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Valentine Mbagu Oct 2013
There came a time in the history of Nigeria when she dreamed for independence,
There came a moment in the history of Nigeria when she groaned to gain freedom from the British;
There came a season in the history of Nigeria when she desired to obtain independence from her rulers.

The moment when she groaned for independence,
The season when she was ready to groam freedom;
The moment when she desired to be independent as a country.

The moment when she seeked her elites to stand up and fight for independence,
The season when she awaited the voice and appearance of her freedom fighters;
The moment whe she believed that independence was ready to answer the call of nature in her country.

The moment when she believed to find freedom and independence which as that missing part of her that made her a complete country,
The season when she trusted and believed in the treasure called independence;
The moment when she hoped and desired to be called an independent and sovereign nation in the history of the world.

The moment when she was expectantant of the mother called independence,
The season when nothing meant anything to her except for the father called freedom;
The moment when she still believe to be an independent country despite foreign exploitations,
with the understanding that she could still stand up on her feet as an independent country.

She believed that someone who understands her tears and passion for freedom and independence,
will arise and fight for her freedom knowing that he will never bear to see her travail in birth for independence.
The elites she knew not but believed was out some where fortiing and preparing themselves for independence and fight for freedom.
Independence she waited for like an expectand mother of a child,
Each step she took was believed to bring her closer to freedom and independence.

She believed in freedom and independence for her country and it's occupants, and not
colonisation and exploitation from the British colony.
She believed in fighting for freedom and independence than dying a coward,
She believed in her elites efforts to obtain her independence and sovereignty.

She expected her elites to stand up and rage for independence to freedom and sovereignty,
which they did when the opportunity and strategy came for them to uphold.
She believed that destiny will bring her independence and freedom,
when the hour of liberation from exploitation comes.
She believed that her pains and heart beat was felt and understood by her elites.

The name independence she was passionate about and the fame freedom she was desperate about.
The memories of colonisation she groaned to erase and the histories of exploitation she desired to filtrate.
The name independence she struggled to uphold and the gain freedom she strived to unfold.

Before her moment of independence,
she strived to make full proof of her countrie's ambitions,
she sort self asset and not self liability.
She seeked and desired independence and freedom from exploitaion which she got.
Her dignity and hour as a country was restored on that fateful day of October 1, 1960 whe she gained and famed her independence and freedom.

She believed in independence and freedom which she got.
The death of her elites and freedom fighters was never in vain.

This is Nigeria At 53 and she is still a sovereign and independent country.
I dedicate this Poem to my Country Nigeria on Her 53rd Birthday. The 1st Of October 1960 when She gained Her Independence.
Matthew Roe Oct 2017
With each
CLICK
Our breath is held
Will he,won't he
Will he, won't he
The suspense is killing me
And....****
Door left open still
Pestered by the plebeian chill

In this gay little coffee shop
Surrounded by the unrecognised talent of Brighton:sketch artist staring at me, writer on his laptop, songwriter etching vigorously with his pencil.
All of which aren't closing the door.

The eyes roll.
Labouring my body up, hammering my legs across the floor, turning the factory handle.

All is ask is for some carrot cake,filtrate water,polo jumpers, avocado salads,tiger bread, slimmer trousers, slipper sock , a toyger.
Click
And then images of Kim Jong un pass through my head.
If I ruled you'd all be dead
Firing squad for an open door,
Loud music on the train'll be no more.
Stop the screaming misbehaving brats
The rabble of Spanish students
All this PC stuff on the news, train seats filled with cans of *****

Suddenly
The artist strolls up
Let's down his cup.
Closes the door swiftly
And slips back in his chair

Oh, so there is a god.

I guess Jesus didn't lie.
Inspired by a time I was sitting in a coffee shop in Brighton, where a ton of customers kept on leaving the door open. It is about becoming aware of ones own social class and how it can create a sense of barriers/isolation, be it from upper or lower. Specifically arising from the 2017 snap election, when the Labour Party demonised the middle and upper classes, demonising a minority the same way they mocked Trump for doing.
Kenji King Sep 2021
My mind is elsewhere...
and the only person I have on it; is you.
My mind goes back to that night; the way you spoke to me, touched me, looked into me, The way you kissed me...
The intensity and passion between us was so magnetic that even shadows could not bare to lurk.
Obsession, possession, love.
I want it all for myself.
I filtrate your thoughts, you obsess over it, you want to do more than just **** me.
You feel guilt.

Nobody has ever looked at me like that...
The mannerism of it was, was something I have never had or felt before.
I feel his thoughts, pulsating through my every nerve, my desires are not to be obsolete.
Our energies, it's intertwined in a way that I have not with anyone else.
An image, a reflection... Of me.
You are me, and I am you.

