a good bullet never saw a good war
a good bullet never felt the hammer strike
a good bullet never heard the thunder
  never felt the heat of the explosion
    that sent it like lightning
      flying from the chamber of a gun
       the barrel of a riffle

a good bullet never tore a hole through flesh
a good bullet never shattered bone
a good bullet never bite into a heart
  and held it in its teeth
   until it stopped beating

a good bullet was never made
  
  was never made

was never made to steal a child’s smile away

not your sons
not your daughters
not at any age

a good bullet was never made

  a good bullet was never made

a good bullet was never made
to turn a playground into a graveyard
where a mothers eyes drained
of all their colors but grey
fill with storm clouds
that endless pour down
tears of grief over the dug open earth

a good bullet was never made
to turn a school into a war zone
where a fathers chest is emptied
of everything but the pains of loss
for his daughters smile
that he will only see
in photographs of memories
and haunted dreams

a good bullet was never made
to turn a traffic stop into an obituary
where blind hate and fear
flows from heart to hand
to trigger and hammer and...

****** will somehow
not be considered ******
when the hand of the killer
wears a badge
and the training manual
says shoot to ****
as it is more cost effective
and the deceased
will become just another name
to be lined up behind a hashtag
and a slogan...

a good bullet was never made

   was never made

to feel the hammer strike
to leave the chamber off a gun
to steal a life away

A good bullet was never...

let me be her
that girl;
the one you have to block from your newsfeed because even the sight of me; even the thought that I still walk around unfazed burns your skin
I wanna be that girl that you see walking on Queen West and think:
“that will be the girl I starve myself for”
I strive to be that girl who tears out all your organs and pickles them in jars,
your kidneys and spleen and gall bladder –
and shelves them on display for all to see
“these are all the hearts I’ve stolen
are you sure you want to climb into my bed?”
I am that girl whose shampoo you buy and sniff in between gulps of Jameson
I am the girl whose grin makes your bones shatter
I am the girl whose eyes make your whole body dissolve into a river,
and then you’re swept away by my laughter
finally I’ll get to be the one who ruins all your favourite places for you
I’ll be the one who makes you put barriers up, guards and gates around your heart to prevent its inevitable breakage
I’ll get to be that girl who makes you weep at the thought of anyone else loving you
I will be her
that is my goal
I don’t want to be that girl who extends her pinky and then her hand and then her arm and then is thrown forward into your arms and is held by no one when you leave
I can’t be that girl who spins tales of you and me and my cousin’s wedding or you and me, doing the lap dance from Death Proof for you, or you and me smiling for a picture in front of an aquarium with the hashtag #thisguy
I am no longer that girl who becomes a ghost when you don’t say a word to me
I am not that girl who tells you how cute you are and how ******* smiley I am when I see you
I am not that girl who gets left
no,
this time:
I get to disappear
I get to walk away and leave you for an Asian guy (girl)
I get to unfollow you on Instagram because looking at pictures of you at the ocean makes me feel guilty
I get to be pretend that I am unharmed;
that I lit the fire but I’m not becoming ashes
I get to have people tell me they want to take me out for coffee, or sit by the water, or hold my hand at that ******* aquarium
I’m that girl now –
her:
the one your fear most
because I am
a caterpillar,
a peacock,
a fox,
and you are the forest floor,
and the desert sand,
and the thinnest branch,
and I will walk all over
and break you.

actuated lust im dangerous
nobody in space time knows what we're doing
its taboo darling
sweet suckling, unbuckling
she and him and me and her
******* over over
again
forget the stacks and ask no questions
live like ya gone
agonal, in the moment
detached retina against the glass
and lights appear to be on fire
easy comin as she does it
rollin under juicy thunder
the salts of my composure
leakin from my porous structures
leaving from me like a rock
that is my physical elixir
tape it on the imagr
hashtag @ lucifer
on tube hollerin at my girl
i want to trend just like zelda
hit ya with a face melta
blow up on their youtube
for seven seasons off the bat
and when im at the party
all the girlies will sit on my,
eh, it isnt what i live for like tools on MTV
give me sunshine to recondition your condition on BET
i contracted some system disease from way too much TMZ
and my condition is conditioned by youtube conspiracy
i cant relate i am afraid
of what is hiding up my sleeves
i hit the brains
and bust the **** off this run away train called
the radio whenever the news of the day is some ******* **** or some ferrari driving ***** that has her own ****** up slave drama telivision series.
we are so angry
inside computers inside of us inside
a web of statistic dimentia
and **** yourself if you ask
"der, i dunno. what is normal"
you *******.

