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Melissa S Nov 2014
She has her own star
Down on the boulevard
Where they all line up to see her
Welcome to her life
Welcome to her world
Her life did not go as planned
She thought the whole world was in her hands
She craves intimacy in the worst way
But has to settle for whatever the fellows are paying for that day
She parades around on her concrete stars perfumed and sprayed
Hopeful that someone will find her desirable rather than doubtful
Wears tons of makeup
Smokes two packs a day
She thinks the sooner she leaves this world the better
She had a plan she had a path
Before that monster stole her soul and caused her wrath
Now alcohol and drugs help numb her pain
Nothing but a ghost girl remains
The other girl shed herself just a pile of skin left on the floor
This new person is all anyone will see anymore
She does have a good heart
but rarely uses it
too many people have let her down
No one ever tries to see the person that she is
they never stop to hear her story
They say it's hard work to look that easy
Some may even call her ******
But not me
Mystic904 Nov 2017
Left myself behind for Thy sake
Modify me through soul's remake

O' Lord! can't be more of a betrayer
Still though, I yearn for a divine remake

My heart is in Makkah
My heart is in Makkah!

Eyes can't bear watching, but none bothers
I ask for protection, for me and my brothers

Extreme suffering, such a cruel massacre
I ask for Jannah, for me and my brothers

Over our heads have we turned ******* n waste
I ask for purification, for me and my brothers

None cares for the sufferers as though not human
I ask Thy attention, for me and my brothers

My heart is in Palestine
My heart is in Palestine!

I plea to be bathed in the divine henna
In the home of the Prophet, madina madina

In the land of peace, make me offer a prayer
For me, my fellows, in the heart of madina

Revive once again the brotherhood amongst us
Like them ansaris and muhajirs of madina

Can't wait but for a chance or an opportunity
Offering myself forth, take me to madina

My heart is in Madina
My heart is in Madina!
Hakim Kassim Sep 2016
Come winds, from afar and
     and near,
Charge, waters of the world,
     to sweep
Tyrants out who use humble
     fellows with no care
In corporate classes, for
     profit to reap!

Oh, how false and mad-lived
     is this!
Trading their human nature
    for fleeting dollar in truth,
And despite what the mind
    urges to enlist--
Love, Calm and Care,
    Fraternal hope for youth!

To where is wisdom gone,
    does any one know?
Will Corporation give care
     and love?
It's false for other than God
     to bow,
For paper-dollar will not
     keep them the grave
        above!
                -by Hakim Kassim.
                 (July 15, 2015)
Is there anything glorious about August the twelfth?
When people privileged with exceptional wealth
Think it their right, to blast the sky
And the birds that fly, ne'er so high.

Is there dignity to the flurry that follows?
To be first delivering corpses to fellows
And consorts, dining in fair London town
On the shot blasted flesh, fallen down ...

To British soil, the land of the free!
So free, to be trapped in iniquity,
In pursuit of what some think to be glorious
But surely Blake's heaven would be furious.

David Applin
2018
Written on 12th June 2018 in anticipation of the opening of the grouse shooting season August 12th/13th ...August 13th because August 12th 2018 falls on a Sunday and as far as I am aware shooting grouse (game) on Sundays is illegal in England and Wales.
kirk Feb 2016
Oh Annette Tidy, I would love to lick your ****
Show me that you like it, you **** loving ****
******* pulled beyond your hole, while kneeling like a mutt
Legs apart so far and wide, I don't want your ******* shut

Spread you cheeks across my face and open your hole wide
Pelvic thrusting on my tongue, while I'm slipping it inside
The taste of it is magical, when tongue and *** collide
I can lick your ***** too , but I'll let you decide

It's okay if your a *****, when it's ***** and bums to pluck
A Furry ***** is alright, it's still so good to ****
Soiled ******* I don't mind, they make my cockerel cluck
A touch of romance is quite fine, but so is a good ****

Oh Annette Tidy let me knock on your back door
You can show me your intentions, you filthy ******* *****
I doesn't matter that we're strangers, because our *** is raw
If your like the phone box says, then what are you waiting for?

So come on now get naked, and I will do the same
let me have your **** hole and a **** ******* game
According to the writings your a filthy kind of dame
I've read that your an **** ****, so your be glad I came

Oh Annette Tidy, I am on a real *** hunt
I would be so happy, if your proper ***** ****
Whether your a posh girl, or just a ******* munt
You need to get your knickers off, and I'll give it a punt

I'll be grabbing onto your ****, and It would be devine
Vigorous ******* may result, in hearing your **** whine
If your a cheater that's okay, it really is quite fine
As long as your cheating with me, and you are ******* mine

So push your **** upon me, let my **** slide in
I'd **** without a rubber sheaf, it's better on bare skin
I'm sure that you'll enjoy it, when your sitting on my pin
And **** old Dennis Richmond, cos I don't give a **** about him

Oh Annette Tidy, I fancy a real good ****
I am really hoping, your a ***** ******* ****
It doesn't matter if your good looking, or a dried up hag
***** lips are free to flutter, when I **** your fleshy flag

**** ******* is so good, what a fantastic feeling
The tightness squeezing on my rod, that's what I find appealing
Doing **** would be great, bent over or just kneeling
An ******* that is spread wide, is really quite revealing

So when my **** is hard enough I would stuff it in your ***
Fingers up your ***** and your ******* under thumb
A frigging is in order, because I want to feel your ***
******* in your tight hole, I would really give it some

Oh Annette tidy, let us have some ****** fun
Let me see you naked, and I will ***** your hot cross bun
I also like a wet ****, but these things must be done
For you squirt me with your juice, just like a Capri Sun

I hope that you like big *****, cos I have a nine inch ****
Because I'm not hung like those fellows, who are in Hong Kong
So I won't put it all in, in case it is too long
But if you want the whole lot, I'll make sure that it says strong

Are you such an **** *****, well I don't really know
You could be a real ***** ****, or just an average joe
If your not that kind of girl, then somewhere else I'll go
Because I'm looking to get ******, and a **** and blow

You maybe such a nice girl, and you get home by ten
So you might not be interested, in ridding my big ben
I'm sure there's **** ladies, who'd like playing in my pen
A **** time they can have, if I went round to their den

Are writings on walls true, you don't have to sit there idly
If you want an arrangement, I could ******* every Friday
Unless you are a nice girl, and your a bit like Heidi
And your up in the mountains thinking . . . . Oh Annette Tidy!
Marya123 Sep 2016
There’s a cloak I keep around
A fine, invisible one
One cannot feel its texture,
Or play with it for fun.
I can’t hear its many sounds
And neither can I see
The object of my leisure
A worker’s company.

