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mori walts Apr 2016
ME?
I am like a riddle
WRITTEN
but
UNREADABLE.
unless
you
know
that
ENDINGS
are
BEGINNINGS.
then
you
know me
as
{INFINITY}
Hashtags. I hate them.
I would rather be ignored
Bye Hellopoets.

Hashtags.  Ugly slash.
Poems full of trash, rated
Highly, hashtag rash.
I do. I hate them. Won't do it, wish the site would go back to how it was, I am too old for all this crap. Also, how can there be over 300 poems on my homepage? Too many. This is a rant, and I also hate rants, but I'm going to indulge myself, because I'm in a mood.
Katie Biesiada Apr 2014
Hashtag done.
Hashtag I give up.
Hashtag tired.
Hashtag alone.

All we ever talk about anymore is hashtags and Instagram and texts and snapchat.

I'm done.

I miss the face to face contact.
The way someone's eyes light up or dim down in reaction to something.

I miss the way your hand feels when you place it on mine.

I miss your hugs.

And I miss your voice.

And I'm able to talk about anything with you over a text message, but I'm afraid that you don't want to talk to me, person to person.

I like to think that we have a great friendship, but I realize that we don't.

You FaceTime and call other people, but you won't do that for me.

I try to initiate more conversation than we have, but I feel like you hold back.

I pour some of my heart out into a message that I sent and your only response is an emoji.

I'm hurt.
As childish as it sounds, I'm hurt.

I'm broken and I feel like you keep taking pieces of me away.

I'm broken and I wish you would actually talk and listen to me instead of typing it out.

I miss you because there's no one else and I'm sorry that there isn't.

I don't mean to burden you with everything that's wrong, but when you say that you're there for me, I expect you to follow through.

I miss you a lot.
And I need you to know that.
Because you mean so much to me.

And I know I don't mean as much to you...
Corvus Jul 2016
Before identities and allegiances are even confirmed,
The cries of anger rise up like a thick, black smoke,
Heavy and suffocating, it flows through streets,
Over the English Channel, across oceans,
Seeping into social media and blanketing all else.
Cries for vengeance,
Vengeance,
Vengeance.
And those cries barely manifested into a wisp
When Beirut was attacked the day before Paris.
I didn't see any Facebook pictures of the flag of Lebanon.
Do any of us even know what the flag of Lebanon looks like???
To **** innocent people is a crime except when we do it,
Then it's "There are always casualties of war,"
But if this isn't a war except when we're killing people,
Can it really be called a war?
We care so much about the injustice of it,
How the innocent are mowed down without mercy,
That we want those bombs dropped and we want them dropped now.
When those bombs destroy homes and blast children's limbs apart,
Bloodless and pale, until the area looks like it used to be a porcelain doll factory...
Will we all have Syrian flags for our Facebook pictures?
the suggestion box
at bottom of right screen
is one which prompts
a writer to closely glean

it tells of those all important
trending hashtags
which a poem requires
amid its valley crags  

on more than a few occasions
I've tried using them
without a successful
trend being sewn into my hem

a veritable ship load  
of my poems have sunk
as they haven't grooved
with the hashtag funk

there is something
not right with my word mix
maybe it is in need
of a trend setting fix

this very day I perused
the charts for a hashtag
which would stow
a trending item in my bag
#hashtags  #trending  #humor
Miss X Jun 2014
Baby, I do not know
how to express my feelings to you
but if this had been social media
I am sure it would have
been done somewhat like this:

hashtag boyfriend
hashtag soulmate
hashtag you and me forever
hashtag please be the father of my children
hashtag I called the minister already, please say I do
Kurt Kanawa May 2014
step 1:
random-add everyone you see
without liking any of their poetry
to get follow-backs for free

step 2:
make your poem trendy
usually about love
heartbreak, loneliness,
lust, or whatever has the most hashtags these days

step 3:
speaking of hashtags
make sure to sprinkle your poem
with as much hashtags as possible
(don't even think about if they're related
or not)
#love #trending #anoerxia
#*** #death #zucchini

step 4:
if you're running out of ideas
grab something mildly poetic from a song
shake it up a little
and trim it down to about ten words

step 5:
don't forget to make your poem short
because people don't have the attention span
to complete anything these da

step 6:
watch the view numbers come rolling in
and count them like money

congratulations!
you win *nothing.
since when did poetry become a popularity contest? / all resemblances to real people are entirely coincidental, no offense intended.
shaqila Mar 2014
First it was #PRAY4MH370
which swiftly changed to #RIPMH370
and now it's transformed to #REMEMBERINGMH370

Two weeks of unrealized hope
dashed one late evening by some satellite scope
Only to be faced with the deep blue ocean
and possibility of confirmation

That dear ones lie in some ocean bed
Perhaps forever trapped, it was tragically said
Technology so advance, that can find a particle in an atom
and a black hole in the universal chasm

Yet mystified that none can locate the so-called plane crash site proper!
*cue - Twilight Zone music
axr Jul 2017
well there goes another parade,
we're now marching with rainbows on our bodies and hashtags on our face
our roars pierce the skyline as the guns fire
bang! bang!
another bullet
in our direction
another life lost
and now we have a new sensation
young man murdered for a skin colour he didn't choose
young man murdered because 'he seemed like he was from the hood'
young man shot dead for following the rules

hashtags flooding twitter, photo sets on tumblr, double taps on instagram and likes on facebook
debates firing up and questioning the truth
we're marching
with the names of the dead carved on our skin
girls murdered for loving girls and boys murdered for loving boys,
a girl being murdered because she no longer wanted to be a boy.

we're crying,we're laughing,we're screaming and we're dying
and now the walls are covered in our writing
because we will never stop fighting
guess who's back
Nat Lipstadt May 2014
~ ~ ~
Adieu!
My Crew, My Crew!