I swear to every heaven imagined
If I hear one more teenager say "art is dead."
I personally will raise William Shakespeare from the grave so he can tell them a million reasons why he wished he could have had a gmail account.
The night I tried to teach my mother how to send pictures through text message
She sent me eleven texts of the same blurry photo of our family's black labrador.
Don't you dare try to tell me you can't find something beautiful in that.
But whatever, stay in your close minded, backwards, noninclusive club.
The rest of us will keep falling in love over Skype.
Write your protest letters to the packaging companies of children's toys
We're all going to watch the first sunrise of the year
So we can remember what a hopeful beginning feels like
When it feels like we're close to a hopeless end.
Lock yourself away like Marie Antoinette
While we all eat cake and tweet about its delicious flavors.
Hashtag stop living in your own pretentious world.
Vincent Van Gogh would have take 20 pictures a day and posted them all on instagram.
Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words.
Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest vine account.
But that okay because we all would have checked it every morning
As we snapchatted pictures of our coffee orders to the people we wish were pressed against our lips instead of that first sip of latte.
This world is spilling over with 85 year olds rewatchibg their favorite musical numbers from my fair lady,
And eight year olds teaching themselves how to play ukuele, all through YouTube videos.
I never have to worry about forgetting what my mothers voice sounds like.
No longer must we sneak into our families phone books to look up the suicide prevention hotline for our best friend.
I'll never wonder how a German person says Guatentaug
Or how butterflies procreate.
Yeah I've googled both of those things,
Don't worry about it.
I'm going to take pictures on my phone of a field filled with dandelions next to the public park
And you will walk by and scoff
As I so expect you to do
But I can only hope one day you realise
How fortunate you are to live in a time
Where at any moment you can Google how to say I love you in one hundred and ten different languages.
J'taime
Te amo
Art is not dead
You are just not looking for it.

Anyone sick and tired of what society says about certain things? Than write a poem redefining a word. It can be anything from beauty to loneliness to terror. Take that word and define what it means to you. Comment below if you r gonna try it out and ill check it out :) also use the hashtag "redefineeverything" when posting it. There r no other rules for this challenge, its open to all interpretations.

Ex) beauty
Its the way tour mind works to solve problems,
How you react to things,
Thats what beauty is.
Not the way you look
Or what you wear or
Even how you style your hair.
That doesnt matter.
Its the wya you smile at me
And help others in your own strange ways,
Now thats beauty.

While the mother crow cries
over the dead bodies
of her children
the doves fly away
as if the murdering of crows
is not any kind of crime

as the doves
see evil
hear evil
protect evil

The crows heart
a constant target
of the doves violence

Who's next?
Whose name is destined for hashtags and ******
how many lives
will it take
before the hate
and fear
in the doves heart
bleeds out

The deadline of
the life of a crow
is drawn by the jeweled crown
of loathing the dove wears
on its head
and the fear inside
the loaded gun
of the doves eye
and the hate beating
wildly beneath its wings
and blindly in its heart

Hope is a heavy burden
under the pounding
blood red sky

Where the doves
practice ******
more often than
they protect the peace

As the oath has changed
to protect and serve
their own kind

and lady justice
has been blinded
by a white wash
of white lies

And the murdering of crows
goes on...
and on...
and on...

While the living
can wait their turn
to be murdered
and crucified
and martyred
on the next hashtag

while serving their time
from inside the freedom
they have behind the bars
of the cage of poverty
and there is always
more room for another
and another
and another
inside the skin
of the prison cell life
they were born in

The crow is suspected guilty
until pronounced dead

and its innocence
is nothing the doves
cannot beat out of it
even after it is already dead

as the color
of the doves guilt
is judged to be
more pure than
a corpse with
a crows dead heart
no matter the weight
of its innocence

and the murdering of crows
goes on...

and on...

and on...

