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"goods" poems
The globalization   Once thought to be an important aspect To connect the world To diverse the world Has been only a part success And of course, a success to be In a way people are connected In the enchanting world of ours Rising the common world consciousness Rising and rising and rising A day by day and day The knowledge domain, a gigantic trip Profoundly majestic experience uplifting people Remarkably All over the world diminishing the differences Differences humans suppose to believe Differences that drew humanity backwards The differences mostly set by identitities Identities in terms of nationality In terms of religion, caste and creed As we observe, differences softening them boundaries A good thing as seen Manifested due to globalization Only possible due to global reach Just possible due to connection in large scale Diminishing are those differences as they don’t fit Don't fit to the consciousness of the world To the rising consciousness of the world now More the fire it sets the plank to burn faster Happening for good for sure, I believe On the contrary differences too In the verse of diminishing the truth It contradicts the positivity As see in the world today is extremism Yes extremism happens to exist If it exists for a long period A whole long period of time In the years to come Is definately calling for absurdity Which humans may not want to percieve The adversities of the impact of globalization Leading a chance for the high level corporates To the world to have access to the marketplace All over the world Leading to a state of consumerism To the people People becoming more and more consumers They are being brainwashed For them to buy goods That global industries produce People are running after the products ****** consumers ****** sheeps Those multinationals And shark headed corporates Are producing and manufacturing The high headed corporates The pigs are manipulating Are brainwashing people The sheeps are diverted towards it The people The only agenda is to gain more And more profit only By making the people slaves of themselves And slaves of their products And believe it Coke and Pepsi may be Right hand and a left hand But the Coke and Pepsi both are the same The very debate which is better is Helping the corporates to sale By making their brains washed away Consumers Sheeps Brainwashed In a sense they are enjoying The debate they argue upon And they are unaware And they are manipulated Knowingly and unknowingly More often knowingly ****** sheep slaves Another adjoining thing most of the governments in the world Are being run by the aid Of the corporates Only have a selfish agenda And strategy to sale Products, thoughts and  philosophy More and more and more ****** pigs Brainwashing minds of the people The sheeps Having a streak of global consumerism Selfish bunch of pigs And the brainwashed sheeps Say hell ya F***king hell ya F***k off Get out'a here ****** freaks Pigs and Sheeps
0
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 11:01 AM UTC
Issac_Zepp
Pigs and Sheeps
The globalization   Once thought to be an important aspect To connect the world To diverse the world Has been only a part success And of course, a success to be In a way people are connected In the enchanting world of ours Rising the common world consciousness Rising and rising and rising A day by day and day The knowledge domain, a gigantic trip Profoundly majestic experience uplifting people Remarkably All over the world diminishing the differences Differences humans suppose to believe Differences that drew humanity backwards The differences mostly set by identitities Identities in terms of nationality In terms of religion, caste and creed As we observe, differences softening them boundaries A good thing as seen Manifested due to globalization Only possible due to global reach Just possible due to connection in large scale Diminishing are those differences as they don’t fit Don't fit to the consciousness of the world To the rising consciousness of the world now More the fire it sets the plank to burn faster Happening for good for sure, I believe On the contrary differences too In the verse of diminishing the truth It contradicts the positivity As see in the world today is extremism Yes extremism happens to exist If it exists for a long period A whole long period of time In the years to come Is definately calling for absurdity Which humans may not want to percieve The adversities of the impact of globalization Leading a chance for the high level corporates To the world to have access to the marketplace All over the world Leading to a state of consumerism To the people People becoming more and more consumers They are being brainwashed For them to buy goods That global industries produce People are running after the products ****** consumers ****** sheeps Those multinationals And shark headed corporates Are producing and manufacturing The high headed corporates The pigs are manipulating Are brainwashing people The sheeps are diverted towards it The people The only agenda is to gain more And more profit only By making the people slaves of themselves And slaves of their products And believe it Coke and Pepsi may be Right hand and a left hand But the Coke and Pepsi both are the same The very debate which is better is Helping the corporates to sale By making their brains washed away Consumers Sheeps Brainwashed In a sense they are enjoying The debate they argue upon And they are unaware And they are manipulated Knowingly and unknowingly More often knowingly ****** sheep slaves Another adjoining thing most of the governments in the world Are being run by the aid Of the corporates Only have a selfish agenda And strategy to sale Products, thoughts and  philosophy More and more and more ****** pigs Brainwashing minds of the people The sheeps Having a streak of global consumerism Selfish bunch of pigs And the brainwashed sheeps Say hell ya F***king hell ya F***k off Get out'a here ****** freaks Pigs and Sheeps
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102
Establish a research and development facility tasked with recycling 100,000 commonly used household goods or packaged products back into the original base material needed to remake it into new product packaging. Pass legislation requiring all companies selling products with packaging to buy their source materials from a registered public-private venture allowing any firm willing to participate to do so. Companies must then manufacture packaging locally using source materials supplied by one of the public-private companies. Companies will also be required to hire locally using a diversity and economic income model incorporating or locating the participating companies in the poorest rural counties in the state. Society grows great when Old Men plant trees.  -Socrates
0
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 7:46 PM UTC
david-john-mowers
Recycling Thesis
Establish a research and development facility tasked with recycling 100,000 commonly used household goods or packaged products back into the original base material needed to remake it into new product packaging. Pass legislation requiring all companies selling products with packaging to buy their source materials from a registered public-private venture allowing any firm willing to participate to do so. Companies must then manufacture packaging locally using source materials supplied by one of the public-private companies. Companies will also be required to hire locally using a diversity and economic income model incorporating or locating the participating companies in the poorest rural counties in the state. Society grows great when Old Men plant trees.  -Socrates
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2
seductive decay on summer days we rode down the river in our ripe age, careless if the rapids swept us into their deadly dustpans, the black hole of water, the possibility aroused us, perhaps because it seemed so far away. and next to the river, the appalachian townsfolk wandered the deep grass, they gathered here to see the circling folding-tables, buy the spread of goods, the goods are masks. the masks are of old folks’ faces, cartoon-like, goofy comic characters in the funny pages. masks of rubbered wrinkles, permanent, bulging eyes, whiskered ears that never stop growing, with an elastic band, you can become an elder. old age attracts the crowds, i have a fascination with it myself, picturing all the stories that have taken elders to the present, it’s hard to fake being wise when you’re forced to think for years.