this, our first trip,
our longest voyage,
nears completion

eighteenth of May,
a terminal date,
date of destination,
upon it commenced,
upon it,
our commencement

a terminus nearing,
a degree of latitude given,
a degree of longitude observed,
by you
mes méridiens,
witnesses to my zenith,
a degree of gratitude granted
and lovingly recv'd

adieu, adieu!
this sole~full rhyme
beats upon my lips
repeats and repeats,
endlessly looped,
Adieu, my crew!

sailor, voyageur,
scribe and travel guide
for four seasons,
a composition of one long
anno sabbatico,
muy simpatico

in the spring of '13
I sprung up here,
a Mayflower,,
a May flower,
a floral ship,
annual for a single year,
annual for a single circumnavigation

hearing now once again,
refreshing sounds,
hinting noises,
here comes his paul simonizing summery spring again,
rhyming timing reminding dylan style,
it's all over now, my babies blue

t'is season to move forward,
back to old acquaintances renewed,
sand, water and salty sun,
three lifelong friends who,
Auld Lang Syne,
never ever forget me

we get drunk on their eternity,
their celestial beauty,
and they,
upon my tarnished earthly being,
unreservedly and never judgingly,
give inspiration unstintingly,
we share,
never measuring a captain's humanity
by mystical formulae of reads or hearts

for
grains of sand, water wave droplets and sun rays,
all
only know one measure,
immeasurable

respect the
never-ending new combinations
of an old nature,
even the impoverished words he speaks,
words as they exit the
brain's grand birth canal,
whimsically announcing their poetic arrival with a:

"been here, done that,
but happy to do it,
one more time,
just ever so differently"


the only counting
that satisfies them and me,
the clicking sound be,
the sound of a
a pointer-finger tablet-clicking,
heartbeats a metering,
individual letters being stork-delivered,
and

yellow lightening
when it comes,
signifying family completion,
a poem,
a family,
comes
crackling real!

here comes spring again!
happily to shackle me,
shuckling me back to and fro,
to whence I came,
and from
whence I once
and always belonged

memorial weekend,
memorializing me,
orchestrating a prodigal son's
two edged tune,
a contrapuntal contrapposto,
a "fare-thee-well, man"
and a
"hello son, welcome home!"

that empty Adirondack chair,
by my name,
with your names
in tears inscribed upon it,
awaits

the breezes take note,
singing a duopoly:

this ole chair
needs refilling,
Rest & Recreation for your Rhythm & Blues,
your busted body boy
healing with our natural scents,
calming with common sense

with it,
will and refill,
the cracked breaches,
by phonetic letters frenetic,
drinking, then purge-spilling,
a speckled spackling paste of comfort food words
given of and given by,
given back to,
the bay's tide
and beaches
and

you, crew,

let this soul captain briefly lead,
spilling too oft his new seed,
he,
selected but unelected by a
raucous silent voice-vote...
of an unknown,
impressed-into-service crew

some of you
impressed upon
the skin of this captain man's sou!,
a cherishment so complete,
yet has he to fully comprehend,
its miracality,
the golden epaulettes upon his shoulder,
worn ever proudly

the nearest ending,
one of many.
a course of waterfall and rapids survived,
yet invisible shoals fast approaching,
a single bell tolling, warning,
here was, here comes,
yet another,
close calling

sirens shriek
forewarning,
can't abide a moment longer thus,
desperate longing
for a refuge of language loved,
not lost in lands and a sea of
ranted bittersweet journaled cant
and hashtags of sad despair

can't lengthen this sway,
grant a governor's stay,
cannot

heaven schedules our lives,
completed a time out
in a day,
twenty four hours of fabulous, fabled
and of late,
a shopworn, forlorn existence,
three hundred and sixty five times,
circularized on these pages

now
no forevermore, no forestalling,
only the truth,
a grizzled, unprimped,
mirror'd recognition

flutes,
sad low whistle,
trumpets,
wild maimed moan,
violins,
jenny jilted wailing tears, groan,
and harps and guitars,
each pluck single notes plaintive,
long and slow their disappearing reverberation,
but end it must

none can deny or fail to ascertain,
port of our joint destination,
pinpointed on maps as
"the last curtain call,"
just over the nearby horizon line,
demarcating the finality
of the days of glorious,
and the quietude of
a storied ending

my crew, my crew,
forever besided,
forever insided,
bussed, bedded, and bathed,
with me,

wherever I write most,
wherever I write eyes moist,
my crew
of all captains,
whose fealty I adore
and to whom,
my loyalty unquestioned sworn,
upon righteous English oak
an oath unstained,
an American bible, an American chest,
blood sworn here forever to
my
brothers, sisters and children
many who by title me addressed
this man as,
grandfather,
yet friends
from foreign-no-more-lands

this is only a poem,
this is only the best I have

This to me given,
and now to you returned,
encrusted with trust

for
we together,
were
a new combination
all our own

my crew, my crew,
for you:
my seasonal Yule log-life burns
every day,
all years of my life shiny shiny
copper-burnished teapot whistling
you, your names
a tune of the past,
and the yet to come

I care,
burdened more
than than you ere known,
dare I bear
to bare-confess

for and by you was I,
my restlessness lessened
my unrest less,
so comforted by an out-louded,
deep-welcome-throated reception
let it end thus,
no whimpers or cries,
no misunderstanding

in a Wilderness of Words,
sought you out,
your name and lands,
yours, purposely hidden,
disguised and unknown,

while I placed before you,
my name
my birthplace,
the poetry of my truths,
the jagged laughing,
the cryptic crying,
at myself,
foibles, pimples and the
the insights inside,
mine own book of revelations
all clear in the
drippings of my clarifying
cloudy tears

stranger to friends to chance,
all by chance,
sharing nodules, capsules,
even tumors and ill humors

your affection and simple heroism,
left me both gasping,
and leaves me now,
grasping

your hearts sustain
and are sustainable,
in ways the word,
organic,
not even remotely
adequate, sufficient

in ways
that can be secreted here,
in sharing,
private messages,
snippet exchanges,
that are valored above the rubies of
public hearts that
claim attention
but are gold bonded hand cuffs,
nonetheless!

my left, what is left,
to your strong right,
by rings married we are,
you and I,
a secretion on our kissing lips,
a perfumed essence called
No.365
"secrets of us..."