How do I know it exists?
Perhaps I fool my brain
It’s a phantom wisp of air
That somehow hides my pain
That helps calm when one persists
In hurting what’s inside
The worn bubble worse for wear
When all weak tears are dried.

When internal demons wake
The cloth begins to fray
When the heart is torn apart
The stitches do not stay
The joints start to tear and break
Grow weak with weeping thread,
The engine now cannot start
One that was always dead.

Through the holes they find the *****
Some fellows in my land
Working their way through the fold
Turning stone to mere sand.
Why do they not stop to think
‘What is this good fabric?
Looking so when once so bold
Despicable magic!’

Therein lies the bitter truth
The folly of our time
They cannot see the poor cloak
As it is in this rhyme!
Only the wearer can sleuth
Which holes made when, are where
Through dumbness, anger it soaks
Each cruel word, each harsh stare.

Pull it closer, guard within
The fragile soul and smile
Hide well, know with clarity
That it is worth your while
Each mistake you call a sin
Throw it outside the cloth
With faithful integrity
Forgiven, not forgot.

Then build inside nerves of steel
Strength of iron so great
In the kiln of your own brick
Control what you create
Take the helm, but do not seal
The course of actions done
Know the plan, but do not trick
Make hay under the sun.

Make points clear, do not mask
With some thoughts said aloud
Keep a hat large for your head
I mean- do not be proud.
Perform with love each tough task
In your own, unique way
Care and earn, and share your bread
With every passing day.

Mend the cloak as you move on
With the good gift of life
Show it off well when you can
Fighting undeserved strife.
You don’t know why you were born
You do not have to wait
The brave roar of a lion sang
From stories of your fate.
Poem that took a long time to write.... that became long. I hope it isn't boring- it turned into a philosophical rant with no control of my own.
vik Feb 2018
Listen here listen here
The world is so **** *******
Maybe all these terrible things are happening because it’s trying to be renewed
Our president is so whack
He keeps stabbing innocents in the back
Praising Arnold Schwarzenegger by acting as if he’s the terminator
Pero his wife’s an immigrant too
American dream who

We pretend to honor the OG’s who created this land
But now your trying to get them all banned
claiming them all to be rapists and murderers
Be humble sit down i'm tired of all these racial slurs

He says “We cannot aid Puerto rico forever”
But really we need to be working on this together
Puerto Rico is just a metaphor for how this president sees all Latinos and people of color
He does not see us as his equals, nor does he sees us as his fellows

Having the mindset being male and white
Is the only possibility of being right
Were all humans , we all fit in the same race.
We should not be considered by the color of our face
Yet somehow the white get all the praise
Why are we still stuck in this racist faze

Since 1963 when Martin Luther King said in his speech
“It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity. But 100 years later the ***** still is not free”
To this day even if they try not to say
The ***** is still treated so falsely.

Take a moment now to open up your eyes and stop all the self lies
Get rid that hate to open up the gate to a whole new perspective
A much more un discriminative kind
Then maybe just maybe the world wouldn’t be so **** *******
Jack L Martin Sep 2018
Oh, for what was I a boy, so long ago,
Dancing freely amongst the tall tree tops.
Greedily breathing the morning dew's glow,
Mind settling down, vast daydreaming flops.

Gazing eyes upon sweets and fruits of bliss,
Sorrow has it's days and merriment be.
As bitterness eye followed for a kiss,
Delivered confusion under my tree.

Curious rovers bellow sounds of bleak,
Hell fellows chamfer happiness askew.
Mind's eye worrying a shadowless shriek,
Running humming my innocence aflew.

Events that played out like song of sorrow,
Gift to thine eye and forgotten tomorrow.
My first Shakespearean Sonnet
zen Sep 2018
A dozen fellows draped in threadbare tread densely,

Profligating goons in obsidian gowns
gathered under rainbow
moonshine shaking bronze hands,
howling and ******,   in the shambles of the moon,  
rap'n and nod'n to the notes of midnight.
The mellow marines mourned over malice,
lionizing over lost ones,
many howled venerated, exalted in wonder
in  favor of their thrilling grace, and delight,
and brilliance, and might!
but some neighboring sticklers,
    behaved haughty and in disdain,  
of the crowdy Cavaliers bellowing echoes
signaling out
                 to the seers of the sea,
singing to the wands overwatching the wedding,
and ravens listened,
   roving like noble patrolsmen.

Traveleres and trainees at sea
   humble and bright
niave, and frieghtened
in traverse,
           volatile and toiling,
           tireless,
Lunatics, (laughing, laughing, laughhing,)
Rumaging through rain,
fireciely,
rallying and rableroused,
through towering halls of mohogony,
     hefty and wholesome were their hearts
though, beast of the woodsy edifice
were foul and benumb
scowling with contempt,
haste to devide and devised to hindrance.

Hence the heroes heed
   to the valleys of rose, and violet,
and strawberry fields of forever,
 seeking Saint Nicholas,
in the bustling Byzantium,
      in the murky shadows of doubt.
Sean Fitzpatrick Nov 2018
Agency,
and all her fellows
run the scene below,
And by their shadows
convince ourselves
of string-ties up above.