While the feathers
of the doves wing
spread out sharp like knives
with a seemingly
bottomless hunger
for the heart of the crows

and we lower the body
of another martyr
into the earth
how much longer
will we allow
the murders of crows
to walk free
as if the murdering of crows
is not a crime

the doves can bury
the body of a crow
after crow
(one after another and another)
but never their songs
never their names
never their hearts
and the dead will speak
for the living
as long as the living
never forget the dead

one day the crows
  are going to rise up
over the black asphalt
  city skyline

singing into the
  blood red sky
   hearts crowned
    with fire and hope

flying high and free
   flying over
     the mountain tops

singing of the
   promised land

singing for the dead
   but not forgotten

singing words
  of flame
    and poetry

singing for
   freedom
     and unity

carrying the weight of hope
and hope is a heavy burden
we all must carry into tomorrow
and tomorrow
or tomorrow will never
be better than today
we must always lift our dreams
with love and hope
and one day may we find
our way over the mountain top
and into the land of promise
where birds of every feather
are free to fly in a sky
without violence
and fear
and hate
where tomorrow is a river
flowing into a better today

myskin
#brown
#myblood
#red
#mylife
#twittered
#hashtagged
#andreduced

a horde of kale &western;
europeans longing to be gypsies, not
knowing their grand daddies
shoed us from the train station
at central square for the shape of our
noses. i like to imagine all these
blonde northface gypsy women
look in the mirror at the age of 8
&beg; God for plastic surgery, beg
Him to look normal, to
feel safe in the sugar cult
ure asphyxiation through her child's lips with so much hair on top
she's mortified she wants to make a
pact with God! but her grandfather
was enforcing national socialist curfew
on stolen earth in the winter of '43 &mine;
was in an execution line. if the german
troops tagged behind her beautiful blue
eyed smile &asked; which village she
hails from would she hashtag gypsy?

Some people take comfort in labels
Finding which little box to fit in
Knowing just by a glance, by a hashtag, a stance
That others can see what's within
Some people rely on their labels
On things that tell them who they are
That simplify life into boxes of white
Scribbled meaning stuck onto their jar
Now some people, they run from all labels
Afraid that they hold them down  
And losing their minds to a few words and lines
In social adhesive are bound
See people forget that their labels
Are choices, not simply assigned
Meanings can change and symbols rearrange
By those by whom they were designed

So friend, take back charge of your labels
Because You create them in the end
And if labels align, well that would be fine,
But remember that you hold the pen.

|b.g.|

i missed a call from the
past,i had to flash back
remembering true love
without cash bag,way
back before hashtag

she used to be
covered with the
blood of Jesus
but now she is
covered with ****
from peanuts
i know her heart had
cuts from scissors

this a story untold
she had the heart of gold
it was stolen,then sold
now I will have to be bold

don't judge me
if I still love her
don't judge me
when you see
me hug her

I know she can go
back to who she was
she needs someone
she can trust

even though she is a ***
i always give her a rose
coz she pictures me a king
I have to do the pose
I understand how life goes
it's a cold world which
made her heart froze

TWEETS

I've never felt
The need to tweet
Does that mean
I'm incomplete?
My many thoughts
My words of wit
Have not been shared
By means of twit
Give me facebook
I'll wax lyrical
About life and love
And things satirical
But don't ask me
To send a tweet
I'll run away
Get cold feet
Wouldn't know how
To make a start
Don't think I'll ever want
To learn the art
I'm starting to feel
Like a real Luddite
A bit old fashioned
Not very bright
Hashtag this and that
What's that all about?
Think I'm going to
Have to bale out
Of these constant developments
In means of communication
I can't keep up
I need a bit of stagnation
Take time out
Do some meditation
Sit back, relax
Get some sedation
Enjoy the sounds of nature...
...Now that is sweet
...Listen to the birds sing
...Tweet, Tweet, Tweet!                            

Nicki Tilston

Truly inspired by Joe Cole's recent writing prompt

(http://hellopoetry.com/poem/818411/young-poets-write-for-mei-would-ask-that-one-of-the-more-computer­-literate-among-you-set-up-a-collection-for-me-for-all-the-wonder­ful-contributions/)

and the positive responses thereafter, I think there should be an optional writing prompt daily. I am in no way volunteering for any responsibility BUT I did hear a very interesting prompt just last night at an open mic so.....


what does today taste like?