0
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
melanie-r-holmes
seductive decay
seductive decay on summer days we rode down the river in our ripe age, careless if the rapids swept us into their deadly dustpans, the black hole of water, the possibility aroused us, perhaps because it seemed so far away. and next to the river, the appalachian townsfolk wandered the deep grass, they gathered here to see the circling folding-tables, buy the spread of goods, the goods are masks. the masks are of old folks’ faces, cartoon-like, goofy comic characters in the funny pages. masks of rubbered wrinkles, permanent, bulging eyes, whiskered ears that never stop growing, with an elastic band, you can become an elder. old age attracts the crowds, i have a fascination with it myself, picturing all the stories that have taken elders to the present, it’s hard to fake being wise when you’re forced to think for years.
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24
By now,the seed varieties of the world, may have been attacked beyond recovery by wars of pretense and relapses. We are still learning how to handle it properly. We tend to say. Some will talk and plan over dinner parties, over TV or Radio. Most will leave it behind like another corpse of lessons thrown to the gutter, like a dead *** on another Sunset Boulevard. Iraq's seed banks we blew up in the 2000s. In various places in Asia and the Middle East, places of life and cultured varieties gone in an instant. Echoing our imprisoned ignorance and drives for more instant goods and services. Indian farmers have committed mass suicides after their god Hanuman was used by a chemical giant to sell poison seeds and renewed bondages of indebtedness. One question a stranger asked a group of writers on tour was not what their poetry or books were about, nor why they wrote it, but how writing may and may not be helping as we make decisions and solve problems now? Once agricultural lands turn into new promises of commercial buildings. Cities of inaccessible towers and abandoned malls in America, Spain, China, and Russia feeds us back our own echo. Like converted uses of lands, our humanity is converted into inanimate collections and status symbols of some players or parties. As we face our continuing struggle between our oppressor-selves and our genuine roots. Despite the perversions, inside vicious habits of waste where we glorify promises of war and efficiencies, we continue to be entrusted with the ongoing lessons: Rarely do surviving generations through famine, war and diseases, throw away means to live, or destroy any kind of seed. Every day we wake to the ruins and remains of Our living poetry, word spaces, hours, exchanges, gains and losses, stopping and going. This time, not just for fires of anguish or unnecessary losses, but for each other's midnight lamps.#
0
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 12:42 AM UTC
kryselanson
BURIED
By now,the seed varieties of the world, may have been attacked beyond recovery by wars of pretense and relapses. We are still learning how to handle it properly. We tend to say. Some will talk and plan over dinner parties, over TV or Radio. Most will leave it behind like another corpse of lessons thrown to the gutter, like a dead *** on another Sunset Boulevard. Iraq's seed banks we blew up in the 2000s. In various places in Asia and the Middle East, places of life and cultured varieties gone in an instant. Echoing our imprisoned ignorance and drives for more instant goods and services. Indian farmers have committed mass suicides after their god Hanuman was used by a chemical giant to sell poison seeds and renewed bondages of indebtedness. One question a stranger asked a group of writers on tour was not what their poetry or books were about, nor why they wrote it, but how writing may and may not be helping as we make decisions and solve problems now? Once agricultural lands turn into new promises of commercial buildings. Cities of inaccessible towers and abandoned malls in America, Spain, China, and Russia feeds us back our own echo. Like converted uses of lands, our humanity is converted into inanimate collections and status symbols of some players or parties. As we face our continuing struggle between our oppressor-selves and our genuine roots. Despite the perversions, inside vicious habits of waste where we glorify promises of war and efficiencies, we continue to be entrusted with the ongoing lessons: Rarely do surviving generations through famine, war and diseases, throw away means to live, or destroy any kind of seed. Every day we wake to the ruins and remains of Our living poetry, word spaces, hours, exchanges, gains and losses, stopping and going. This time, not just for fires of anguish or unnecessary losses, but for each other's midnight lamps.#
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46
Its just a fantasy the only regret is permanence, The life of a modern day gypsy, an unknown destination. I wake up to new faces from past day's bruises, A long journey into some town, exploring the unknown. Green sanctum reflecting the temple top, Woken up by the gong of the ancient metals. Treated like a royal guest, offered a lot of the harvest, Walking down the symmetric coconut grooves. I see vessels carrying newest of the goods, But here they still stick to their roots. True its a gods own country, abundant beauty, I'm lost amidst the hills sipping the Malabar coffee.
0
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
amit-shroff
Kerala
Its just a fantasy the only regret is permanence, The life of a modern day gypsy, an unknown destination. I wake up to new faces from past day's bruises, A long journey into some town, exploring the unknown. Green sanctum reflecting the temple top, Woken up by the gong of the ancient metals. Treated like a royal guest, offered a lot of the harvest, Walking down the symmetric coconut grooves. I see vessels carrying newest of the goods, But here they still stick to their roots. True its a gods own country, abundant beauty, I'm lost amidst the hills sipping the Malabar coffee.
