes                       which impel them to the separation, _or not_]: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all animals are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness; That to secure these rights,    Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their      just powers from the consent of the governed; _That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it and to institute a new Government_,  laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form as to them shall   seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn,   that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed.    But when a long train of abuses and usurpations pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute              Despotism, _it is their right, it is their duty,              to throw off such Government_,                  and to provide new Guards                  for their future security. Such has been the patient sufferance                     of the American citizen;                     and such is now the necessity                         which constrains them                     to alter their System of Government: The history of the present government of the united States is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny. To prove this, let the Facts be submitted to a candid world:
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Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 11:15 AM UTC
Declaration of Revolution
When in the Course of events, it becomes necessary for a   people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's Powers entitle them;                       [a decent respect to the opinions of mankind                       requires that they should declare the causes                       which impel them to the separation, _or not_]: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all animals are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness; That to secure these rights,    Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their      just powers from the consent of the governed; _That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it and to institute a new Government_,  laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form as to them shall   seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn,   that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed.    But when a long train of abuses and usurpations pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute              Despotism, _it is their right, it is their duty,              to throw off such Government_,                  and to provide new Guards                  for their future security. Such has been the patient sufferance                     of the American citizen;                     and such is now the necessity                         which constrains them                     to alter their System of Government: The history of the present government of the united States is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny. To prove this, let the Facts be submitted to a candid world:
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What is it about you that holds me smitten? Is it, These hands, These hands that send me to ecstasy. These hands that entwine with mine. These very hands that hold me close to you. These lips, These lips that caress my body, loving me, kissing me. These lips that whisper "I love you". These lips that entitle me as yours. These eyes, These eyes that look into my soul. These eyes that hold promises of tomorrow. These eyes that are drunk with love, love for me. These eyes that see me and accept me for who I am. This heart, This heart that cares for me. This heart that would chose me over and over again. This heart that loves me. This heart that belongs to me. ©waywardvarsha
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Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 5:58 AM UTC
You
Do you condemn me for my thoughts? Hate me for my honesty? Cast me out, Tear me down, For your idea of sanity? Do my words frighten you? Curse you to contemplate? Bring your blood, To a burning, Bubbling broil? Do my riddles evade you? Ceasingly seamless? The madness Full of alliteration, And complex metaphors? Keep lying to yourself, with your heavy heart, As I bleed words to this page and entitle it “Art”. This is not about pain felt for what I went through. It’s about who I am; I am certainly not you. So continue to read, As I reveal how far you have fallen. Don’t believe me? Then how’d you end up on the bottom?
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May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
"Art"
It's not hard to love. It's not hard to accept God. It's just not hard. When focus upon your goal in life. You'll find brighter happenings in the end. It's not hard to be kind. It's not hard. It's not hard to give. It's just not that hard. In this world of takers. Who feels they entitle to priviledges not earned? It makes you question's their abilities to achieve. t's not hard to care. It's not hard to share. Why be selfish? Just to feel you can. When in the end you need assistance. You begins to request it from anyone. While realizing that the unselfish has taught a lesson to you. Just keep in mind. It's not hard to love. We just think it is.
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Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 10:14 PM UTC
It's Not Hard
That dare you bid Claim to Monopoly Of Potent Spheres which Winged Beauty does fly Ignite these Dames; Yet pampers their Fury Of Somber Gentlemen their Choice deny Yes, I know. Though your Genetics un-fault For your Living God to birth you such Bless He does so with Plans; And plans such Consult Beyond which flexible Models impress Friend. If by so still entitle you Friend That sometimes for a quonce un-clog your ear For at least a Moment; With un-due Percent More than Prosed Merriments you beg to hear. Of this I say; And say in Full Subscribe Leave the Heroine be; And un-screw your Pride.
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Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
SONNET TRIBUTE SUNDRY - ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY - TOM DALEY
Title (optional) could it really be that simple to wake up one spring morning with streaming golden sunlight through a window pane or to open our eyes to a shower of cascading snowflakes twinkling with delicacies authentic like temperamental daises the waft of lavender laughter sweeping through the crack of a door can we really decide one day at a five o'clock traffic jam or a forty five minute tram even while listening to the pound of our hearts as we jog along a stand of trees or the comfort of one's warmth have our breaths' taken away at the sight of the mahogany sunlit settling time of treacherous days could it really be that easy to decide what we would want to be to entitle our own rightful marrow and to know that even as the second ticks on now that there is that optional and for one's life to be like a poem there does not always have to be a title there is no one else more qualified to give it but by the heart of the individual so give it second or a day or a lifetime there doesn't have to be a label one can have one only if one wants to it is not bad nor is it good it is what it truly is wrought by simplicity and virtue people do have chances and people are not categorized into laminated labels we all think to be true like the glossy illustrations of pop magazines contaminated by the idea that people are or aren't people are, in fact whoever they want to be and they can write their own poem how ever they wish help to ease into modern hostility just wait for their fingers to reach for the pen and to touch the precious ink they have all been waiting to see what they have always known to be
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Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC
Title: Optional
Title (optional) could it really be that simple to wake up one spring morning with streaming golden sunlight through a window pane or to open our eyes to a shower of cascading snowflakes twinkling with delicacies authentic like temperamental daises the waft of lavender laughter sweeping through the crack of a door can we really decide one day at a five o'clock traffic jam or a forty five minute tram even while listening to the pound of our hearts as we jog along a stand of trees or the comfort of one's warmth have our breaths' taken away at the sight of the mahogany sunlit settling time of treacherous days could it really be that easy to decide what we would want to be to entitle our own rightful marrow and to know that even as the second ticks on now that there is that optional and for one's life to be like a poem there does not always have to be a title there is no one else more qualified to give it but by the heart of the individual so give it second or a day or a lifetime there doesn't have to be a label one can have one only if one wants to it is not bad nor is it good it is what it truly is wrought by simplicity and virtue people do have chances and people are not categorized into laminated labels we all think to be true like the glossy illustrations of pop magazines contaminated by the idea that people are or aren't people are, in fact whoever they want to be and they can write their own poem how ever they wish help to ease into modern hostility just wait for their fingers to reach for the pen and to touch the precious ink they have all been waiting to see what they have always known to be
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