I want to feel you again, in person.
I feel you spiritually and it makes me miss you immaculately.
I see you in my dreams, waking thoughts, my soul longs for yours.
I know you feel me, I know you love me, I can feel it.
It's creating a hold of heartache inside of you, you are dared to not even breach because of your priceless ego that stops you from what could make you someone completely different.
You were hurt, and to never trust a woman again was your broken promise you made to yourself.
Yet, you saw something in me when you met me, and decided to run away and treat it for what it was not because of your broken soul that you were not ready to face.
Complacent, stubborn, you already know you are mine, and I already know that I am yours.
I've adapted, but I still think of you.
Profusely, I still remember the gleaming stare in your hazel eyes.

Yet, timing is a matter of precaution...
Yolan Govender; Do I say the least, openly and honestly.
An alluring Aquarian man that I may never see again.
But I still think about him, regardless, even when I try not to.
John McCafferty Oct 2020
Translating emotional state
Takes some discipline and listening
From thoughts to words in place
Don't lose sight of actions in flight

Tame the beast before it feasts
Monkey brain reframed
As allowing a creature out of a cage
isn't necessarily the best way to participate
Elevated above this primate state

Contest shortness of breath in the chest
Slow feelings in controlled action
Pause for a rest and step left in turn
Observe the effects that reflect on you best
To check what you've left
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
Kenji King Feb 2019
>walkin in the rain, footsteps shake, head throbs, but I still hear your silent echoes as if they follow me in the dark, my whispers are silent thunders, as if screaming in the past, it won't bring you back.

<I walk on, mud at my feet. Stepping to the trail of my own weathered beat. Nature touches my senses and the space between.

>Always in my headspace, cannot get out, still stuck, cannot move.
Though I found a way out, but you never go away, so I guess I gotta stay. I hope someday I make it out alive, whether it burns or not.

<I'll feel the flames reach higher as I gasp for air
I hope the rain comes and washes away the pain and I can dance freely again
with the sun.

>The sun in my arms, I got no space for air, breathing frantically, I hold out my last to you. But in the distance, as my voice stops, I see a shadow, squinting, eyes nearly closed, I know it's not you.

<It is a part of me
The part I don't want to see
clearly
Running will save no one.

>I'm done, words filtrate, my thoughts are bare. ****, my mind is exposed, no one who cares.
Another Duet written by me and Kate Rebecca Hopwood.
< Kate
> Me
Gene Dec 2016
my mouth
is a box in the attic hidden away
it is the box in the attic with the fragile symbol on it
a warning that it should be handled with care

my mouth
came with a filter
it filtrate the words that I wanted to say the most
but there are days when the filter seems to have a glitch
allowing my thoughts to leave my mouth with full conviction

my mouth
was programmed to have respect
encoded on my tongue are two powerful words
two words that I often use with strangers
but I think my tongue was burned by too much coffee
because every time I needed to use those two words
I always end up two words short

my mouth
skipped its classes
or maybe it didn’t learn anything
especially with the major subjects like How-To-Have-A-Normal-Conversation or What-Is-The-Right-Thing-To-Say or Small-Talk-101
because I always end up with awkward silences and a tongue-tied mouth

my mouth
is a home to a set of perfectly aligned teeth
but maybe my parents shouldn’t have invested their money on my teeth
instead they should have asked the doctor to fix my tongue
so that it would construct the right words they want to hear at the right time
a perfectly fixed tongue that would not answer them back with a mouthful of teen angst

my mouth
is not a home to a powerful voice
it is not soothing or moving
it is a home of mispronounced words from a lost voice
a voice with not enough strength

my mouth
is a place that is not yet explored
an uncharted territory
with a do not enter sign on its chapped lips

my mouth
is unfamiliar with smiles
its corners pulled down by gravity
it does not trust happy
it is home to sighs and strangled cries

my mouth
is the box in the attic filled with hope and a promise
a promise to the body it resides to
that someday its voice will no longer be lost
that someday it will be a mouth that is a home to a smile
the day will come that I would still stumble with my words
but it will carry the message that I want

someday

but today

my mouth
still needs to fix its stutter

it is a mouth full of words not said
it is still hidden in the attic
and is better left sealed and shut
042616 12:22 am
Safana Nov 2021
The light is white
And life is a white
But there is a bite
In life there is kite
And also some elite
Hate to play the kite
feeling bighead, spite
They pretended sprite

Beneath have prostrate
As in the sky demonstrate
What will nature filtrate
If there's no commensurate
Or to take wing to propagate
The equality to generate
All genders accumulate
Waiting for oral translate
Merriam Webster
An Encyclopaedic Britannica Company

Word of the Day
NOVEMBER 27, 2021

BLT Challenge
Kenji King Aug 2019
When people find out they have a certain amount of time left to live, it breaks them.
When a loved one passes away, regrets start pouring.
Unspoken words filtrate and reminiscing of memories elaborate.