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12
Everyone in me is a bird. I am beating all my wings. They wanted to cut you out but they will not. They said you were immeasurably empty but you are not. They said you were sick unto dying but they were wrong. You are singing like a school girl. You are not torn. Sweet weight, in celebration of the woman I am and of the central creature and its delight I sing for you. I dare to live. Hello, spirit. Hello, cup. Fasten, cover. Cover that does contain. Hello to the soil of the fields. Welcome, roots. Each cell has a life. There is enough here to please a nation. It is enough that the populace own these goods. Any person, any commonwealth would say of it, "It is good this year that we may plant again and think forward to a harvest. Many women are singing together of this: one is in a shoe factory cursing the machine, one is at the aquarium tending a seal, one is dull at the wheel of her Ford, one is at the toll gate collecting, one is tying the cord of a calf in Arizona, one is straddling a cello in Russia, one is shifting pots on the stove in Egypt, one is painting her bedroom walls moon color, one is dying but remembering a breakfast, one is stretching on her mat in Thailand, one is wiping the *** of her child, one is staring out the window of a train in the middle of Wyoming and one is anywhere and some are everywhere and all seem to be singing, although some can not sing a note. Sweet weight, in celebration of the woman I am let me carry a ten-foot scarf, let me drum for the nineteen-year-olds, let me carry bowls for the offering (if that is my part). Let me study the cardiovascular tissue, let me examine the angular distance of meteors, let me **** on the stems of flowers (if that is my part).. Let me make certain tribal figures (if that is my part). For this thing the body needs let me sing for the supper, for the kissing, for the correct yes.
0
9k
Anne Sexton
In Celebration of My ******
Everyone in me is a bird. I am beating all my wings. They wanted to cut you out but they will not. They said you were immeasurably empty but you are not. They said you were sick unto dying but they were wrong. You are singing like a school girl. You are not torn. Sweet weight, in celebration of the woman I am and of the central creature and its delight I sing for you. I dare to live. Hello, spirit. Hello, cup. Fasten, cover. Cover that does contain. Hello to the soil of the fields. Welcome, roots. Each cell has a life. There is enough here to please a nation. It is enough that the populace own these goods. Any person, any commonwealth would say of it, "It is good this year that we may plant again and think forward to a harvest. Many women are singing together of this: one is in a shoe factory cursing the machine, one is at the aquarium tending a seal, one is dull at the wheel of her Ford, one is at the toll gate collecting, one is tying the cord of a calf in Arizona, one is straddling a cello in Russia, one is shifting pots on the stove in Egypt, one is painting her bedroom walls moon color, one is dying but remembering a breakfast, one is stretching on her mat in Thailand, one is wiping the *** of her child, one is staring out the window of a train in the middle of Wyoming and one is anywhere and some are everywhere and all seem to be singing, although some can not sing a note. Sweet weight, in celebration of the woman I am let me carry a ten-foot scarf, let me drum for the nineteen-year-olds, let me carry bowls for the offering (if that is my part). Let me study the cardiovascular tissue, let me examine the angular distance of meteors, let me **** on the stems of flowers (if that is my part).. Let me make certain tribal figures (if that is my part). For this thing the body needs let me sing for the supper, for the kissing, for the correct yes.
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59
Nine years and still we cradle our grief carefully close, like groceries in paper bags. Eventually the milk will make its way into the refrigerator; the canned goods will find their home on pantry shelves. Most things find their proper place. Eventually the hummingbirds will ricochet against scorched air, their delicate beaks stabbing like needles into the feeder filled with red nectar on the back porch. Eventually our child will make her way back to us. Perhaps. But I’ve heard that shooting ****** feels like being buried under an avalanche of cotton ***** For now it’s another week, another month, another trip to Safeway. We drive home and wonder why it is always snowing. Behind a curtain of snow, brake lights pulse, turning the color of cotton candy, dissolving into ghosts. And with each turn, the groceries shift in the seat behind us. From the spot where our daughter used to sit, there is a rustling sound— a murmur of words crossed off yet another list, a language we’ve budgeted for but cannot afford to hear.
0
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 10:04 AM UTC
jonathan-witte
Expiration Date
Nine years and still we cradle our grief carefully close, like groceries in paper bags. Eventually the milk will make its way into the refrigerator; the canned goods will find their home on pantry shelves. Most things find their proper place. Eventually the hummingbirds will ricochet against scorched air, their delicate beaks stabbing like needles into the feeder filled with red nectar on the back porch. Eventually our child will make her way back to us. Perhaps. But I’ve heard that shooting ****** feels like being buried under an avalanche of cotton ***** For now it’s another week, another month, another trip to Safeway. We drive home and wonder why it is always snowing. Behind a curtain of snow, brake lights pulse, turning the color of cotton candy, dissolving into ghosts. And with each turn, the groceries shift in the seat behind us. From the spot where our daughter used to sit, there is a rustling sound— a murmur of words crossed off yet another list, a language we’ve budgeted for but cannot afford to hear.