Have at it!! and if you respond please copy the link into your reply AND hashtag it #todaytasteslike (no spaces)

I am the shadow of trayvon martin
Lying on the ground just as he did
I'm black just as he was
I wasn't planning to die that day either
I wasn't threatning nobody either
that day
The gunshots echoed
just as loud
when I was shot down as Mike Brown
yet his name echoes through the streets years later still
mine followed me to the grave
They don't care about me it seems
If I cried "what about me"
Who would ever see?
because my hashtag has even been drowned so deep in the depths of R.I.P's that I can't barely breathe anymore
When we think black brutality
Why do the names of trayvon
Mike
Tamir
Sandra
Rush to our heads just as fast as blood once rushed to theirs?
Does my black life, too, matter?
I can't blame you
That there have been so many deaths due to oppression and police brutality that they all seem to sound the same
No matter how loud we scream Black lives matter
We will never be seen as the living
But the potentially dead
We cry for justice to a system that's no longer built to accept us
A president that tries to forget us
A black voice will always be too loud to a world who never intended on listening
Who am I?
Besides a hashtag and a t-shirt with my face on it?
A black lives matter sign and a melanin fist?
A statistic?
I am black excellence
Regardless of how much sin you may see in my kin

This isn't Rome
I'm standing still because of statutes
Stone grill: I a carved marble statue
not a muscle dares,

Near frozen by the fear,
let it go I hear
over shoulder: perfect pass
if I get shot over a penalty

Is it clear?
my arms are arms?
a load chopper; in his shades,
do those aviators make me even darker?
(if I studied aviation I could take off I can hover, I can…)

Wait.
he's moving closer,
every hair strand an antenna,
I can feel him,

The smell of disdain on his glare,
stained blood on his hands,
another brother,
my brother

Guiltier with every pace so
--  show your hands,
foot mixed with concrete
I take this order serious,
my motions are motive
and mistaken for resist,

Wait.
Is it his stare or am I ******?
(Why did I decide to go my friends wouldn't believe this…)

limitations to the thoughts;
am I arrested or caught?

I'm cold on the surface,
Erode so slow is my sediment evidence,
A blue god so I'm pacified,
I'm hesitant,

he calls and I say that I'm innocent,
I'm witnessing
the transitioning from eruption to ocean
-- volcanic

Blue Medusa,
can you only sculpt destruction?
(I'm not 3 dimensional, I'm real and I matter, I'm real and I matter)

I'm real,
But I shatter,

Gravel if determined that I'm rude so I can't breath,
Gravel if My license plate removed I don't leave,
I don't speak,
I don't flee,
I'm not free,
I believe,
That this happen to my mothers, mother
mothers' brother,

Brother from another was granite
and granted he's valuable
but only in a home
-- of course

I'm quartz in the making
A corpse still shaking
Cause a wallet was mistaken
Or I.D. was misplaced

So, I'm on the rocks
since the bar says that I'm a criminal,
velvet rope divider marks my life
and a vigil,

a wake,
or a hashtag,
you choose,
glass house,
Cold Stone’s,
rocky road,
Medusa licks his finger tips

same finger which
petrified me in the first place,
Reminded I'm in Rome
as I'm standing there motionless

a statue for display
or a trophy for the kitchen,
this art is not for sale
there will be no shipping,

With solidarity
through our solidification,
It won't matter if I look back,
I Matter and I’m Black.

You will not fit in my inbox,
If you love me, you’ll never try.
Never let a font decide the sincerity
of any good morning or goodnight.
Speak earthquakes to me slowly,
close as you can to my side.
Let me feel your lips
gently graze my earlobe
without an electrical circuit in sight.
Our love will not fit into 1s and 0s.
If you know me, I’ll never try.
Never let a hashtag envelop my sentiment
or pull the digital wool over my eyes.
I’ll lay grooves in your wax
you can play back later.
Our proximity too analog
for the technicolor sky.