A gangly play
where draw the curtains
sit the watchful Crowd-
a flock of birds
in tiny hats
attend to

And up above
in dark night Sky
spins an earthly globe,
Whose little turmoils
bubble over
to no particular song.
Traveler Mar 7
Two rough looking fellows
On their way down
**** and ******
In their vehicle was found...
A feeling of sadness
Because that was once me
Oh how twisted
City life can be...
And then a young mother
I've been her before
A broken ******
With love at the core...
A slave to madness
Chasing a rush
Strange how fast a life
Down the toilet can flush!
Traveler Tim

I drink a little..
Blessed to have left the rest behind!
Alyssa Underwood Mar 2016
I

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
  For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
  When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
  And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men
  In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
  And his step seemed light and ***;
But I never saw a man who looked
  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
  With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
  Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
  With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
  Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
  A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
  “That fellows got to swing.”

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
  Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
  Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
  My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought
  Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
  With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
  And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
  By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
  Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
  The brave man with a sword!

Some **** their love when they are young,
  And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
  Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
  The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
  Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
  And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
  Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame
  On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
  Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
  Into an empty place

He does not sit with silent men
  Who watch him night and day;
Who watch him when he tries to weep,
  And when he tries to pray;
Who watch him lest himself should rob
  The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see
  Dread figures throng his room,
The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
  The Sheriff stern with gloom,
And the Governor all in shiny black,
  With the yellow face of Doom.

He does not rise in piteous haste
  To put on convict-clothes,
While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
  Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
******* a watch whose little ticks
  Are like horrible hammer-blows.

He does not know that sickening thirst
  That sands one’s throat, before
The hangman with his gardener’s gloves
  Slips through the padded door,
And binds one with three leathern thongs,
  That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear
  The Burial Office read,
Nor, while the terror of his soul
  Tells him he is not dead,
Cross his own coffin, as he moves
  Into the hideous shed.

He does not stare upon the air
  Through a little roof of glass;
He does not pray with lips of clay
  For his agony to pass;
Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
  The kiss of Caiaphas.


II

Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard,
  In a suit of shabby grey:
His cricket cap was on his head,
  And his step seemed light and ***,
But I never saw a man who looked
  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
  With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
  Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every wandering cloud that trailed
  Its raveled fleeces by.

He did not wring his hands, as do
  Those witless men who dare
To try to rear the changeling Hope
  In the cave of black Despair:
He only looked upon the sun,
  And drank the morning air.

He did not wring his hands nor weep,
  Nor did he peek or pine,
But he drank the air as though it held
  Some healthful anodyne;
With open mouth he drank the sun
  As though it had been wine!

And I and all the souls in pain,
  Who tramped the other ring,
Forgot if we ourselves had done
  A great or little thing,
And watched with gaze of dull amaze
  The man who had to swing.

And strange it was to see him pass
  With a step so light and ***,
And strange it was to see him look
  So wistfully at the day,
And strange it was to think that he
  Had such a debt to pay.

For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
  That in the spring-time shoot:
But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
  With its adder-bitten root,
And, green or dry, a man must die
  Before it bears its fruit!

The loftiest place is that seat of grace
  For which all worldlings try:
But who would stand in hempen band
  Upon a scaffold high,
And through a murderer’s collar take
  His last look at the sky?

It is sweet to dance to violins
  When Love and Life are fair:
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
  Is delicate and rare:
But it is not sweet with nimble feet
  To dance upon the air!

So with curious eyes and sick surmise
  We watched him day by day,
And wondered if each one of us
  Would end the self-same way,
For none can tell to what red Hell
  His sightless soul may stray.

At last the dead man walked no more
  Amongst the Trial Men,
And I knew that he was standing up
  In the black dock’s dreadful pen,
And that never would I see his face
  In God’s sweet world again.

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
  We had crossed each other’s way:
But we made no sign, we said no word,
  We had no word to say;
For we did not meet in the holy night,
  But in the shameful day.

A prison wall was round us both,
  Two outcast men were we:
The world had ****** us from its heart,
  And God from out His care:
And the iron gin that waits for Sin
  Had caught us in its snare.


III

In Debtors’ Yard the stones are hard,
  And the dripping wall is high,
So it was there he took the air
  Beneath the leaden sky,
And by each side a Warder walked,
  For fear the man might die.

Or else he sat with those who watched
  His anguish night and day;
Who watched him when he rose to weep,
  And when he crouched to pray;
Who watched him lest himself should rob
  Their scaffold of its prey.

The Governor was strong upon
  The Regulations Act:
The Doctor said that Death was but
  A scientific fact:
And twice a day the Chaplain called
  And left a little tract.

And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
  And drank his quart of beer:
His soul was resolute, and held
  No hiding-place for fear;
He often said that he was glad
  The hangman’s hands were near.

But why he said so strange a thing
  No Warder dared to ask:
For he to whom a watcher’s doom
  Is given as his task,
Must set a lock upon his lips,
  And make his face a mask.

Or else he might be moved, and try
  To comfort or console:
And what should Human Pity do
  Pent up in Murderers’ Hole?
What word of grace in such a place
  Could help a brother’s soul?

With slouch and swing around the ring
  We trod the Fool’s Parade!
We did not care: we knew we were
  The Devil’s Own Brigade:
And shaven head and feet of lead
  Make a merry masquerade.

We tore the tarry rope to shreds
  With blunt and bleeding nails;
We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
  And cleaned the shining rails:
And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
  And clattered with the pails.

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
  We turned the dusty drill:
We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
  And sweated on the mill:
But in the heart of every man
  Terror was lying still.

So still it lay that every day
  Crawled like a ****-clogged wave:
And we forgot the bitter lot
  That waits for fool and knave,
Till once, as we tramped in from work,
  We passed an open grave.

With yawning mouth the yellow hole
  Gaped for a living thing;
The very mud cried out for blood
  To the thirsty asphalte ring:
And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
  Some prisoner had to swing.

Right in we went, with soul intent
  On Death and Dread and Doom:
The hangman, with his little bag,
  Went shuffling through the gloom
And each man trembled as he crept
  Into his numbered tomb.

That night the empty corridors
  Were full of forms of Fear,
And up and down the iron town
  Stole feet we could not hear,
And through the bars that hide the stars
  White faces seemed to peer.