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47
He filled his week bag with quick picks from the commissary cover blades and skull cap canned goods and half stated pearl liquor bills and bleeders for the flight of weary Into the ****** bunks of the western front past sivana and nurture sage past the pomp and ceremony out of robes and into jumpers and casings and masks of gas Light infantry and yelling men muscled and scorned fly boys high in 3 wing flight mounted gunners filling the night in hawkers and packards and scabbard chape Tarrant tabers and camels dodge the vicker gun skeleton hands grease the mill trap carnage makers mark the rhineland (buried in bunkers and pile bags and earth pack) Trench helmets and metal back under machine fire minefields burn in muzzle and coil deep in the shadows and shrapnel and spear the razor wire and dead cold despair Slouch hats and burning rats kerosene lamps and droopers the soldier stares down the broken lines and limbs a ****** holds steady (shelved at a distance) on ripped and rolled pipe and beam It was an all in end game a grapple for the ages; *** in the fokker pursuit over rolling hills and fallen comrades into the bishop bullet (and sporadic cheer) which sealed the deal in an empty field off the brae corbie road
0
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 6:50 PM UTC
ck-baker
**** Shot
He filled his week bag with quick picks from the commissary cover blades and skull cap canned goods and half stated pearl liquor bills and bleeders for the flight of weary Into the ****** bunks of the western front past sivana and nurture sage past the pomp and ceremony out of robes and into jumpers and casings and masks of gas Light infantry and yelling men muscled and scorned fly boys high in 3 wing flight mounted gunners filling the night in hawkers and packards and scabbard chape Tarrant tabers and camels dodge the vicker gun skeleton hands grease the mill trap carnage makers mark the rhineland (buried in bunkers and pile bags and earth pack) Trench helmets and metal back under machine fire minefields burn in muzzle and coil deep in the shadows and shrapnel and spear the razor wire and dead cold despair Slouch hats and burning rats kerosene lamps and droopers the soldier stares down the broken lines and limbs a ****** holds steady (shelved at a distance) on ripped and rolled pipe and beam It was an all in end game a grapple for the ages; *** in the fokker pursuit over rolling hills and fallen comrades into the bishop bullet (and sporadic cheer) which sealed the deal in an empty field off the brae corbie road
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47
Let your money go Doesn't declare the happy Doesn't declare the sad But it declares the greed Declares of wanting more Declares of sacrificing goods Sacrificing every minute Wanting more
0
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
PinkBeckham
Money go
Let your money go Doesn't declare the happy Doesn't declare the sad But it declares the greed Declares of wanting more Declares of sacrificing goods Sacrificing every minute Wanting more
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8
In the supermarket airport There are arrivals every day. The departures in your trolley Come to you from far away. Those brightly coloured vegetables Have sat around for days In what we’re told are such hygienic backroom bays. They’re obviously picked and packed by well paid sprites and elves! Then magically appear on your supermarket shelves. Here every carrot is straight and clean And every lettuce crisply curled Then gassed in plastic packets That are filling up our world! Take a glance inside your trolley And if what I say is true Then I guarantee the food within Has seen more of the world than you. Like the picture on the packet Of your frozen ready meal The colour of this far flown food is great The taste experience, surreal. Those ripe tomatoes in their reddest skins We should dye brown, to match their taste Those vivid orange carrots are a mystery of flavour- What a waste! A plate of vibrant promising hue Can taste of packaging and glue. The supermarket tells you you’re in clover But its goods have all the texture of an old pullover. Your supermarket says that it is catering for you But if you’re honest do you really think that’s true? If you don’t then there is something you can do. At the supermarket airport All the money’s in departures So put that trolley back And just depart. If you're wanting to be vocal Then shop seasonal and local And hit these psuedo airports at their heart.
0
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 6:57 AM UTC
kath-otoole
supermarket airports.
In the supermarket airport There are arrivals every day. The departures in your trolley Come to you from far away. Those brightly coloured vegetables Have sat around for days In what we’re told are such hygienic backroom bays. They’re obviously picked and packed by well paid sprites and elves! Then magically appear on your supermarket shelves. Here every carrot is straight and clean And every lettuce crisply curled Then gassed in plastic packets That are filling up our world! Take a glance inside your trolley And if what I say is true Then I guarantee the food within Has seen more of the world than you. Like the picture on the packet Of your frozen ready meal The colour of this far flown food is great The taste experience, surreal. Those ripe tomatoes in their reddest skins We should dye brown, to match their taste Those vivid orange carrots are a mystery of flavour- What a waste! A plate of vibrant promising hue Can taste of packaging and glue. The supermarket tells you you’re in clover But its goods have all the texture of an old pullover. Your supermarket says that it is catering for you But if you’re honest do you really think that’s true? If you don’t then there is something you can do. At the supermarket airport All the money’s in departures So put that trolley back And just depart. If you're wanting to be vocal Then shop seasonal and local And hit these psuedo airports at their heart.
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40
I am broken, Come name your price Hidden in the shelter of a lonely life Come choose your savage See their perfect disguise You could never love me Cause I live in these lies I am damaged goods I’m misunderstood I come in the perfect packaging Wrapped up in severed ties Stamped with a sticker on top Come, name your price. I am damaged goods I am damaged goods I am damaged goods. I am lonely In this sea of maddening sounds I am hurt From those people who aren’t around I break my happiness At every chance I get And then I’ll ask myself Why I feel so depressed I am damaged goods I’m misunderstood I come in the perfect packaging Wrapped up in severed ties Stamped with a sticker on top Come, name your price. I am damaged goods I am damaged goods I am damaged goods. I can’t get out Fromt this crippling doubt I feel so empty without You there beside me I need somewhere to go Somewhere in the great unknown Somewhere I can be alone I am damaged goods I’m misunderstood I am damaged goods I’m misunderstood I come in the perfect packaging Wrapped up in severed ties Stamped with a sticker on top Come, name your price. I am damaged goods I am damaged goods I am damaged goods.
0
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 5:36 AM UTC
Deviate
Damaged Goods
I am broken, Come name your price Hidden in the shelter of a lonely life Come choose your savage See their perfect disguise You could never love me Cause I live in these lies I am damaged goods I’m misunderstood I come in the perfect packaging Wrapped up in severed ties Stamped with a sticker on top Come, name your price. I am damaged goods I am damaged goods I am damaged goods. I am lonely In this sea of maddening sounds I am hurt From those people who aren’t around I break my happiness At every chance I get And then I’ll ask myself Why I feel so depressed I am damaged goods I’m misunderstood I come in the perfect packaging Wrapped up in severed ties Stamped with a sticker on top Come, name your price. I am damaged goods I am damaged goods I am damaged goods. I can’t get out Fromt this crippling doubt I feel so empty without You there beside me I need somewhere to go Somewhere in the great unknown Somewhere I can be alone I am damaged goods I’m misunderstood I am damaged goods I’m misunderstood I come in the perfect packaging Wrapped up in severed ties Stamped with a sticker on top Come, name your price. I am damaged goods I am damaged goods I am damaged goods.