Wit I were a man
who could advance
his essay further,
but this voyage,
closed and done,
but a steamer approaches
where they need a third mate,
no questions asked,
no names exchanged,
no counting the change in his heart and the,
holes in his heart pocket

asking not,
are you friend long term true,
or just a fly by night,
short-winded trend

so onto
ports that are nameless,
needy for discovery,
perhaps,
they will have a fruitfulness
unripened,
awaiting verbal germination
so yet again,
when he wipes away
with back of a hand,
his fresh fears,
moistening those dried,
those crack'd lips

underneath will be yet found
a perhaps,
a
fully formed, yet to be shared,
new poem,
that gives value
standing on its own,
and perhaps, rewarming, reawakening,
his gone cold and pale,
yet quivering moving,
his almost stilled silenced spring,
but not quite,
lips...


--------------------------------

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
                            But I with mournful tread,
                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,
                                  Fallen cold and dead.


                    
Walt Whitman
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And the words that are used
For to get the ship confused
Will not be understood as they’re spoken
For the chains of the sea
Will have busted in the night
And will be buried at the bottom of the ocean

A song will lift
As the mainsail shifts
And the boat drifts on to the shoreline
And the sun will respect
Every face on the deck
The hour that the ship comes in

Then the sands will roll
Out a carpet of gold
For your weary toes to be a-touchin’
And the ship’s wise men
Will remind you once again
That the whole wide world is watchin’

bob dylan

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We'll meet beyond the shore
We'll kiss just as before
Happy we'll be beyond the sea
And never again I'll go sailing

I know beyond a doubt
My heart will lead me there soon
We'll meet (I know we'll meet) beyond the shore
We'll kiss just as before
Happy we'll be beyond the sea
And never again I'll go sailing

No more sailing
So long sailing
Bye, bye sailing...