Lawrence Hall

          No Way, Shape, or Bombshell, Actually

No way, shape, and form literally dropped
A bombshell to the next level, with no
Ifs, ands, or buts defining a generation
While living in the shadows of America

Where the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree
Going viral in trending a hashtag
Through user-generated content link-bait
Engaging the meme traffic actually

Cloudwising virtual reality
Thinking outside the box form shape way no

(And let the people say “icon”)

Rules:
1.You have to write a poem on the given prompt for each day [in the given order] and then share it with fellow challenge takers (optional but recommended) by posting what you wrote in your blog or on Facebook or wherever. To make sharing and tracking easier, you can use this hashtag: ‪#‎eleven11poetrychallenge‬
2. The poem can be of any length and the prompt can be interpreted anyway you want. Poems can be written in English or Nepali.
3. The whole idea is to write, share, grow and have fun! So if you are cool with it, check this space for daily prompt.
Prompts:
Day one: A poem from the perspective of an inanimate object
Day two: A poem in the format of a conversation
Day three: Write a poem that tells a story (with a beginning, middle, end..but not necessarily in that order), which is completely imaginary or is not based on a reality that YOU know of.
Day four: A wishlist, with 11 of your wishes.
Day five: Write a Haiku. Or two.
Day six: Let's talk about ***, baby! [Write a poem about *** (not *** and gender, '***' if we are unclear.]
Day seven: Only sixteen--a poem about the person you were when you were sixteen [or about the person you want to be, if you are not yet 16]
Day eight: A poem describing a photograph or painting.
Day nine: Write a letter to your murderer.
Day ten: A poem about your worst nightmare.
Day Eleven: Write a poem about yourself, in Nepali. IF you already write in Nepali, that is great. If you don't, then this prompt s your chance

Is to be told all the ways you don't matter
It is to be angry and afraid
It is to watch people walk on the opposite side of the street to avoid you
It is to be told to get over slavery
It is to be told that I'm not racist I have black friends
It is to be told the definition of racism like you don't already know
It is to be told hey what about reverse racism
It is to have a white terrorist group dedicated to your elimination
It is to be more worried about threats in your own country and those abroad
It is to wonder daily if your family will be safe, if they will get to come home
It is to called a **** for speaking out against the hate
It is to be called lazy when you work full time to provide for your family
It is to walk past folks and watch as the clench their purse or pockets
It is to be to have people fear you, when you feel more threatened then they ever could
It is to be told that privilege doesn't exist
It is to be told you are equal, except you know that in the courtroom, in the eyes of the law, the job market, the housing market, in the classroom, it is a ****** lie
It is to be live in a world where 1 in 3 black men are in prison
It is to know that they have sentences longer than white counterparts
It is to know they use prison labor to exploit them, slavery living on
It is to know that the police which are a relief for some, are a nightmare for you
It is to know that you can do everything right and be killed by someone sworn to protect you
It is to know that you will be blamed for your death inspite of this
It is to have the life choked out of you and a man telling you, **** your breathe
It is to hear what about black on black crime, even though every race commuts crime against their own kind the most
It is to remember white flight and the repercussions of it
It is to have family who have seen the bloodiness of the covil rights movement
It is to be taught in school how great this country is while ignoring the evil its done
It is to be taught in school how little you meant
It is to wake up every 2 weeks to another hashtag of some poor black fella to be forgot in a week
It is to want to simply be acknowledged that things arent right, and being ignored to this day
It is to be villianized in the media
It is to see that flag everyone holds dear and remember that pain it caused you
It is to fight and die for a country that still doesn't care about you
It is to be told to go back to Africa as if this wasnt stolen land
It is to be told I dont see you as black, you're just the same to me
It is to be told well you don't count as black, you don't act black
It is to have your culture stolen
It is to have value placed on your mysic and style and not your skin
It is to hear what would MLK think about these protest
It is to remember that people celebrated his assassination
It is to remember the slurs and the hate he recieved
It is to have people know they don't want to be treated the way you are
It is to want whats always been denied, the privilege of walking in your own skin without fear of persecution
It is to see family, friends and peers celebrate and share racist ideas and beleifs
It is being reassured they still value you
It is to know but not enough to matter

Being black in America is a lot of things, and I love the country all the same.

But I hope and pray for the day, that we can be treated the same.