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52
For 21 days I saw changes wrought by the freedom of 22 years Secrets of razor wire straight and taut Speak of those who continue to fear I saw nature’s beauty in land and face As black heel continues to rise Via school, ambition they prep for the race Even as secretly despised What’s changed in Soweto? I did not live But photos and newsreels survive Pictures of shanties bulldozed to give Whites room to extend their hives Now malls; monuments to white retail Built on Mandiba’s words Polished chrome and marble hail “Happy” workers in a black-faced world Monuments ringed with vendors tribal Carved goods for sale and cheap The rands they make do not rival What multi-nationals’ continue to reap Happiness is shallow until sundown When the curtain of decorum lifts Showing reality’s new shanty-town Where space and plumbing are gifts I wonder if He would be okay Seeing his people so used As pawns for labor with little say As black is seldom excused The young know the time is now As old hatred’s in shallow graves To be unearthed by book and plow Keeping dreams from stunting and fade
0
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 8:48 AM UTC
gwen-davis-feldman
SOUTH AFRICA - POST APARTHEID
For 21 days I saw changes wrought by the freedom of 22 years Secrets of razor wire straight and taut Speak of those who continue to fear I saw nature’s beauty in land and face As black heel continues to rise Via school, ambition they prep for the race Even as secretly despised What’s changed in Soweto? I did not live But photos and newsreels survive Pictures of shanties bulldozed to give Whites room to extend their hives Now malls; monuments to white retail Built on Mandiba’s words Polished chrome and marble hail “Happy” workers in a black-faced world Monuments ringed with vendors tribal Carved goods for sale and cheap The rands they make do not rival What multi-nationals’ continue to reap Happiness is shallow until sundown When the curtain of decorum lifts Showing reality’s new shanty-town Where space and plumbing are gifts I wonder if He would be okay Seeing his people so used As pawns for labor with little say As black is seldom excused The young know the time is now As old hatred’s in shallow graves To be unearthed by book and plow Keeping dreams from stunting and fade
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33
I have yet to find the exact size, length, width, weight, height, of my rusted trusty nail, which I lost. Painted golden brown and rough on the edges, that old man pinned my door to the wall. Now it's left hanging in the open dangling in the wind swaying with the broken rain, my home vulnerable, a feasty treat, like the first time Hansel and Gretel saw the witch's house. I'm not afraid of the teeth baring wolves bloodcurdling hounds with red eyes massive 10 foot hungry bears that tower over you with outstretched paws holding a steak knife and fork its brown fur a bib. No I'm afraid of my house zipping up its backpack filled with all the canned goods fresh water canteens from the well and all the matches and firewood in the cellar taking off during the night when the moon is at its darkest, leaving I, to do the only thing left: To pay the bright orange flames to entertain me as my wads of money lit up the darkest night of the century all because I couldn't replace my *most dear, loved, precious nail.*
0
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
xxxxx3
Irreplaceable
I have yet to find the exact size, length, width, weight, height, of my rusted trusty nail, which I lost. Painted golden brown and rough on the edges, that old man pinned my door to the wall. Now it's left hanging in the open dangling in the wind swaying with the broken rain, my home vulnerable, a feasty treat, like the first time Hansel and Gretel saw the witch's house. I'm not afraid of the teeth baring wolves bloodcurdling hounds with red eyes massive 10 foot hungry bears that tower over you with outstretched paws holding a steak knife and fork its brown fur a bib. No I'm afraid of my house zipping up its backpack filled with all the canned goods fresh water canteens from the well and all the matches and firewood in the cellar taking off during the night when the moon is at its darkest, leaving I, to do the only thing left: To pay the bright orange flames to entertain me as my wads of money lit up the darkest night of the century all because I couldn't replace my *most dear, loved, precious nail.*
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37
Gates give galloping giraffes gin gum gifted ghost Goofy gambles ginger beer grapple games get goods Gooses groins getcha group gathering greatness goat got gale Grail
0
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 4:30 PM UTC
alexa-sz
G
Gates give galloping giraffes gin gum gifted ghost Goofy gambles ginger beer grapple games get goods Gooses groins getcha group gathering greatness goat got gale Grail
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9
Sag my corpse in 32 degree weather through the city of God where paraplegics dream of running. “Oh Rhodesian mercenary,” humble my soul again like in C(hi)(ca)ongo. But remember The revolution starts on my mama’s bed at half past six. So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind. But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut; I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres     that tomorrow never happened. He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods— whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory— the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund— sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers who preyed to the city of God for bread
0
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
ugochukwu-charles-onyewuchi
Portrait of a milk carton as a young adult
Sag my corpse in 32 degree weather through the city of God where paraplegics dream of running. “Oh Rhodesian mercenary,” humble my soul again like in C(hi)(ca)ongo. But remember The revolution starts on my mama’s bed at half past six. So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind. But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut; I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres     that tomorrow never happened. He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods— whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory— the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund— sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers who preyed to the city of God for bread
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22
This is now. Now is. Don't postpone till then. Spend the spark of iron on stone. Sit at the head of the table; dip your spoon in the bowl. Seat yourself next your joy and have your awakened soul pour wine. Branches in the spring wind, easy dance of jasmine and cypress. Cloth for green robes has been cut from pure absence. You're the tailor, settled among his shop goods, quietly sewing.
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Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
irinia
Begin by Rumi
This is now. Now is. Don't postpone till then. Spend the spark of iron on stone. Sit at the head of the table; dip your spoon in the bowl. Seat yourself next your joy and have your awakened soul pour wine. Branches in the spring wind, easy dance of jasmine and cypress. Cloth for green robes has been cut from pure absence. You're the tailor, settled among his shop goods, quietly sewing.