He lay as one who lies and dreams
  In a pleasant meadow-land,
The watcher watched him as he slept,
  And could not understand
How one could sleep so sweet a sleep
  With a hangman close at hand?

But there is no sleep when men must weep
  Who never yet have wept:
So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave—
  That endless vigil kept,
And through each brain on hands of pain
  Another’s terror crept.

Alas! it is a fearful thing
  To feel another’s guilt!
For, right within, the sword of Sin
  Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
And as molten lead were the tears we shed
  For the blood we had not spilt.

The Warders with their shoes of felt
  Crept by each padlocked door,
And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
  Grey figures on the floor,
And wondered why men knelt to pray
  Who never prayed before.

All through the night we knelt and prayed,
  Mad mourners of a corpse!
The troubled plumes of midnight were
  The plumes upon a hearse:
And bitter wine upon a sponge
  Was the savior of Remorse.

The **** crew, the red **** crew,
  But never came the day:
And crooked shape of Terror crouched,
  In the corners where we lay:
And each evil sprite that walks by night
  Before us seemed to play.

They glided past, they glided fast,
  Like travelers through a mist:
They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
  Of delicate turn and twist,
And with formal pace and loathsome grace
  The phantoms kept their tryst.

With mop and mow, we saw them go,
  Slim shadows hand in hand:
About, about, in ghostly rout
  They trod a saraband:
And the ****** grotesques made arabesques,
  Like the wind upon the sand!

With the pirouettes of marionettes,
  They tripped on pointed tread:
But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
  As their grisly masque they led,
And loud they sang, and long they sang,
  For they sang to wake the dead.

“Oho!” they cried, “The world is wide,
  But fettered limbs go lame!
And once, or twice, to throw the dice
  Is a gentlemanly game,
But he does not win who plays with Sin
  In the secret House of Shame.”

No things of air these antics were
  That frolicked with such glee:
To men whose lives were held in gyves,
  And whose feet might not go free,
Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
  Most terrible to see.

Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
  Some wheeled in smirking pairs:
With the mincing step of demirep
  Some sidled up the stairs:
And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
  Each helped us at our prayers.

The morning wind began to moan,
  But still the night went on:
Through its giant loom the web of gloom
  Crept till each thread was spun:
And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
  Of the Justice of the Sun.

The moaning wind went wandering round
  The weeping prison-wall:
Till like a wheel of turning-steel
  We felt the minutes crawl:
O moaning wind! what had we done
  To have such a seneschal?

At last I saw the shadowed bars
  Like a lattice wrought in lead,
Move right across the whitewashed wall
  That faced my three-plank bed,
And I knew that somewhere in the world
  God’s dreadful dawn was red.

At six o’clock we cleaned our cells,
  At seven all was still,
But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
  The prison seemed to fill,
For the Lord of Death with icy breath
  Had entered in to ****.

He did not pass in purple pomp,
  Nor ride a moon-white steed.
Three yards of cord and a sliding board
  Are all the gallows’ need:
So with rope of shame the Herald came
  To do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fen
  Of filthy darkness *****:
We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
  Or give our anguish scope:
Something was dead in each of us,
  And what was dead was Hope.

For Man’s grim Justice goes its way,
  And will not swerve aside:
It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
  It has a deadly stride:
With iron heel it slays the strong,
  The monstrous parricide!

We waited for the stroke of eight:
  Each tongue was thick with thirst:
For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
  That makes a man accursed,
And Fate will use a running noose
  For the best man and the worst.

We had no other thing to do,
  Save to wait for the sign to come:
So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
  Quiet we sat and dumb:
But each man’s heart beat thick and quick
  Like a madman on a drum!

With sudden shock the prison-clock
  Smote on the shivering air,
And from all the gaol rose up a wail
  Of impotent despair,
Like the sound that frightened marshes hear
  From a ***** in his lair.

And as one sees most fearful things
  In the crystal of a dream,
We saw the greasy hempen rope
  Hooked to the blackened beam,
And heard the prayer the hangman’s snare
  Strangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him so
  That he gave that bitter cry,
And the wild regrets, and the ****** sweats,
  None knew so well as I:
For he who lives more lives than one
  More deaths than one must die.


IV

There is no chapel on the day
  On which they hang a man:
The Chaplain’s heart is far too sick,
  Or his face is far too wan,
Or there is that written in his eyes
  Which none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
  And then they rang the bell,
And the Warders with their jingling keys
  Opened each listening cell,
And down the iron stair we tramped,
  Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God’s sweet air we went,
  But not in wonted way,
For this man’s face was white with fear,
  And that man’s face was grey,
And I never saw sad men who looked
  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked
  With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
  We prisoners called the sky,
And at every careless cloud that passed
  In happy freedom by.

But there were those amongst us all
  Who walked with downcast head,
And knew that, had each got his due,
  They should have died instead:
He had but killed a thing that lived
  Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time
  Wakes a dead soul to pain,
And draws it from its spotted shroud,
  And makes it bleed again,
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood
  And makes it bleed in vain!

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
  With crooked arrows starred,
Silently we went round and round
  The slippery asphalte yard;
Silently we went round and round,
  And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,
  And through each hollow mind
The memory of dreadful things
  Rushed like a dreadful wind,
And Horror stalked before each man,
  And terror crept behind.

The Warders strutted up and down,
  And kept their herd of brutes,
Their uniforms were ***** and span,
  And they wore their Sunday suits,
But we knew the work they had been at
  By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,
  There was no grave at all:
Only a stretch of mud and sand
  By the hideous prison-wall,
And a little heap of burning lime,
  That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,
  Such as few men can claim:
Deep down below a prison-yard,
  Naked for greater shame,
He lies, with fetters on each foot,
  Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime
  Eats flesh and bone away,
It eats the brittle bone by night,
  And the soft flesh by the day,
It eats the flesh and bones by turns,
  But it eats the heart alway.