Jack Lawerence
looking for me in other names, other places
an explanation someday writ, not yet complete....but my poetry no longer gives
no satisfaction...
Hibernating in the summer, not merely resting my voice, but more than that, much more...will repost older stuff only...
take care of the newbies
~~~~~
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and old lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
And surely you’ll buy your pint cup!
and surely I’ll buy mine!
And we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

We two have run about the slopes,
and picked the daisies fine;
But we’ve wandered many a weary foot,
since auld lang syne.

We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine†;
But seas between us broad have roared
since auld lang syne.

And there’s a hand my trusty friend!
And give me a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll take a right good-will draught,
for auld lang syne.
softcomponent Sep 2014
the adderall dripping down the back of my throat tastes like sour oranges. little patches of sooty blackness caress the strange dips under my eyeballs as a sign of overworked modernity eating filth to break the fast of a dinnerless evening. cars... more and more cars... glide up Johnson Street on direction to an anywhere packed with reason and meaning, travel-wrung after hours of work and play like Greek tragicomedies written in an Indo-European language lost to the passage of endless time in the Urals. Trailing behind us, the Cossack signaled for the rest of his entourage to approach a little slower if the city were to be won from the Mongol horde approaching Baghdad at the eastern gate (A.D. 1258) and within the little eyelid movies drizzling through my mind every time I close my eyes, I heard screams and scrambled hashtags pleading for humanitarian assistance.. pleading for a chance to rescue the Islamic Golden Age from the brink of its twilight battle with obliviously obvious tired-eyed savagery reveling in the soft moonlit warmth of Mesopotamian beachsand. Blood was being worn as some sort of slimey undergarment, leveling the entire populace to a place so far gone, the mind could no longer discern the universe as a set of tetris patterns blocked and connected with a light string of consciousness, the light of intense college-student starvation as if tuition were the bloodlands trapped between ****** and Stalin.

There isn't much to be said for the way she used to dance. It was sort of like a jimmied cow-- I say 'jimmied' in the context of a cow, out late, midwestern meadow, center of the winter, shivering... shivering so profusely, it was almost as if it were dancing. Dancing, jimmied, silly, frightened, escapist sentiments pulsing through his beef belly blood as if he were capable of some sort of latent sentience, some sort of ability to discern love from hate, black from white, ethical standards from matters of the spirit. That's the way she danced.

She'd shiver to the beat like a dangling mango, misplacing herself in the music. She would cry a little, too. You could see the tears in her aura, flagrantly asking to be left alone. Flagrantly leasing themselves to the moment and whatever delight the moment could afford.

She asked me; "so, what do you look for in a girl?"
I said: "a decalcified pineal gland."

She jingled her keys in front of me, and smiled. I lost myself in someone elses talking points; across the room, I could hear the chatter of some teenage lip-reader repeating her every word line-for-line. It was 12:58 AM, the Mongols began their destruction of the Abbasid libraries. I just stood there, amazed at the near ventriloquism of this strange pretender. Was he, perhaps, pulling her strings? Was she, perhaps, a puppet? Was there, perhaps, an instant connection between these 2 brains on the quantum level, one effecting the other, regardless of the distance in space and time?
A Mar 2014
I'm compelled to cry
But the age old question is....does that make me weak?
Someone please tell me because I'm getting cold
ALamar Jul 2015
Thoughts
Mindless texts
Posts ending with emojis and hashtags
Billions of words randomly tweeted out
Ideas and conceptions
Time and space attaching themselves to certain perceptions
Relevancy belongs to truth being spoken through reality and fantasy
Reece Oct 2013
I could tell a thousand stories about a boy.

There are dry crystals of DXM on the desk on which he writes CVs,[1] and as he writes he listens to Lou Reed because of his apparent lack of knowledge of Reed's back catalogue.[2]

He takes Molly on Friday nights, because rappers say its cool, how could Chief Keef be an idol to reasonable people?[3] Spouting buzzwords and memes in public places, hoping to be noticed and applauded for a knowledge of he knows not what.

The Twitter feed reads like toilet paper, with less information
Fooling himself into thinking that he needs that rapid a-disinformation[4]
He wonders why there are still advertisements for MySpace, is it not dead yet?

He uses a trusted torrent search engine to download every episode of TV shows he watches religiously. Is that not an indicator of a profoundly unhappy person?[5]
A liberal thinker in his own right yet still regards the BBC as having unabashed liberal motifs haphazardly forced into all of its programming and news coverage.[6]

Why have hashtags stumbled into the global lexicon, and is this an example of cultural Marxism?[7]
Why is he never noticed?
That sweet jazz serenade that emanates from speakers in his lonely house, is but melancholy drones, might as well be Tim Hecker as opposed to Jack Teagarden.[8] His record collection is vast, the smell of vinyl pungent and nostalgic.[9] Obsolete so they may be, but those indie movies sure make them seem cool.

Oh he watches Truffaut, Fellini, Tarr and Michael Snow, he does it to appear cultured, but to who? Since nobody exists.[10] Antiutopian music videos, depicting *** and violence, he could make crass judgments on society but he knows that he loves that Robin Thicke video and what Kanye West did with New Slaves.[11]

Spending hours at a time, ******* to amateur **** on some seedy site and pictures of girls that he probably shouldn't have seen. [12] And after such laborious efforts he can return to an endless cycle of hitting F5 on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest, 4chan, 420chan, VICE, TheYNC, BBC News, Mishka, 2DopeBoyz, World-Star Hip-Hop, Fetlife and Hello Poetry. Amassing information and retaining so little that it hardly seems worthwhile.

Yes he reads, when so many do not. Nabokovian purple prose and the way Bukowski was so ******. He read Poe in elementary because 'goth' was new to him, and now he loves Whitman, Plotinus and St. John of the Cross because Ginsberg mentions them in Howl and Other Poems.[13]

He uses words he doesn't understand like 'catechism', 'ecclesiology' and 'female ******'.
A sprawling mass of words, never ending streams of thoughts, the constant reminder of drudgery in modern times. Wishing he was from some other period, but the idea is ridiculous in and of itself.
He makes crass jokes and thinks they're actually funny.

He's lost. He's empty. He's sad and he's a fraud, its how I knew him best.[14]
[1] Even after brushing the back of his hand across the surface in hopes of ridding the cheap IKEA MDF of tobacco and cannabis leaves.

[2] Information he can use in further conversation, fooling himself into thinking it matters or that anybody cares of his extensive knowledge and new found love of Songs for Drella since Lou's passing.