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14
Tuesday night and it’s Baked Beans AGAIN! Does she ever stop talking. I used to fool myself that her snore was musical like a sweet sounding flute, Now it’s just a snore. Too loud, all too familiar. What would happen I wonder if I took that tin of Baked Beans on the table And battered her to death with it. They found the ****** weapon in the cupboard on the top shelf, Next to a quivering can of rice pudding. It didn’t look overly angry or guilty, it looked (for what it’s worth) Like any other tin of beans. However it had blood and hair around the rim. “BAKED BEANS **** the front page of The Sun would say, Amnesty on all tinned goods called for, as the masses Started taking ‘tin(g)s” into their own hands. All over the country, partners dying at the hands of Heinz, Or possibly cans of spam or pear slices. The Army may catch on, a major new part of SAS training, Close quarter baked bean tactics. The wail of sirens as Police arrive at an incident “Put down the weapon or we shall be forced to fire… tinned pineapple”. A can of alphabetti spaghetti could spell death. “Let’s not have Baked Beans tonight my love… Chinese?”
0
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 5:09 AM UTC
fred-wakefield
BAKED BEANS ****
Tuesday night and it’s Baked Beans AGAIN! Does she ever stop talking. I used to fool myself that her snore was musical like a sweet sounding flute, Now it’s just a snore. Too loud, all too familiar. What would happen I wonder if I took that tin of Baked Beans on the table And battered her to death with it. They found the ****** weapon in the cupboard on the top shelf, Next to a quivering can of rice pudding. It didn’t look overly angry or guilty, it looked (for what it’s worth) Like any other tin of beans. However it had blood and hair around the rim. “BAKED BEANS **** the front page of The Sun would say, Amnesty on all tinned goods called for, as the masses Started taking ‘tin(g)s” into their own hands. All over the country, partners dying at the hands of Heinz, Or possibly cans of spam or pear slices. The Army may catch on, a major new part of SAS training, Close quarter baked bean tactics. The wail of sirens as Police arrive at an incident “Put down the weapon or we shall be forced to fire… tinned pineapple”. A can of alphabetti spaghetti could spell death. “Let’s not have Baked Beans tonight my love… Chinese?”
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21
Funny men in tall chef hats Marching about so wildly Stone soup and humble pie Main course and dessert delight Give me a dose And that girl two Vanity, her dream come true Narcissistic uncaring and cold A mid-evil blunder So daring and bold Spoiled brats And rotting Brauts Sugared too sweet Not telling the truth The gossip And all The Court jester The village idiot He sinks to the bottom She cheers to the top It's amazing the wonder The high school scene The many things That relate to its sheen The short stout bakers Making profit from weakness Some goods so smooth Some just the opposite The geeks and nerds Hackers and slackers Jocks with jerseys And rebels with rock Serve up course two and three Let's make it a festival Just you and me Vanity and sheen Were just getting started This is high school This mid-evil concert For four years we live it A new melody A new song It's not the end But the struggle Is on.
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Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 1:04 AM UTC
haley-vlietstra
Funny Men In Tall Chef Hats
Funny men in tall chef hats Marching about so wildly Stone soup and humble pie Main course and dessert delight Give me a dose And that girl two Vanity, her dream come true Narcissistic uncaring and cold A mid-evil blunder So daring and bold Spoiled brats And rotting Brauts Sugared too sweet Not telling the truth The gossip And all The Court jester The village idiot He sinks to the bottom She cheers to the top It's amazing the wonder The high school scene The many things That relate to its sheen The short stout bakers Making profit from weakness Some goods so smooth Some just the opposite The geeks and nerds Hackers and slackers Jocks with jerseys And rebels with rock Serve up course two and three Let's make it a festival Just you and me Vanity and sheen Were just getting started This is high school This mid-evil concert For four years we live it A new melody A new song It's not the end But the struggle Is on.
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45
I will take this. I have to. Even if it breaks me. Even if it breaks me into a million pieces that nobody can put together again. And it has. It has broken me into so many fragmented pieces; I’m now what they refer to as “damaged goods” Something so traumatic, I’ll never be normal again. Normal is a thing of the past. This is what’s happening now. Broken pieces. Everywhere. Every time I fix a piece, another breaks. I feel like I’m holding myself together with tape and glue and it’s not going to be enough. I don’t know what else to say, but it’s too much and it's not enough. All at the same time. It’s like screaming without a voice. They said there’d be waves. They essentially promised. They said that these waves of sadness would come and go. That happiness would slowly seep back in. Weaving its way into the oscillating patterns of a heavy heart. But there haven’t been any waves. They were wrong. Instead the pain is dull. It is constant. But most of all, it’s there. It's there all the time. The constant part is the worst. The only thing I could relate it to is fire. It’s like somebody running through a fire has it easier. Sure they’ll get burned but the point is that they get to run through. They get out. This though? This is like getting caught in the fire and not making it through. This is like a permanent residency in my own personal hell and at some point I really need the fire to be put out; the pain to stop. It has to. There’s only so much a girl can take. It’s like somebody has their dark hand engulfing my heart and they’re squeezing it every day and no matter how I plead, they’re refusing to let go. It’s the greatest sadness I have ever known and it is depleting me emotionally and physically. I. Am. Too. Weak. Everybody keeps saying how strong I am. They have no idea. It’s like I’m the world’s greatest actress and I’ve fooled them all. All they see is somebody taking bad news well. But nobody takes their entire earth shattering “well”. And my earth has shattered. The death of my brother at the age of 21 has shattered me. There’s not one thing I wouldn’t give to go back and hug him just a little longer at the airport three days before he died. It was just supposed to be his last semester at college. Not the end of a life time. There are too many broken pieces. The jagged edges cut my hands. I can’t pick them up. And so now all I can do is pray. With my forehead to the ground and my faith in God I will pray. Pray the pain away in hopes that one day, the happiness is real. And the tears stop. In hopes that one day, I can go on without him. So I’ll pray.