****** up, ain't it.

If I had a certain amount of time left to live, I would use it wisely.
I would be happy, because life to me is pointless, I'm not suicidal, or maybe I am.
But I would rather die.
If I had cancer, I would suffer in happiness, hoping not to get better.
Honest thoughts, I WANT TO DIE.

Easiest suicide method, a gun to the head.
May take a few minutes to bleed out and die afterwards, but where to get a gun with such little cash.

Life is an ongoing cycle of pain, loss, betrayal, and abuse.
I AM SICK OF IT

Physically, mentally, and spiritually drained.
Emotionally abused and always taken advantage of by toxic people.
I need help, but I don't want it, because when I'm happy, it starts again.

**** ME

The pain and hurt and loneliness I feel inside is not worth it anymore.
I cannot do this anymore

POINTLESS

No motivation, no will, I have nothing left to live and be grateful for.
My sacrifices mean nothing and I am just a worthless burden to all.
Heather Moon Oct 2016
Couldn't think straight on my lunch break had to filtrate some wordhop.. Spiritual lessons in a coffee shop...

I want the world to wake up and yet I respond hastily to a customer,
hiding in make up,
& in a scrambled shake up..
my souls ventialtion,
a void of frustration
spews out in a compilation
Of "medium or dark roast?"
"Yo!"
I tell myself,
"Stand back, humble, make a toast to the path of the most, don't be a ghost that boasts"
So I choose to send her
blessings on her way,
avoid the sway
into mass fear,
help her
and I
to know why
we're here,

Fear dissapear

I will not respond in anger, hate or disgust
to triple frappucino-three-papercups-for-one drink society
No
I will rise through this cosmic dust
To elucidate my hearts trust
That this 9-5 rust
Will fade in a gust!

I will pray
For a world where we can be the preachers of the practice
Express our full bliss
Where we wont
Fade into the abyss...

I'm Not going to Miss
My life
Standing back
Watching behind glass,
Stooped away in fright

NO!

I'm going to feel my might
Like the night
Sky
Let it Cry
Throughout cackly veins
Wipe away
electric shasms
of pain
I will send her  
Love
On her way..

Sorry I got caught in a sway

I ask again,
Feelin that zen,
A true smile then,
"Would you like medium or dark roast?
Because
I give a toast
to the path
with the most"
My blessings to you to find ways
To live most true
And Now...
to start a new
*** of brew..
Oh universe :)
¡¡Thank You!!
kbww Dec 2018
You play me sultry
Down to a fragile state
From my salacious waist
I’m ready for lust to drift into
Your lungs as you inhale me
And I invade your bloodstream
And the blood in your
Veins starts singing my name as it
Pulses in and through your brain
And ****
Everything about you is liquid
Rush in around me
Immerse me surround me
Filtrate me through the
Fluid movement of you
So I can move as you want me to

~kb
at Cherry Hill, New Jersey Unitarian Fellowship

Boyce Brandon Harris cremains
(approximately one fourth entire contents)
offered, interred, and eulogized
within ‘Tristan’s Pollinator Garden,'
which constitutes minute arboretum
bore witness to immediate family of said deceased
yours truly plus eldest and youngest sister
each of us communicated solemn words
to recall admirable, inimitable,
and unfathomable father,

whose passing (evident previous six months,
whereby his declining physical health)
unfettered, presaged, and indicated imminent death
now his invisible spirit
dwells amidst the spiritual abodes
encompassing three offspring,
he and the late Harriet Harris begat,
whose lives analogous
to quasi orphaned grown children
all adults with independent lives of their own.

We (progeny of our father and mother,
the latter deceased
approximately fifteen and a half years)
convened at above mentioned site
see fourth line of poem
to consecrate, designate, and generate
extemporaneous heartfelt sentiments
honoring his wishes,
mixing joys and sorrows,

regaling poignant occasions
before shoveling soil
punctuated silent benediction
courtesy Reverend Margret A. O'Neall,
Developmental Minister eloquently enunciated
reassuring, healing, and comforting words
to small congregating crowd
comprising half dozen plus people.

Come spring two thousand twenty one
a hearty shrub or tree,
(yet to be decided upon)
will be planted within sanctioned
space, whereby Mother Earth

will allow, enable, and provide
nondescript ashes to mingle
subterranean flora and fauna,
whence roots of former will help filtrate
cremated body once housing
Boyce Brandon Harris.

He who helped bring us
(meaning Amélie, Matthew and Shari)
into existence forever spirited into the future
linkedin by actions
genetically, indirectly and knowingly
hashtagged, kickstarted and tweeted
said son and daughters
who possess his corporeal heritage.

— The End —