Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Bill murray Jun 2016
Been gone for a while
Lost my knack for words
The poet pipe used to be my crack
And I'd splice it with some herb.
But I lost the good vibration
That made me tic the keyboard tac
But some reason now I'm writing again
The youngin age is coming back.
I missed all my fellow typer's,
Penner's, grinners, ******'s
Writer's. Dont take ****** word wrong
Because trust me I'm a ****** to,
Hello out there my fellow poet
That's right, Gramps did miss you.
I've been enjoying the sun
Not trapped inside the hellopoetics cube
We all need some getaway time
To come back like a fresh flower
Renewed and refined. So for today
I inscribe my bloodlines time,
Because in time we record our being's,
Today I'm back to make fancy words
And tell you fanciful thing's.
Glad to see you, hello Mr and Mrs
Poetry, hope your doing well\
Gramps missed your typing keys.
Julie Grenness Aug 2016
Is Google a gift for global giving?
Viral solidarity, new way of living,
We're all the winners,
If we become grinners,
It's a chic computer show,
Virtual voyage around the globe,
At home, or  even on a phone,
Yes, viral solidarity,
Gift, or Big Brother, for humanity...?????
Feedback welcome.
Em MacKenzie Feb 2018
You call yourself a soldier of fortune,
you have no idea how right you are.
Even though you think you're fighting for something important,
you're marching for a rich man's new car.
Each bullet you shoot is a stock market spike,
and each victory is new land to claim.
To them you're a barcode or close to the like,
those you fight for don't bother to know your name.

History is written by the winners,
so don't trust the accounts you read.
The strings are all pulled by the sinners,
who wouldn't offer you a bandaid while you bleed.
You may give your life for the flag,
there's honour in that thought.
But they're using your morals to drag,
you and your platoon from spot to spot.
To shoot to **** and see what treasures they've got.

The industries fund each side of the war,
making life and death just a casual bet.
Ford provides the tanks for both just like before,
money spent with a return they're guaranteed to get.
Land's value is more than you know,
'cause the world ain't making anymore anytime soon.
So pick a spot on the globe and go,
and ship out the next loyal platoon.

History is written by the winners,
so always question what you hear.
Behind the scenes there's profiteers and grinners,
and you're seizing the power and resources they hold so dear.
You may give your life to protect,
every single man, woman and child,
but they're using you in retrospect,
and smuggling things in a corpse defiled.
Do they even glance at the bodies that they have piled?

The world's in trouble, there's no denying,
and each soldier has stayed true and loyal.
But at home the problem is double, you'd never know with their lying.
You can't fight your own men and thus you can't get the oil.

Just like every crime, you have to follow the paper trial,
it's no different this time, you're a victim of a government that seeks to fail.
They've made you into a collection agency,
one with guns to force a payment.
It's in plain sight so blatantly,
every person and country has to pay their rent.
For population control,
everyone has to pay the toll.

History is written by the winners,
so only one side gets to plead it's case.
Instead of helping the kids getting thinner,
evil gets a makeover and changes it's face.
I don't wish to shame anyone doing their duty,
I know you believe you're doing the right thing.
But what I'm saying, or eluding,
is they've turned war into business that's always profiting.
So before you put your uniform on,
ask who will benefit from this battle.
You might see the side you fight for is wrong,
and they're marching you to slaughter like cattle.

The real wars are at home,
but they want the heroes to roam,
No one to stop their own war crimes,
counting dollars, quarters, nickels and dimes.
They even call it a machine,
could it be more obvious what they mean?
A new town of secrets and sinners,
wealthy & the street frozen grinners,
bellies warmed with 80 percent proof
Sleeping ***** at night with rustling hoofs.

The local inn flips the sign as they see him
in the distance in rags and needing a trim.
Hair covers his rugged scarred filled face,
Ever a stranger, in a cess pool of a place.

He journeys down to the abandoned lake-house
where his visions saw 4 of them rip off her blouse
and after they took turns, buried her with stones,
His feet raising, lifts remains of her bones.

He  blasts explosions in the soil by the waters,
and buries her in the greenest of patches,
It begins Nightfall & will end by morning
and those complicit shall join the dead.
Andrew Rueter Jun 2020
Two lanes
two lines
two trains
two times
two blunts
too much
to lunch
too rough.

Two taxis
two cabs
two backseats
to dad
to dinner
two grinners
too inner.

Two hours
too long
to cower
to home
to something
too nothing.

— The End —