0
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
h-2
The Death Of My Twin
I will take this. I have to. Even if it breaks me. Even if it breaks me into a million pieces that nobody can put together again. And it has. It has broken me into so many fragmented pieces; I’m now what they refer to as “damaged goods” Something so traumatic, I’ll never be normal again. Normal is a thing of the past. This is what’s happening now. Broken pieces. Everywhere. Every time I fix a piece, another breaks. I feel like I’m holding myself together with tape and glue and it’s not going to be enough. I don’t know what else to say, but it’s too much and it's not enough. All at the same time. It’s like screaming without a voice. They said there’d be waves. They essentially promised. They said that these waves of sadness would come and go. That happiness would slowly seep back in. Weaving its way into the oscillating patterns of a heavy heart. But there haven’t been any waves. They were wrong. Instead the pain is dull. It is constant. But most of all, it’s there. It's there all the time. The constant part is the worst. The only thing I could relate it to is fire. It’s like somebody running through a fire has it easier. Sure they’ll get burned but the point is that they get to run through. They get out. This though? This is like getting caught in the fire and not making it through. This is like a permanent residency in my own personal hell and at some point I really need the fire to be put out; the pain to stop. It has to. There’s only so much a girl can take. It’s like somebody has their dark hand engulfing my heart and they’re squeezing it every day and no matter how I plead, they’re refusing to let go. It’s the greatest sadness I have ever known and it is depleting me emotionally and physically. I. Am. Too. Weak. Everybody keeps saying how strong I am. They have no idea. It’s like I’m the world’s greatest actress and I’ve fooled them all. All they see is somebody taking bad news well. But nobody takes their entire earth shattering “well”. And my earth has shattered. The death of my brother at the age of 21 has shattered me. There’s not one thing I wouldn’t give to go back and hug him just a little longer at the airport three days before he died. It was just supposed to be his last semester at college. Not the end of a life time. There are too many broken pieces. The jagged edges cut my hands. I can’t pick them up. And so now all I can do is pray. With my forehead to the ground and my faith in God I will pray. Pray the pain away in hopes that one day, the happiness is real. And the tears stop. In hopes that one day, I can go on without him. So I’ll pray.
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36
The business man, the acquirer vast, After assiduous years, surveying results, preparing for departure, Devises houses and lands to his children—bequeaths stocks, goods—funds for a school or hospital, Leaves money to certain companions to buy tokens, souvenirs of gems and gold; Parceling out with care—And then, to prevent all cavil, His name to his testament formally signs. But I, my life surveying, With nothing to show, to devise, from its idle years, Nor houses, nor lands—nor tokens of gems or gold for my friends, Only these Souvenirs of Democracy—In them—in all my songs—behind me leaving, To You, who ever you are, (bathing, leavening this leaf especially with my breath—pressing on it a moment with my own hands; —Here! feel how the pulse beats in my wrists!—how my heart’s-blood is swelling, contracting!) I will You, in all, Myself, with promise to never desert you, To which I sign my name.
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5.4k
Walt Whitman
Souvenirs Of Democracy
The business man, the acquirer vast, After assiduous years, surveying results, preparing for departure, Devises houses and lands to his children—bequeaths stocks, goods—funds for a school or hospital, Leaves money to certain companions to buy tokens, souvenirs of gems and gold; Parceling out with care—And then, to prevent all cavil, His name to his testament formally signs. But I, my life surveying, With nothing to show, to devise, from its idle years, Nor houses, nor lands—nor tokens of gems or gold for my friends, Only these Souvenirs of Democracy—In them—in all my songs—behind me leaving, To You, who ever you are, (bathing, leavening this leaf especially with my breath—pressing on it a moment with my own hands; —Here! feel how the pulse beats in my wrists!—how my heart’s-blood is swelling, contracting!) I will You, in all, Myself, with promise to never desert you, To which I sign my name.
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14
Heartbeats fast whispers and plans a mother's heart conflicted as she wrings her hands through the courage, streaming tears         she will let him go despite her fears Outside, canines barking harsh men's cruel shouts she must say her goodbyes as the shots ring out So many kisses on his sweet, sleepy face          little man deep in slumber, in angelic grace yes, he cried for a minute as the morphine kicked in and she rocked him and rocked him his little frame, so thin Now as his father takes him she crumples to the wall "By the will of God may I see him again" she whispers for he is her all Outside the freeze puffs breath into clouds the quiet imperative for              this next move: Father gently slips son into the rough-hewn jute, No rotten potatoes today, no this is far more important No one will look for a tot in a potato sack, he hopes He looks around and slips through the hole in the wire These moments are critical the need for speed is dire A quick trip to the village in the black cloak of night looking over shoulder Finally the house…it's just there, the next meadow over the secret knock is sounded and the door opened in silence warm arms greeting, helping carry the goods inside Will this be a respite from all the endless violence? Laid gingerly on the bed, the sack is eased off gently no potatoes inside just a small sleeping boy his parents only pride Father strokes his hair, Lays his palms on his head to bless this bundle of sweetness in his new environment "I will come for you, my son" tucks thin blanket around and the deed is done and now, in the cold lonely smoldering air of the burning dark now in the kiss of hopeful protection yes, now it's time to part Back to his wife in the ghetto's cold, sickened  space to try to convince her to bust out of that twisted place You are my warrior, you and all the others Your spirit beats on in my      naked heart's             thunder
0
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
lora-lee
Potatoes
Heartbeats fast whispers and plans a mother's heart conflicted as she wrings her hands through the courage, streaming tears         she will let him go despite her fears Outside, canines barking harsh men's cruel shouts she must say her goodbyes as the shots ring out So many kisses on his sweet, sleepy face          little man deep in slumber, in angelic grace yes, he cried for a minute as the morphine kicked in and she rocked him and rocked him his little frame, so thin Now as his father takes him she crumples to the wall "By the will of God may I see him again" she whispers for he is her all Outside the freeze puffs breath into clouds the quiet imperative for              this next move: Father gently slips son into the rough-hewn jute, No rotten potatoes today, no this is far more important No one will look for a tot in a potato sack, he hopes He looks around and slips through the hole in the wire These moments are critical the need for speed is dire A quick trip to the village in the black cloak of night looking over shoulder Finally the house…it's just there, the next meadow over the secret knock is sounded and the door opened in silence warm arms greeting, helping carry the goods inside Will this be a respite from all the endless violence? Laid gingerly on the bed, the sack is eased off gently no potatoes inside just a small sleeping boy his parents only pride Father strokes his hair, Lays his palms on his head to bless this bundle of sweetness in his new environment "I will come for you, my son" tucks thin blanket around and the deed is done and now, in the cold lonely smoldering air of the burning dark now in the kiss of hopeful protection yes, now it's time to part Back to his wife in the ghetto's cold, sickened  space to try to convince her to bust out of that twisted place You are my warrior, you and all the others Your spirit beats on in my      naked heart's             thunder
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77
I'm damaged like bruised apples, or broken glass and sometimes it feels like my scars bring me down a class I am tiny pieces held together with pieces of tape and this is all a mask I wear so you can't see my real face Can you be the glue to hold my pieces together can you be my ship to sail through any weather I am an addict without their helpful crutch 'cause I've never needed anything like I need the feel of your touch I am just a child who still wonders where her daddy was I know he didn't want me then just wanted to be lost in his buzz Can you be the glue to hold my pieces together can you be the one I can count on for forever I am hollow like the tree left empty by the birds I feel nothing but vacant just resonating your words these damaged goods are second hand at best they fall short of perfect to be left behind with the rest I am wounded like death soaked, ****** animal fur like the one who will never belong anywhere even her family won't ever want her Can you be my glue to hold my pieces together Can you be my ship to sail through any weather? Can you be the one I can count for ever? Can you promise me that you won't leave, ever? can you fix the damages here?