For three long years they will not sow
  Or root or seedling there:
For three long years the unblessed spot
  Will sterile be and bare,
And look upon the wondering sky
  With unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer’s heart would taint
  Each simple seed they sow.
It is not true! God’s kindly earth
  Is kindlier than men know,
And the red rose would but blow more red,
  The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
  Out of his heart a white!
For who can say by what strange way,
  Christ brings his will to light,
Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
  Bloomed in the great Pope’s sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor red
  May bloom in prison air;
The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
  Are what they give us there:
For flowers have been known to heal
  A common man’s despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,
  Petal by petal, fall
On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
  By the hideous prison-wall,
To tell the men who ***** the yard
  That God’s Son died for all.

Yet though the hideous prison-wall
  Still hems him round and round,
And a spirit man not walk by night
  That is with fetters bound,
And a spirit may not weep that lies
  In such unholy ground,

He is at peace—this wretched man—
  At peace, or will be soon:
There is no thing to make him mad,
  Nor does Terror walk at noon,
For the lampless Earth in which he lies
  Has neither Sun nor Moon.

They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
  They did not even toll
A reguiem that might have brought
  Rest to his startled soul,
But hurriedly they took him out,
  And hid him in a hole.

They stripped him of his canvas clothes,
  And gave him to the flies;
They mocked the swollen purple throat
  And the stark and staring eyes:
And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
  In which their convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
  By his dishonored grave:
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
  That Christ for sinners gave,
Because the man was one of those
  Whom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passed
  To Life’s appointed bourne:
And alien tears will fill for him
  Pity’s long-broken urn,
For his mourner will be outcast men,
  And outcasts always mourn.


V

I know not whether Laws be right,
  Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in gaol
  Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
  A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every Law
  That men have made for Man,
Since first Man took his brother’s life,
  And the sad world began,
But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
  With a most evil fan.

This too I know—and wise it were
  If each could know the same—
That every prison that men build
  Is built with bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
  How men their brothers maim.

With bars they blur the gracious moon,
  And blind the goodly sun:
And they do well to hide their Hell,
  For in it things are done
That Son of God nor son of Man
  Ever should look upon!

The vilest deeds like poison weeds
  Bloom well in prison-air:
It is only what is good in Man
  That wastes and withers there:
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
  And the Warder is Despair

For they starve the little frightened child
  Till it weeps both night and day:
And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
  And gibe the old and grey,
And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
And none a word may say.

Each narrow cell in which we dwell
  Is foul and dark latrine,
And the fetid breath of living Death
  Chokes up each grated screen,
And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
  In Humanity’s machine.

The brackish water that we drink
  Creeps with a loathsome slime,
And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
  Is full of chalk and lime,
And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
  Wild-eyed and cries to Time.

But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
  Like asp with adder fight,
We have little care of prison fare,
  For what chills and kills outright
Is that every stone one lifts by day
  Becomes one’s heart by night.

With midnight always in one’s heart,
  And twilight in one’s cell,
We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
  Each in his separate Hell,
And the silence is more awful far
  Than the sound of a brazen bell.

And never a human voice comes near
  To speak a gentle word:
And the eye that watches through the door
  Is pitiless and hard:
And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
  With soul and body marred.

And thus we rust Life’s iron chain
  Degraded and alone:
And some men curse, and some men weep,
  And some men make no moan:
But God’s eternal Laws are kind
  And break the heart of stone.

And every human heart that breaks,
  In prison-cell or yard,
Is as that broken box that gave
  Its treasure to the Lord,
And filled the unclean *****’s house
  With the scent of costliest nard.

Ah! happy day they whose hearts can break
  And peace of pardon win!
How else may man make straight his plan
  And cleanse his soul from Sin?
How else but through a broken heart
  May Lord Christ enter in?

And he of the swollen purple throat.
  And the stark and staring eyes,
Waits for the holy hands that took
  The Thief to Paradise;
And a broken and a contrite heart
  The Lord will not despise.

The man in red who reads the Law
  Gave him three weeks of life,
Three little weeks in which to heal
  His soul of his soul’s strife,
And cleanse from every blot of blood
  The hand that held the knife.

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
  The hand that held the steel:
For only blood can wipe out blood,
  And only tears can heal:
And the crimson stain that was of Cain
  Became Christ’s snow-white seal.


VI

In Reading gaol by Reading town
  There is a pit of shame,
And in it lies a wretched man
  Eaten by teeth of flame,
In burning winding-sheet he lies,
  And his grave has got no name.

And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
  In silence let him lie:
No need to waste the foolish tear,
  Or heave the windy sigh:
The man had killed the thing he loved,
  And so he had to die.

And all men **** the thing they love,
  By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
  Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
  The brave man with a sword!
Lawren Apr 3
Since the age of 4,
I’ve wanted nothing more
Than to heal, and feel
Like I belong, therefore

I struggle and try
Pretend not to cry
While you laugh and laugh
Elated to simply standby.

I plead and seek your aid,
Instead of help, you evade
All I ask of you, is for you to do
The job for which you are paid.

My blunder I can’t ascertain
My fellows you guide time and again
Until, I yet see, that the error is me
Teaching me is from what you refrain.

But the real problem here,
Is that I can’t be clear,
Of this skin I was born in,
It doesn’t exist—a veneer.

On the ground I must lay,
Your knee crushing my airway,
While to me you tell, that all is swell,
My lips blue, no air left to say

That since I was 4,
I’ve wanted nothing more
Than to heal, and feel
Like I belong, therefore

Though scared I may seem,
And left no self-esteem
I continue to fight, for it is my right
To keep pursuing my dream.
How it feels when teachers refuse to help you because of a characteristic or feature or part of you that you were born with.
Alaia Jun 7
This Texas night sky got me
full dipperin'
Tongue slippin' in the grease, frying pans on
the asphalt grit
Hot eggs n shaved legs n french fries,
moonpies and marshmallows
Good fellows, hot bellows under the bronze bull
boiling briskly
A child born in space doesn't age as fast,
lives longer,
and becomes callous to the people
"living in the dirt"
Heather's putting the clothes in the dishwasher
Truly yours today
Were open
Hearts divide
Each-Door Hide/Decide
Pray you don't slip on
The marble floor
Tomorrow_ the greeting
Heart to heart_ rain  pour

Lady Madonna there's
the door

Let's pray to the
sparrow
Her pencil skirt
London Bridges tomorrow
Her note Goddess yellow
The narrow streets
The good fellows

"He Kisses" the ground you
pray on to pay the pied piper
Etsy Ms. Betsy wiggly feet

"Forget Me Not"

Today future Estate plot
It pays to have a good
heart to nurture
  Her hourglass
Figure to capture
He's the one shot glass
He prays and passes

Faces so still-life she plays
Blinks those eyelashes
Man and Wife deeds
Those worried beads
Beef Jerky London
pubs perky
those, cute labs,
Rub a dub dub

Money and man in the
Cafe-Hub_?