[3] The same can be said about Codeine that purple dream. Promethazine, in the bloodstream, enough to make a grown man lean

[4] Why even use toilet paper anyway, did the Mother Nature Network not provide a convincing enough argument for the use of a bidet?

[5] Especially considering he cannot watch said shows without marijuana, painkillers, dissociatives, opiates or all of the above. A consequential addict.

[6] Why too must we have 24 hour news? Many wasted hours spent filling time with puff pieces, non-news, celebrity gossip and speculation. When did news stop making the news, why is this only a new phenomenon, and can we always just blame the internet? #NEWS

[7] He won't admit that he doesn't actually understand the intricacies of cultural Marxism but willingly throws the phrase about each room, hoping to be noticed.

[8] More noise to drown out the bipolar thoughts and ringing in his ears from years of abuse at punk rock shows and over crowded, dangerously loud clubs and free parties.

[9] He still maintains a last.fm account out of some convoluted sense of self-worth

[10] He could just watch The Hangover, The Fast and Furious and Transformers, perhaps he'll make friends that way. #CommonInterests.

[11] He still makes aforementioned judgements whilst never outright damming his favoured videos.

[12] #NabokovianFantasy

[13] He is a hero of our time, and Pechorin rolls in his grave at the sentiment.

[14] The author of this "poem" does not actually know the subject.
Daylight 4U2C May 2014
I gotz no life.
I gotz no cash.
All I got is these pimpin' hashtags
#money
#grill
#dddddaaaamncheckoutdatfineassgirl
david badgerow Nov 2015
come & find me
i've left my phone plugged
into the wall because i can't feel
you breathe through your fingertips
and i can't read your lips through emoji
your belly-button doesn't look right shrouded
in 8 mega-pixel dust and i want to touch you instead
of a keyboard on a screen and tell you about my day because
even though it's written doesn't mean it's real meet me offline because
i don't want a five second snapchat victory snapshot of your *****-line
i don't want my silly romantic poetry to be re-grammed on your insta
framed against a picturesque city skyline or a stoic mountain lion
with hashtags and sexting doesn't turn me on like the sound of
your voice i can write you letters until my fingers bleed but
they always arrive seven days late and you never cry
when you cut them open with a knife and i'm not
looking for a pen pal anyway or a friend
instead i seek a mirror with glowing
teeth or an outlet to plug
into and charge
me up
okay so let's just spread some love
if there is a poet on this site who you think is awesome and deserves some recognition, just because, let's brighten someone's day.

So you label it "You Know Who's Awesome?"
and then in the poem section you write their name then you literally just post that. oh and if you want, include their name as a hashtag and in the notes write WHY they are awesome or if you are in a rush you don't need to include hashtags or notes, just announce to the world they are awesome and leave it at that :)

here, I'll start:

You Know Who's Awesome? (sorry, this would normally be the title)

Frank Ruland :)
because he is hilarious and a really cool and kind guy with serious talent in poetry. Deep dude, and just super awesome overall. SPREAD THE SLOTHIFIED LOVE!

-love Kollitiki Vradypodes the adhesive sloth
Jessica Jan 2019
Everyday there’s a new story
A new plea that goes ignored
An outcry for protection
That the government “can’t afford”

A community is broken
A family in bits
A mother holds her dead son
It didn’t need to be like this

“My thoughts and prayers are with you”
What’s that gonna do?
It’s easy enough to stand back
When it isn’t affecting you

People post on social media
About the horrors of the crime
But how can they truly comment
When their school isn’t next in line?

A march to show the ‘big men’
What their little minds can’t see
Real humans suffering
At the word “death” they turn and flee

A 15-year-old boy bleeds
His life already done
He wants someone to hold him
His last word escapes, “Mom”

This is real, this is wrong
This is happening now
Children scared of education
In case they get shot down

So, now forget the hashtags
Now forget the thoughts
Now we need action
Not more ****** news reports.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
to me, the Cartesian saying had to be relegated to shrapnel,
i treat the cogito
                                           ergo                       sum
like i'd treat atoms, brushing and
signaturing each other with
a stabilised unification
under the name: helium, or hydrogen.
evidently that's also a term
for three dimensional space
and the cohorts of chaos that come
from it.
           but something worries me,
intrinsically it's what i would simply
term: the automation of thinking.
basically? it's blood hard to stop thinking,
to do yoga to intricate being
in nothingness,
    as Heidegger suggested:
non-being is a tier below nothing,
      and i guess automated thinking
comes from non-being,
because there's this intrinsic manifestation
of instinct found in all sport activities
that doesn't allow thinking to take place,
no footballer thinks about his exertion
on the football pitch, no golfer maps
out a system of thought to *** the hole
in one...
                some would even say
that thinking is a form of laziness,
          i find that the whole notions turns
out to be a **** up affair of concern,
the mere notion that thought is automated
    and cannot be barricaded against
its relentless battering our very being
is due to the fact that so many of us
do not attain the all that glitters is gold
particularity of fame...
             it's not that we are doubtful,
but that we are mindful / thoughtful,
a few of us make it to the top of the sardine
can, but so many of us are minding
our own business on this placebo earthenware:
yes, i call this a placebo urn of things
needed (people always rave about nouns
anyway, call it slang, or whatever,
it trends, hashtags and the outdated
forms of phone numbers - calling big brother
eeny, meeny, miny, moe) - i could
swear it's so, but then again, maybe not so.
still (what a crass digression),
coming back to the Cartesian shrapnel...
           basing in on weights and measures -
it's so tiny, that expression,
                      we can think the realistic
and only express a centimetre of the world,
we can be the realistic and only
express a centimetre of the world,
  and then we can think the illusionary
and express a mile of the world,
        and we can be the illusionary and express
   a kilometre of the world:
toward the basis of fame and contentment of
  the shadows...
       yes, we have achieved a "death" of history,
by simply stating our recreational pursuits
being more important than our
need for historical eventuality and crisis, and change...
we have stated a "death" of history
via our population size, our ability to combat
diseases (whether infantile or of a certain maturity),
yes, we have established a congested world,
which facilitates nothing quite like a herd
(cattle mentality): hence the modern concern
for alienation... we're created a collective manifestation
of insects, or as one might suggest
  this is yet another geocentric and heliocentric
concern for us... although relegated to
egocentric and the collective ethos of comrades -
but given the former has been eradicated
as it was previous known: communism -
      in economic vocabulary it's all but gone,
but still exists in the sports: yet again,