0
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 11:56 PM UTC
bellis-tart
damaged goods
I'm damaged like bruised apples, or broken glass and sometimes it feels like my scars bring me down a class I am tiny pieces held together with pieces of tape and this is all a mask I wear so you can't see my real face Can you be the glue to hold my pieces together can you be my ship to sail through any weather I am an addict without their helpful crutch 'cause I've never needed anything like I need the feel of your touch I am just a child who still wonders where her daddy was I know he didn't want me then just wanted to be lost in his buzz Can you be the glue to hold my pieces together can you be the one I can count on for forever I am hollow like the tree left empty by the birds I feel nothing but vacant just resonating your words these damaged goods are second hand at best they fall short of perfect to be left behind with the rest I am wounded like death soaked, ****** animal fur like the one who will never belong anywhere even her family won't ever want her Can you be my glue to hold my pieces together Can you be my ship to sail through any weather? Can you be the one I can count for ever? Can you promise me that you won't leave, ever? can you fix the damages here?
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45
She smiles with wounds hidden Beaten by sticks Thrown by stones And yet she still remains the Queen on the Throne. She is sometimes treated as passing paper blown by winds that illuminate stains on streets As his feet seek to ***** her cleansed soul within... The baggage she carries. The shades of burden she walks with. The sorrow that she has married. As she feel like dust as it has no value when it's wiped of valuable goods.. He enters her purse as she is not obliged to be taken advantage of By him who played the characteristics of a two-faced lover... All thanks to lust. The beauty of a woman not appreciated. All her struggles fail to define her, but are then told because they are the reason of UBUHLE BENTOMBI!!
0
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:43 AM UTC
Caramel_Uzzie96
Ubuhle bentombi (beauty of a woman)
She smiles with wounds hidden Beaten by sticks Thrown by stones And yet she still remains the Queen on the Throne. She is sometimes treated as passing paper blown by winds that illuminate stains on streets As his feet seek to ***** her cleansed soul within... The baggage she carries. The shades of burden she walks with. The sorrow that she has married. As she feel like dust as it has no value when it's wiped of valuable goods.. He enters her purse as she is not obliged to be taken advantage of By him who played the characteristics of a two-faced lover... All thanks to lust. The beauty of a woman not appreciated. All her struggles fail to define her, but are then told because they are the reason of UBUHLE BENTOMBI!!
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28
Dancing on the lifeline, Flying through the dirt, Mixing into puddles, Resembling the sky... Everything is nothing. Nothing is everything. The truth is but a lie Not looked in the eye. The spoiled goods we buy! Dancing on the lifeline, Spinning dervish, spin. Aquire all the knowledge you seek, Find it is within. Poets are the prophets To the souls of those that read. The magick that is in the verses Always plants a seed To enlightenment, the need. We are all Dancing on the lineline, Connected by the threads, That comprise the ribbons Of the thoughts within our heads. Everything for which we thirst Is already in our chalice. We only need to drink of it, But need to keep the balance... Beware the one called valiant. Never fear that victor, Who has never seen a challange, Who has been given everything On a silver platter. Listen to the hope inside. Follow it, as you lead. As you cast your spells And spin your webs, take heed. Dancing on your lifeline, Holding onto what is true. Only when you care for others, Will you know they care for you.
0
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
cecil-miller
Dancing on the Lifeline
Dancing on the lifeline, Flying through the dirt, Mixing into puddles, Resembling the sky... Everything is nothing. Nothing is everything. The truth is but a lie Not looked in the eye. The spoiled goods we buy! Dancing on the lifeline, Spinning dervish, spin. Aquire all the knowledge you seek, Find it is within. Poets are the prophets To the souls of those that read. The magick that is in the verses Always plants a seed To enlightenment, the need. We are all Dancing on the lineline, Connected by the threads, That comprise the ribbons Of the thoughts within our heads. Everything for which we thirst Is already in our chalice. We only need to drink of it, But need to keep the balance... Beware the one called valiant. Never fear that victor, Who has never seen a challange, Who has been given everything On a silver platter. Listen to the hope inside. Follow it, as you lead. As you cast your spells And spin your webs, take heed. Dancing on your lifeline, Holding onto what is true. Only when you care for others, Will you know they care for you.
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40