We thought love stays
forever what a
comical gig never
Pay for a hug
To love her today
every day truer
Today the past
tomorrow the sky bluer

What will I borrow?

Today we pray at
the Temple
Big one
of_ a_ kind
people
Two kinds like twins
From yesterday sins
Just pray look at the
stray just another prey

Payday today is gone
Deal is done
On her I phone
he's gone
The wed day today
How time passed
Its own entire way

Let me know
This is Quite comical hilarious pay today just see everyone give a prayer or two life is so unexpected to be sour ball light up like the Christmas ball from light to  the Grand ball than darkness let your words light up in your coffee cup
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
In the faraway land,
trees smiling and nails
Not the escargot snails
Booming business sails
His name Rusty nails
Super rich paper shredding
Destroying fine print
paper and nails affair

Those hot leads faxing
The heart opens up than bleeds
What a mess misleads to
More hoarders
Trying so hard to get
over the U-S-A border
When you least expect it
Being searched papercut body

Like Honey Bee without
Hair like a beehive
foxy lady
No Jive rock paper scissors
Twisted sisters also drying up
All lines and spot
like a dark romance
Cheetah
Not the Samson and
Deliah race
Millionairess place
Became a swamp
Forest of racers
Super moon Gump
Lady and the *****
I am Instagram Disney Pixstar
Getting looks by far
Superwomen nailed her
With Starwars
European fellows

Soft clouds daze-like fun yellow
Emotionally their crying
Broken one scattered piece
of glass, please I see something
to smile about
Super rich why do they get
the VIP pass laughing
He's the roundabout
Someone with love handles
Can we handle all this
Getting drinks and hot lady
winks hit or miss
Racing their motorcycles
Dark glove handles
What Harley Davidson cycles
Is that your best reaction trying
Mirror my mirror on the wall
I am not buying it super
rich mechanic
The only one chosen mirror
She feels ******
Love can give you tumors
Dissect you who will direct you
You don't feel this is your time
The sunny side of the street
Sunnyside eggs over easy

The Speakeasy
Your hair of ringlets **** wavy
Did he nail your darker side beat
Bird up your nest feeders heat
Don't break me up to fall
The phone rings dingaling
Spiritual candles witch is dead
Your mind is somewhere else
instead
Just make your silk ties of the bed
Tied to your ankle I love you
How your hearts just dangle
"Having a nail full because you're single"
Were all linked into something
Yodeling, not the business
of smuggling
Knocking on heavens door
Super rich marble black and white floor
Hammering nails in the cabin
He's fishing the hooks how it fits together
hugging
Going up the staircase to heaven
What a big cliff-hanging nail diver

Zippety Zepellin*
Songs whole lotta love
How you've been nailed in
the blackout
Not a piece blackout cake
Canarsie at the pier
Out of nails, the darkness hits me
Bend over nails like the devil more rivals
Never to be resentful
Always pray to be needful
Her face value of her smile
Being poor her soul
stepped on

Too many men, not enough nails
But they got their thrills
New York City construction
worker
He's wiped out being hammered
nails hot drills
Such poorly written emails

Her heels got stuck
No stars to shine *Rusty bar
Starbucks

Her mind was a
bulletproof vest  
"Jane and *****"
"Plain Janes" movie cut
Of paper dolls
Being Nailed Bunny hunt
of tricks
But all weapons he nailed her the best*

Blood stem thorns
Italian love horns
Robin Redbreast tweet text
What holds us together
French **** nails
Fountain of golden coins

Lion heads or tails the door
Back to spam ham of emails
Super rich we may never be
But New York will always
be my kind of town
He nailed it so
many times

New Yorker super rich talker
Like a perilous time super
rich food delicious
Pygmalion how we nail our nation
Super Rich, I rather have a rich blend of my coffee and savor all the rich tones  I tune who wants to hammer the nails that not a girl wanting to have fun flavor my music all sounds. So much higher than anyone with money I love my honey on my face to the Spa Tra La La that's super rich it sticks
Arry Oct 2018
You heard about that girl who's dating four guys right now,
Instead of being mature and wise, your reaction was a big wow!
You heard about that lunatic kid who lives on the streets,
But you never noticed his demeanor and the way how he greets.
You heard about that skinny man who comes back late at night,
Did you know that the work load has been killing his appetite.
You heard about someone called God, whom you have never met,
Yet he's the one who gets the credit for everything you get.
You hear about a lot of crap which you always tend to believe,
And lose the most valuable fellows who can never be retrieved.
These fatal cells of lies...start developing like a tumor,
You hear a lot of it everyday and commonly call it RUMOUR!
Arianna Oct 2018
Beloved, receive thy Crimson Bride:

“Χαίρε, O Nymph, loved by the gods and the Terrible Fates!”

May this sacrifice of roses
Strewn smoking as She approaches
Propitiate sovereign Love and Time,
That our gods will accept this fiery bouquet,
Bestowing their blessings upon ye Lovers:

For the flowers of innocence have passed away, and now
Upon the nuptial altar
Lover and Beloved stand
Fellows
In limbo.
"Prayers and Musings in the Temple of Fire, No. VI"
Trim back the parts of me protruding
unwantingly in everyone’s face

Sever from me the dead branches that no longer
serve except to scrape my fellows’ sensitivity

Pluck off these withered and unrecognizable
leaves that pitifully and desperately
held on throughout Winter              

Uproot these weeds of deeply burrowed
manipulations and please pour a gallon
of **** killer on my roots

Smash the restless tendencies of ants,
ever planning and controlling; cave in
their castle of lies

Did you notice that black widow spider
patiently waiting to poison all that is dear
in my life?