the re-surfacing of abolishing automated thinking,
namely, automated collision with the daily
activity - either competitive or mundane,
    as we all soon realised: if automated thinking
is not eradicated by automated doing
     we end up mentally distraught -
our own thinking alienates us and even progresses
to symptoms that have no viability
       concerning a drowning man, nonetheless
we're actually drowning.
i can hardly think that nothing is an abyss -
       to me thought is an abyss (cat meows,
i write, the fermentation of wine goes on in
four jars to my left, bob, pop, bob, pop,
and daniel licht is playing to the fatty *****
that's my brain) -
                     i knew that ponderings ii - vi
would get my creative juices flowing:
finally! a book on philosophy that i can comprehend
within that bilingual complex i've established!
or: this much can be said upon
giving a supermarket cashier a signed copy of
my actually printed works
     and hearing a compliment with eyes
waxed with glee (Tarah);
           now i have 100 copies to push,
become akin to a drug dealer with poetry,
           and that's not going to be easy
without p.r. and all that jingly marketing qualms.
still, what's there to be done
        if not that there is something to be done,
even if it's nothing, or a pebble on a mountain:
which is why there is so much
   potential in individuality, but also so much
angst - instead of doing crosswords we have
other riddles to be bothersome about,
   but so few even get a ?         to be concerned with.
again the Cartesian shrapnel equation,
              so much is staged on it in terms
of how thinking becomes automated, robotic
to the point of making children succumb to
    premature depression -
      back when premature dementia was the hit
on Broadway or in an Estonian lunatic asylum
in the 19th century,
when we first received our psychiatric vocabulary,
now it's the young who are odd
   and it is premature depression,
          a bit like the black plague, against
all hopes, a single identifiable folly.
             and where the best rewards?
solitude, where else?
                          for all that swindling of the talk of species
and competition within / without,
        always one ******* says:
                           i am the zeitgeist - always one:
are there really benefits to realising that
****** equation? are there? to feel alive, to feel
conscious, or the madness of Nietzsche's reversal
stating that he's a thing that simply, exfoliates
necessary thought?
           thought is primarily a moral ought -
the should i or shouldn't i?
        it's intrinsic, inherent and simply: just there...
or in the unlikely event, a step into the abyss
   and subsequent pathologies of the enabling of
   a destruction of the soul: as manifestation
of a transgressively transcendent embodiment
of pure body.
                 so, against all duality, i simply fathom
that ****** thing as shrapnel,
     curiously via (as i already might have said):
so much thinking doesn't precipitate into being,
     and so much being doesn't precipitate into thinking -
or of those who adorn mental silk fabrics and Solomon rings,
         and those who have to pay for elocution
lessons due to their ****** endeavours -
      yet again, alignment with Thesaurus Rex,
cue: down Synonymous Avenue
                     because how many times are we sharpening
our narrative trying to feels less inclined
                 to exfoliate in the exotica of what's
the necessary verbiage, and escape into single
identifiable meanings, without poker, without politics,
without sexualised ambiguity?
for me language should work, not be desecrated
to fun: it, should, work;
                     or here i rest my ambitions,
without any poetic dogma - or to make poetry unrecognisable
when stated, for no reason to discredit
   the systematics of poetry: but for reason
                        Kraken wrangler on language -
as much as Nietzsche might have said about
      philosophical systems and their errors and lack of
honesty: i say as much about poetry careful to
be identified as such: metaphors, imagery blah blah -
all things that make people conscious of what
they're reading is actually what they're reading and say
it's poetry - as i said to the supermarket cashier:
enso (Japanese,
marcon purposively missing) - to write while standing up,
and so the reader is standing up,
         not a novel you take to bed,
                     and read for months on end,
dozing off, or sneering at "uneducated" people
on the train...
                         i might as well be writing instruction
manuals for the sadistic training of ballerinas -
              one cut, one incision, and get the **** out;
or at least that's the idea -
      learn to spell, work on punctuation variations,
    learn to tie your shoelaces... and don't believe in
the word edit.
Ordinary words in ordinary order
Slouch across the page unnoticed
Mundane metaphors and trite observations
Destroy catch phrases with every old saw
Memes are dragged behind overused hashtags
Until they morph into yesterday’s news
Dusty and bent and soiled on the edges
Same ole rehash of the same ole crap
Whitewashing the fence of involvement
The old wive’s tales are alternative facts
That dance to the tune of an illiterate piper
In a boring routine choreographed by
A sullen pre-teen who finds herself grounded.

Wherever you’re going,
You can’t get there from here.
ljm
Took 5th place honorary mention is a very small local poetry contest with 4 of the poems I posted here that got the most likes.  Depressing to say the least.  No point singing if no one likes your voice.
Marissa Navedo Apr 2012
Will time halt when the Mayan’s long calendar ends?
Or is it a mere cycle, a hoax disclaimed by all scientists alike.
A misnomer believed to have held truth,
such as Pluto being a planet, or a tomato a vegetable.
Will the tornadoes sweep away all the lies?
spread out on the west’s open plains.
Will the oil seep into the veins of politicians?
So that they will know the pain inflicted.
Will it **** the lives of those without health insurance?
Or will it reach out to the moguls of New York?
Where will the old shrimpers go?
When their skiffs are broken down,
on the abandoned Gulf Coast shore.
Where does anyone go to be safe?
Safety is hidden in the ashes of the towers,
intangible as democratic peace.
War news blaring form chrome flat screen televisions:
when will our troops return?
Death tolls pile up like discarded lotto numbers,
yet you keep playing with chance:
hoping for that jackpot to flash in fluorescent lights.
Yet victory is bittersweet when tainted by blood of the innocent.
Osama Bin Laden’s death calls for celebrations,
yet the war still rages on.
When will America be restored to pre-9/11days?
Or is it irrational as solving the 15 trillion dollar debt,
that escalates as the housing market plummets and gas prices rise.
Can you recount a time that it was under 3 dollars?
What has happened to America?
As I walk through the supermarket now,
California strawberries 6.99 a pound?
“Can I get a federal discount” my father asks.
He carries the satchel leaden with letters and packages,
although he is appreciated like junk mail.
3,700 post office closes their doors,
I notice the news article you tweeted.
I text you as I walk down the aisles,
oblivious to the techno music that plays,
and obese children beg their mothers-
for that candy bar with blood mixed in with cocoa beans,
from the African child wage slaves that harvested them.
This is what America has become.