Anonymous is a funny name
for a writer on an Opt-Ed page.
I'd want a by line I suppose
if I were going to step on toes.
I know the President would glower
to find me speaking truth to power.
He'd say "You're fired!" on the spot
but I 'd have my  verbal parting shot.
Hashtag "Not Me" is all you hear
from senior officials who quake in fear.

Yet if computers can disclose
by close analysis of prose
what Shakespeare did or didn't write
I'm sure the identity will come to light.
I think the turncoat might be named "Dan"
but I'm not willing to take the stand.
Cory Booker, who knows the law,
still thinks it must be Kavenaugh.

Hi there. I think you are beautiful people and poets if your name is on this list.

Here is the list.
There are more but if I just paste every poet I like on this site's name then it doesn't meant anything there are too many so I'm going to post later ones with the names of the poets I really like but I'm going to limit it to ten per post.

I strongly suggest you check out their poetry because it is amazing.

The order of the names has nothing to do with the quality or my favor they are all equally loved by me in different ways for their work which is all a different shade of beautiful.

I invite everyone to post a poem with 10 beautiful poets' names on this site that people should check out.

Yet another one of my challenges. If you do the "10 Beautiful Poets Challenge" add "10beautifulpoets" as a hashtag so people can find it.

Also feel free to message me if you post one of these so I can check them out too :)

Just a great way to let people know about specific beautiful poets out there.

Include something about their poetry specific to that poet beside their name. :)

Here is my list for the day:

-AllAtOnce magnificent and seriously extraordinary poetry

-Spencer Craig genius and wonderfully written

-D'Arcy Sahn Hilarious and lovely writing with good meanings

-Ena Alysopriano Powerful and phenomenal writing seriously life changingly exquisite

-Theara Steglaidias  Incredibly spectacular poetry and such original fantastic ideas and well structured

-WickedHope Particularly relatable, BEAUTIFUL work AND poet

-Sir Poet Genuinely kind poet also STUNNINGLY superb and deep poetry

-Thomas A Robinson Excellent poet and poetry, fabulous work

-The Creep That Loved You Divinely marvelous poetry you need to read more than once and awesome poet (pretty awesome name too ;P

-Parsavagely Kompenere  Unbelievably relatable and strikingly delightful deeply moving work and wildly talented poet

So yeah!
Check them out! :D
PLEASE REPOST THIS SO THAT AS MANY AS PEOPLE AS POSSIBLE GET INVOLVED IT WOULD BE COOL TO TELL LOTS OF OTHER PEOPLE ABOUT AWESOME POETS SO THEY GET OO ENJOY THEIR WORK TOO AND MAKE IT LIKE, A THING. 10 BEAUTIFUL POETS CHALLENGE. I ENOURAGE YOU TO PARTICIPATE! :)

"DEAR BLANK CHALLENGE" PLEASE PLEASE READ THIS AND REPOST TRY TO KEEP IT GOING:  HELLOPOETRY "DEAR BLANK" CHALLENGE SECRET SANTA POEMS EXCEPT NOT SECRET AND NOT SANTA RANDOM ACT/POEM OF KINDNESS STRANGER POETRY APPRECIATION

I thought it might be nice to do like a secret santa thingy on hellopoetry only not secret and not santa… what I mean is, find a random stranger you literally have never met and do NOT know at all whose poetry you like and spend actual time genuinely reading their work, picking out your favorite lines and responding to them, pondering them, etc. Write something positive to them and post it as a poem with their name in the title. The “DEAR BLANK” challenge only you put their name instead of “blank”. I think we could all use a little recognition that we exist and are worth something since everyone seems a little depressed on here (including myself) which is fine, it’s a great outlet but it would be nice for people to just spontaneously find that a random stranger spent time in their life just to recognize you and care about your poetry. To write a kind poem/letter to them responding to lines in their poetry. If you need an example I just posted DEAR IMALRIGHT which was exactly what I meant. Check out imalright's poetry btw it is amazing.
I plan on doing for more than one person and I'd love for you to do the same. Spread a little kindness, we could all use a little.
Also message me if you are going to do the challenge and message the stranger you do the DEAR BLANK challenge for so they know to look for and read your poem.
I just thought that Imalright who was a perfect stranger to me seemed like a wonderful poet and a wonderful person based on her poetry so I chose her.
You do that too if you accept the DEAR BLANK challenge.
INCLUDE DEARBLANKCHALLENGE AS A HASHTAG IF YOU DO THE CHALLENGE SO EVERYONE CAN FIND THEM
please repost this over and over so we can get as many people involved as possible and try and make a difference in a couple people's lives because I just want to make everyone feel loved but I'm just one girl, I can't do it alone. Please help me with this and join me in the DEAR BLANK challenge. Take time out of your day to properly appreciate someone's poetry who you do not know.