While at it, might as well neatly scoop up
the rocks and pebbles of thoughts and
reason that have scattered across the drive way
and put them back into proper context.
Bardo Feb 4
I knocked on the door of Fame,
She kindly opened up for me and
   spoke my name
And smiling, bid me enter
(I must have made the grade this time)
Inside lay a whole new world, a world
   of wonder
She looked at me as if to say "Where were you all this time, we've been waiting on you".

Well she fussed over me something
   terrible
Lavishing on me gifts and sweets
   aplenty
Showering me with praise and high
   accolades
She was great she was... O! She was
   lovely!
Bestowed on me great new names,
I was an intellectual now, a member of
   the intelligentsia
I was a 'great artiste', a Big Star
I was part of the Elite
I was one of them now, I was one of
   them.

I got to sit on my little seat at the Big
   Table
The others sitting there they all smiled
   down at me
" Look at me now ", I thought to myself, " look where I am and who I am, who would have believed it ".

Puffed me up no end she did, inflated
   my ego
I thought I might up and float away
And for awhile, a little while I was
   happy.

                            II

But the House of Fame had another
   face I found
Would invite young hopefuls in from
   outside, young aspiring artists
Allow them to come and read their
   works, exhibit their wares
While those sitting there around the
   table, they'd judge them
Like little Roman emperors we were, giving a thumbs up or thumbs down
Some of my fellows, they were quite
   brilliant at it
The way they could dissect a work, get
   right to the heart of it
And sum it all up,
And they could be so funny with it as
   well
They'd make you laugh with their
   witty remarks
But there were times though, when
  things they could get a bit ******
When they'd turn on someone, heap
   derision on their work.

There was this one young lad I
   remember
In his hands he clutched some papers,
He held his whole world, his whole
   life in those papers
You could see it in him, just how much
   it meant to him,
Sad to say though, he wasn't all that
   good
Well they just took him apart, they hit
   him like a hurricane
You could see his disappointment, see
  his face drop
His world start to crumble,
   his hopes and dreams start to die
Could see him almost shrivel up right
   before your eyes
He'd may as well have been in front of
   a firing squad,
"It had to be done", my fellows would say, " you had to be ******* them, they
   had to be told"
And they could be so witty, my fellows,
   so funny
They'd make you laugh, laugh at
   anything
They all laughed, I laughed too and then...and then, I thought of you, I thought of you.

                           III

Now some writers when their very
  young write great stuff even then
I'd be only too proud to have written it
   myself if I could
But when I think back to what I wrote
  early on
I close my eyes and wince as if in pain,
I shake my head and grimace, "awful,
   terrible stuff, what was I thinking"
Guileless, naive, infantile,
   incomprehensible even to myself a
     lot of it, without wit or cunning
If any of it ever came to light I'd be so
   embarrassed, I'd be mortified,
      scandalised
I feel I'd have to flee the country, go
   and live in some remote jungle some
      place
And never show my face again, I
   thought it that bad,
It was like some ***** guilty secret I
   had to hide.

And you know I couldn't help thinking
   what if it was you standing there
Before this - this Inquisition, reading
   your work
How they'd listen to you probably
   with mouths wide open almost in
      disbelief
Barely able to contain their laughter
And when you'd finished
How they'd wink and smile knowingly
   at one another and maybe say
       something like
"And what do we have here, what
   exotic creature
From under what gilded stone have
   you come out from under"
And then they'd lay into you... "this
  *******, this crap, this mindless
    drivel, I never laughed so much in
        my life! these inane ramblings,
This guy he must be the village idiot",
And what would I do, would I rush to
   your defence, would I lift a finger
     to help you... No! not a chance
I'd just sit their silent and not let on I
   knew you, just watch them take you
      apart
Like lions in the arena, tearing you
   asunder
I'd even join in, yea, I'd laugh too,
And what if your eyes met mine, well
   I'd quickly look away,
" I don't know you, you're not me,
    you're not mine,
And if you were  I'd disown you
I'd have you erased from my past,
You're an embarrassment to me
You're worlds away from who I am
   now".

And later in my room alone would I
   think of you
And what it was like for you back
   then,
And that world you came from
Would I remember a boy so utterly
   lost with no hope of ever getting
        back
All alone with no one to show him the
   way
With a mind like a war zone, broken
   and bloodied, pummeled from every
       side
Trying to make sense of a crazy world
Trying desperately to keep a grip on
   life
To cling onto something, anything
   that'd keep him afloat,
Trying to write because he thought it
   was the only thing left that he could
      do
(Someone who'd never even been a
   reader of books...
Do many writers write just to stay
   alive ?)
And the more I thought about it the
   more I began to admire you
How really it was quite amazing you
   were able to write anything at all...
And to think that I would just sit there
   and watch this, your... your
         crucifixion and do nothing,
That I could betray so brave and
   beautiful a boy,
Wasn't the shame not yours but all
   mine.