Michele Obama tries to end obesity,
but we all know it is a fruitless claim.
As television ads are imprinted in their brains.
Ronald McDonald noted and not MLK.
We are too caught up in our fast paced lives,
to teach our children how to read,
it’s not our job we decide.
Caught up between late night snacks and filing away-
our dreams on the shelf, so they are not seen.
Ambitions lie in the cracked linoleum tiles,
in this supermarket neglected for countless years;
since no one cares, all that matters,
is profit, a quick fix.
You can’t just slap a Band-Aid on it America!
I can still see your wounds.
Cash or Credit?
“Credit” I say as I slide the sleek plastic card,
my I-Phone hums in my pocket.
Steve Job died? I hear Obama’s remark:
“He changed the way each of us sees the world”
Did he really?
My perception of the world is in accordance to Wi-Fi locations:
Skype contacts, Facebook posts, hashtags-
#TechnologyHasTakenOver.
I talk with the causality of a text.
The glow of screens and keyboard strokes barricade my reality.
I realize this as I read your enumerations.
I read articles of what states pass gay marriage,
and wonder who you would have married?
I wonder if you would have help Emerson,
pick up New England’s shattered pieces after Irene?
I wonder if you would have protested Wall Street,
since you are the 99%, the common man.
Would you have advocated for immigrants’ rights.
Fought the tarnished racist ideas,
corroding the Statue of Liberty’s ideals.
I spray paint the words of your poems,
On the brick buildings of every city,
trying to restore America.
revised verson
Autumn Dec 2014
I remember before
I remember when it was just a bunch of poets most in unrelinquishing agony
I remember when I came on this site and it was a safe haven
I remember being inspired by Great writers that are still out there
I remember the passion
The fire
I remember what HP was
I remember it's better days
...
I am not a fan of the new HP
I know for some they feel they are writing poetry but others, well it's offensive.
I come here to breathe to be with those that I can relate to
It Was a garden full of blossoming roses
But every time I appear now
It feels like a high school situation
This is a site for poetry not pathetic ******* petty drama
Between poets
Write your heart, try to help other poets
Express yourself
I refuse to hashtag it up
Because i respect those who use them
But in all honesty I hate what it has done
Maybe the people changed
Maybe some left
...
I remember when here wasn't a need for "public service announcements"
I remember when there wasn't a worry about a "bully"
I remember when the thought of plagiarism occurring was a joke
I remember what it use to be
And now it's future I feel isn't so bright
All it feels like now it a popularity contest
I long for what it use to be
I miss the old HP there was a different sense of acceptance and understanding. It has changed I respect if your opinions are different but these are mine.
M Clement May 2013
I'm listening to Chance the Rapper
And there's some whimsy in these veins
Some
Give me a weeken' of sleepin'
I think I can come around after that

Hashtags
Yolos
Swags

Take a tire iron to the side of my face
My mind's lost its wheels

All I want to do is *******
Just to feel
******* to self-sabotage
Explosions of regret
And possible highs
of Seratonin and Dopamine

Let's get high

It's weird
When I was a kid
My goal was to make everyone
Stop smoking
Seeing that white puff
Trail from the mouths of adults
All I wanted was for them to realize what they were doing
The un-healthy choices they were making

And now
all I think about
Is buying a pack
Just to cut the
Edge off of
whate'er
the ****
I'm feeling
Keyholed poet

See what I did there?
It was an on-purpose accident

Am I really meant for priesthood?
Is that something that's in my life?
I mean, what, 4+ years solo?
Dates in between,
and ladies, thank you
For the times where you remind me
I'm worth a ****
Or an hour of your time.
But for the most part, I'm solo

My mom, God Bless her, has been single
Dates in between
For 7+ years
Maybe I'll catch up.
Maybe I'll outpace her

She sent me her will the other day
You're looking at the guy in charge of her life
Should she be unable to make decisions.
Well, I guess you're not looking
You're reading, some half-assed-therapy foreplay
Ladies, love me, I'm a weird, depressing sack of ****.
Aww, poor baby
Maybe
Pick yourself up off the ******' floor and make something of yourself
God willing, there's something
I just gotta put on some different
Lenses
These are getting dark
Maybe I need to drop off the map
And find a cleaner
Do they have those for rose lenses?
StuKerr Jun 2014
Depression heartbreak
Lovelife sad death lost you pain
Hashtags are poetry
Akira Chinen Jul 2017
Children march in boots
too big for their feet
blinders too close to their eyes
uniforms worn too tightly
around their hearts
left left left right left
till their is nothing left
of our children pretending
to be men who are brave
and pretending to be women
who have equality
and pretending to be brothers
who don't have to fear for their lives
because of the skin the were born in
and sisters pretending
they don't have to fear
their fathers and uncles and brothers
and cousins and preachers and friends and husbands
as much as they do
the kindness of strangers
and we sit on our sofas and lazy boys and kitchen tables
pretending the news isn't so bad
and pretending
that war is a necessary business
and pretending that the phrase
"**** culture"
isn't something vile that drags itself through our minds
and up our throats
and out our mouths
and pretending clichés like
"boys will be boys"
makes it all "ok"
(at least for little boys born
to the right father
of the right name
of the right wealth)
and pretending that
she should have known better
and pretending that
he should have complied
to being stripped of his right to live
which ironically would
have still ended up
with him bleeding to death
which really isn't ironic
but just ****** up
but I almost forget
this is all just pretend
as we sit at our table
of disinterest and hashtags
and cold truths
being covered in warm lies
and is that the death
of the American dream
I smell cooling off in the window seal
overlooking the corruption
and destruction
and industrialized nation
that is nothing more
than a cage to keep us safe
from our own thoughts
because we wouldn't want
to know that the boots
they sell to our children
have already been worn
and are already covered
in mud and blood and death
and we still let them march away
as we pretend
it will all be ok...
Erika Oct 2017
hashtags
do not bring back the dead.

they do not cause souls
to rise out of the ashes they lay to rest in.

hashtags

raise awareness for

loss
hurt
pain

and that ache in your chest you get
when you realize
that
nothing
is
the
same.

Because If im being honest,

making something a trending topic

is the only way

to make people

give
a
****.
freedom of expression is a beautiful thing
Devin Ortiz May 2017
Nothing to you
Because they look like me
Hashtags, forgotten in a Facebook feed
Should have done this, should have done that
All becomes irrelevant from a rata-tat-tat

Quick on the trigger, when color hits the eye
That racial bias keeps fatalities high
But that's me too, in case you forgot
Behind every tragic black body shot

Always a moment away
From a cop's bad day
They'll take their leave from work
And still get paid

The facts exist, believe it or not
Silence is compliance, so we'll still get shot
I'm white and black, but they'll only see the latter