PLEASE REPOST LET'S GET EVERYONE INVOLVED!!! ;D
THANKS!

-EMBER EVANESCENT

oh dear sister how easily you forget

I can not read your mind we are not twins

nor are we travelling on the same frequency.

I can not ask you what you need if you do not answer my calls

and shout at me when I come to find you.

sister dear, I know you want me to make you shine

and polish the silver ware and forget my cooking flair, fine.

but, wasnt it you who had said:

"if your inviting that vegan friend"

that I had to cook something she could eat at the spread?

and now youre all huffed and puffed and natiness instead

when I have organsied to cook it together with this friend

because I was trying to contact you and got no response in the end?

I didnt blink when you and mother dear went shopping and planned all the fare

I didnt baulk when you asked me to buy the meat nor did I care

I didnt say anything at all when you didnt include me

and nothing again when you didnt call to advise me

now I didnt deserve that stupid display

and especially since you and mother want to put your wears on display

your facebook anitcs are something to annoying to see

#hashtag food selfie  

and well  I guess you dont want to see the shine in me

but the memo came at birth, I know its your own ball

Im only here as a front in front of you and mothers friends

playing happy family to whatever end  

just be glad I'll come at all thanks to my vegan friend

Her name is not 'that vegan chick' its Melissa

so do your own polishing.

News flash: Im not the ugly sister.

Facebook's not a journal,
Twitter's not a place,
That's the massive problem
With the current human race.

Your mood is not a hashtag,
'Selfie' is spelled with an S,
We're really all addicted,
Which we know, but won't confess.

Our kids will play computers,
They'll be Apple's biggest fans,
But what about the authors,
Who wrote things with their hands?

Dickens, Wilde and Hawthorne,
I'm sure would bear a frown,
For PAPER was the only way,
They wrote their stories down.

Poetry is one of the *** position that most of us
Is afraid of trying, we squirm to the ideas of
Giving it a go: the *** in poetry goes …..
from the low pitch, to the high volume
Of ecstasy, it doesn’t always have to
Be after dark, it was said that the gay men

And women enjoy *** more than the straight men
Implicit and boldly imaginative: hashtag
the straight men and women

Sugar level is low, while the gay men and women
Level is high on excitement; it’s all about the enjoyment
Poetry is *** to new ideas of acceptance,

A lady in the street, but a freak under the sheets,
Shyness in the voice, to a loud thunderous conclusion
Of mumbling words: asking for help from the almighty

Tomorrow, someone is going to look into their baby’s face
And called him or her Poetry, after a night of ***,
The toes curling *******, to face images of Satanism
While clinching on for dear life: Poetry is life
Staying alive, be not afraid of poetry…..


*What *** is, we don't know, but it must be some sort of fire. For it always communicates a sense of warmth, of glow. And when the glow becomes a pure shine, then we feel the sense of beauty." -- D. H. LAWRENCE

Just some words on the run.
swift across the page.
fleeing from each
snappy slogan you
slip them into;
as is the fashion,
in the social media age.

Cash-bag that hashtag,
in your ego's account.
watch that self
worth multiple,
until finally you're
the apple of your
own eye.

For other's “inspiration,”
flash your bare
cheek ***.
for other's “motivation,”
show that six pack
muscle stack.
As if you're both
the world highest ideal
and  it's base foundation.

But, all that's wrong
is true of me too.
so just like them
pass me by.
After all, this whole
thing is more words on the run.

I hope you all see the hashtag
#WEplayfor24
Wear pink in her honor,
Put ribbons on your doors.

Yes people do die daily,
Life is fleeting this is true.
But to take away the best of us
...leaves you wondering what to do.