And maybe they'd bring you back a
   second night saying - laughing!
"This one was so good, we had to bring
    him back again to impart some
      more of his little gems",
And to see you there the tear stained
   face, the dead eyes with no light left
      in them
Devoid of all dignity now, begging
   them for some sign of approval,
    some gesture, anything at all !
Looking at them as if they were God
  Almighty
And you were nothing but a piece of
   **** on their shoe
Would I finally have the guts to stand
   up and call a halt, would I !
Jump over their Big Table, go and take
   you in my arms
And tell you" It was alright, that I was
  here now and was so sorry I hadn't
    been before ",
And then turning to them say -admit,
" This, this *******, this drivel, this
    village idiot
This was me when I was young,
It kept me alive, it gave me hope when
   there was no hope ",
And smiling at them I'd say, " and I'd choose him every time over any of you
   sitting there,
What do you know of me and my life,
  what I've been through, were you
      there ?
And turning to you again I'd say,
"Let's get out of this place, we don't
     belong here
This isn't us, this isn't who we are,
Let's go home the two of us, you and
   me together,
Let's go home.
Never been to the world of fame, this is just an invented story. Is not so much about fame as about self acceptance and accepting those parts of ourselves we'd rather hide and bury and not let the world see.
kirk Nov 2018
Fat arses are so squeezable, big bums I rather like
So amplify your cellulite, and step up to my mic
Pins may shake and quiver, if I can score a strike
A Fat **** has more stability, to park my mountain bike

You may prefer a slender girl, with a bottom that is sleek
And fatter girls are not for you, or not what you would seek
Some little arses can be cute, but I want that extra cheek
I need some chunky piece of ****, to reach my ****** peak

I don't want a boney lass, who wears a leather mini
A larger girl I'd rather have, than a woman that is skinny
Imagine a great big ****, bulging out from a tight pinny
Bear arses are acceptable, just look at that Pooh Winnie

Size twenty dress would be fine, but better times by four
With Something to grab hold of, that would thrill me even more
Bigger bums and fatter thighs, that take up the whole floor
Squelching fat I would enjoy, I don't want a thin girl cure

Thin sticks maybe preferable, those girls shaped like a rake
Stupid ****** I don't want, or **** that could be fake
Fat ladies have more bounce, and they will never brake
I don't mind some extra skin, that's sweating like Swan Lake

Larger woman are more fun, they have a wetter gape
There's more to love per square inch, WOW what a body shape
Smother me with all you've got, a complete body ****
I wouldn't be like Steve McQueen, and try The Great Escape

I'm interested in BIG thrills, but I don't want silk or lace
It's certainly a worthwhile trip, if it's shoved in the right place
Delving into the unknown, well I'm not sure that's the case
You know exactly what you'll get, with fat arses in your face

A nice thin *** is okay, but sometimes they're quite drab
Even if your figure's slim, I'd want more **** to grab
I'd rather have a bit more fat, which includes dimples and flab
If your offering your fat ****, call me a mini cab

Excursions during twilight hours, to avoid the daylight sun
I prefer to be in stealth, I'll be on the midnight run
It doesn't matter how large you are, even if you weight a ton
Fat arses I will always grab, now wouldn't that be fun

There's nothing wrong with pertness, so this I will announce
But doesn't a nice fat ****, have extra pounds per ounce
With more to grab and more to squeeze, and definitely more bounce
Big cats scratching for more meat, will always make me pounce

If you are not good looking, and you look like a pig
I'll forgo your outward looks, as long as you are big
Bare your *** in front of me, and give me the gig
You can reach your Top Gear, with a helmet like the Stig

With a *** like the Grand Canyon, I wouldn't want to pass
Mammoth mountains of pure fun, as i lay in the grass
A women laid across the world, with a big fat ****
I'd try extreme obesity, if it's open wide and sparse

So take advantage of me, and let your **** end loose
I'm a man who likes em big, without being too obtuse
Use your fat for basting, and I'll give your **** a goose
We could do well with a good game, according to old Bruce

You may like slimmer ladies, but come on now you gents
A bums a *** after all, so stop sitting in the fence
If you would try a fatter ****, you wouldn't be so tense
Don't be a ******* plonker, you know that it makes sense

Thinner lovers may change their mind, and not think fat is vile
It's just a different point of view, depends on your own style
For that deeper piece of crack, I'd go that extra mile
I don't think a fatter ****, is bottom of the pile

Maybe you don't share my views, but there's something I can teach
A plumper *** would be great, that is within your reach
Succulent cheeks that you can grasp, your hands could have one each
Even James gave it a go, because he had a Giant peach

The perspective of a chunky ****, an amazing smile and crack
That's the exciting view you'll get, when your stood round the back
Its great to feel you way around, when everything's pitch black
You'll find it an experience, if you are right on track

A nice *** I wouldn't mind, so come on where's your *****
Bigger cheeks I can't resist, theres no need to get me drunk
I wonder if the girl next door, has some lovely feeling chunk
Enticement is my spice of life, cos I'm not a ******* monk

To like a larger lady, well It's not classed as a sin
Shallow men may only like, a girl that's really thin
Just because our clientele, are not shaped like a pin
Fatter girls have twice to give, it's like loving the same twin

Some fellows might think I'm blind, and need a pair of glasses
You can leave the lights on, cos I don't think fat is classless
Flash your **** at the back door, and you won't get any passes
Tables and sofa's can be used, to display your great fat arses
Rowan Ayman Aug 2018
My heart is haunted with hideous hollowness ;
Dimmed from being desolated or
shall I say...alone,
Love doesn’t know how to linger inside,
It only sprints in-front of my eyes,
Friends and fellows are far from sight,
I solemnly smile and try not to hide,
Swooshing of waves can be
heard from a seashell,
Stashing of my lively soul can be
heard from beyond my voice,
Revive,revive,oh roaming heart...
May the mending happen ,may you do your part.
sparkjams Mar 22
Nest of fellows
arguably more inclined
to do more harm than
the ex-wife's final remarks
before pseudo-suicide

Den of citizens
comparably less deceived
and less fallible than
our glorious senator's last yearning
in anticipation of regret

do as one does
and ye shall be reprieved
do as thoughts should
and ye shall be crucified
hope for man a flickering screen
white noise television

like hordes of bats
in white sky,
spoke my youth
lethargic and weeping
demonstrating lost causes and futile preparations
for a moment
or two...
so supreme and devastating

indecipherable!
a calamitous set of expressions
one withheld and others withdrew
and now, ultimately
scabbed over

we would continue this place
we would forfeit our cruelty
our good intent
and our willpower
in order to cherish our Earth
and let ourselves sink back down into its sultry soils
once more, and then again.
And once more!
and then again.
Like a lion attack!
a million exploding suns
a million bubbles bursting
and then everything is done.
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