So stand with me, shout Black Lives Matter
Benjamin A S Mar 2017
‘Are you a boy or a girl?’
They shout down the corridor in a chorus behind me
Like the cries of “Good morning, Miss” in assembly
The patronising tone
in sleep deprived confusion
Droning throughout the halls
ringing around ‘she’.
    
Going to lessons is the scariest thing
Head down, walking fast hoping
they’ll never say anything
Hoping no one will question you
Glance around and notice you
not daring to look up
in case you make a wrong move.
    
You can’t know what it’s like to be
in a room all alone,
in a house that is not your own;
'Your body is a temple’ they said.
But they don’t tell you how to treat it
if it’s right in your head
but wrong in your skin,
and that feeling
of being and existing
is like dealing
with a thousand anxieties
suffocating within;
Chest too obvious
voice too loud and feminine
not enough to be ‘gentleman’.

'Why does this bother you?'
I hear you enquire,
it's because society’s construct
of gender is too based on attire,
an old fashioned concept-
Telling your children
that 'blue's for boys'
'pink's for girls'.

'Is it really?' I say.
Gender is not just binary
it fluxes and changes,
just like any scientific theory;
Einstein for instance,
didn’t come up with special relativity
in a night!
It took years of work
until he was right

Let this apply for gender too:
not just black
and white it's not as
clear cut as that
this is black and this is white
Evolve the theory
from system to spectrum
of freedom and pride
to reside in one's body happily:
Humanity allied.

This is what I dream about,
but it is not what
I've been living throughout,
in our world of shame;
where we are reduced to words and themes.
Driving my community,
those who love and support me,
to thoughts of suicide.
Being known
only when they're reduced
to rags and bones,
dead bodies
hanging
from their hashtags
thrown in the corner
another into the pile of disorder...

But people think it’s okay
to come up to you
abuse you in the street.
Knocked to your knees
to cries of 'queer'-
you end up living in fear-
'well, what do you expect given
who's watching Wall Street?'

Yet I stand here
talking to you
a queer boy-
with all connotations of the word-
a queer boy with a voice.
Look at me!
My chest,
My unbroken voice,
My broken mind.
I am not proud of what I am,
what I’ve become and
how much it hurts
is indescribable to you.
I am not what you want me to be.
I am a man.
Not trans.
Poetoftheway Jan 2015
with bodies relaxed,
but eyes observant,
they sell
five dollar bags of
***** weedy poetry

mixed clientele,
there is no age or gender or ****** preference
discrimination,
certainly none requiring critical taste,
in the buying and selling of
***** weedy poetry

commercial savants,
organized by topic,
available for purchase
love, depressing, rants and whines,
discounts for pre-owned
anti boyfriend rhymes

in his day, they say,
Whitman partook,
ferried up from his Brooklyn nook,
William Carlos Williams too,
from New Jersey came,
better to understand
the most common patois

they'll do custom stuff,
the suppliers,
mix and blend  all
kinds of ****,
their database exponential,
give them the
requisite hashtags,
and within it,
in it,
thirty minutes,
no more,
they'll requisition,
providing an acquisition -
you'll get your
name-your-own-hash,
Freedom
to entitle your own
***** weedy poetry

or you could grow you own
on the window sill
in the earth of your discarded
despair
MAJD S Jan 2013
On a Sunday it was dark; girls infatuated with attention
Consuming on facebook uploads, and hashtags that have no explanation for your comprehension
I stand alone in a world, a total suspension
From the societies of fake likes and relationships and self pent up tension
I had faith in you, but your beliefs are not worthy of my mention
For the things you lived for, the mundane delusions that causes your detention
For you are detained in your self- created stress and your feverous passion that is derived by convention
You are stuck in a world not yours, and once I tried to liberate you from it you couldn't stop clinging and clench'n
To your false priorities and you call this a life… you call yourself living when your hollow ego and pride has out shadowed your repention
And sin became a right, and good became a privilege, all this in the world craving attention…


Souls like me are buried, embodied by peace we have with our existing forms
Free thinkers; attached to our beliefs and religious rituals yet deviated from your filthy sociological norms
And values we have created and you chose to forget
And destinies we work to change, yet your destinies are set
For sheep follow each other into circles of indecorous confusion
And every one of you follows what he thinks is fun, or cool or the trendy illusion
We have reached a time when we follow people, not thoughts, material not ideas and we demand respect
How could I respect clones? For their values become lower than that of an insect...
I trusted you were different, but I grew beyond that thought and realized you're the same
You just yearn for the spotlight, live on opinions, and follow your low life leaders into a path of misleading fame…
JM Romig May 2015
To poetry
guarding chickens
and chronicling crisis in Cleveland

To poetry
fighting back sleep
in a factory of miscarried dreams

To poetry
fighting for justice
with hashtags and cameraphones

To poetry in caves
gathering people like fire

To poetry in Halls
gathering children like home

To poetry
that is loud and activating,

To poetry
that is quiet and contemplative,

To poetry
that is honest and brutal

To poetry
that is tongue in cheek

To poetry,
in all shapes, colors, sizes
forms and meters

To poetry,
and to all of us
who are full of it
Reece Jan 2015
The game played no longer how it once was
No votes on new posts
don't check the trends
or check your own for views and comments
The substantive roaming data of broken WiFi connections
Mangle your jangling words, hide your swollen faces behind forced smiles, Rembrandt bastardisations or smeared oil paintings of the black soul(less) beasts that lurk in satiate tree shadows fawned over the lawnmower blue cycle rinse washed acid soaked daydream ***** slap nation
So you revere the works once read on poetical facsimile sites
only to smear words of younger wordsmith wrangled teen angst
and now in your age and ardor it seems advantageous to judge
But then that will leave you hollow inside
or in fact, you could jump from a tall building only to bounce off the concrete into a children's pool and drown there in three inches of **** coloured rain water
But so instead the workload decreases as your dementia bedpost nightmares
all come aflutter
The laced lily white throng of petal pinched patterns masks
the marked men on their dusty knees
There, watch how heads explode
or listen to foley artists rendering the lacquered finish of the watermelon headjuice
Make up words
or make up lies
Wear make-up daily, earn some prize
or don't
I don't care
idc
idk
Resemble rhyme or reason
Disassemble the times and season
Return to pejorative pretensions, rants in verse verse verse verse prose format and **** the rest
Or simply return to the old ways of playing the game
Upvote this, and maybe they'll take interest
Comment here
return one there
Use tags, hashtags, wash rags, fat slags, arm chair fat cats
But always separated by spaces, prettyblankspaces
No, I don't do slam poetry, I'm too white and not nearly rich enough to not care
Reassemble the times and season, maybe make sense of it
Maybe not
Just don't let them become a passing trend, please

— The End —