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The darkness can embrace the page a silk sheet of verbal perfection .
Empty streets and   bars cast shadows that cling in mind like some ship long sailed from port.
Why must they see the end and never fight it's truth ?

We find so little compassion a snow storms emotion has left this summer night
vacant as the motels sign.
Drift for a second with me and i'll show you nothing but flawed perfection in return.

Cats in the garbage winos hold court in the parks distant to the .
The child never should know.
Poets speak in smoke filled rooms of nothing more than a broken souls frustration and second
avenue's  false shine a glass charm and a freakshow diamond the ***** a true friend in
times all to often I need.

Whats your sport the streetwalker asks me in such a pure jaded sense.
wash me  pilot hands are clean but thoughts seem to stain walls of the union mission
I love its true sense of decay .

Jack are you still on the road or just lost in big Sur?
Bob can they ever decode the message or just set free in the paint you cast as words?
Poets fools profits and second street saints I feel comfort in madness  for
sanity's annoying plea just takes up my time.

Are we nothing more than junkies?
Slave to page and the veiw's no matter how blind they may be.
A  drunkard  , A clown, And a welcome stranger in many a lost souls view.
Charles I can understand your humor in the utter sense of ***** it all and the crued beauthy i reconize so very well.

And a whiskey laced brother kindred spirts seem to go better with southern bourban to
wash it all down.

Now sweetheart im not saying im any good but im always a goodtime.
We have to be ******* to be anything at all.
They all knew as so do I.

Heros gone were never heros at all.
Im the last of my kind hundred proof deadly with a **** eating grin.
Only through others eyes are we truely seen .
So I ask how's your view?

Admire many only to realize your lost in ego's storm.
Few understand and even less care.
Im always here till im truley gone.

Stay crazy friends and remember it's not to be admired.
For heros always must fall.
A breeze in the summers burning heat like many others.
I'll only leave a soon to be taken vacant seat.
Little Bear Mar 2016
In the stories that I read as a child,
the leading character was always the hero.
And, I always imagined the hero to be tall and strong,
handsome and capable.
Maybe they were loud, brash and brave.
But they were always fearless.
Displaying outstanding courage in the face of adversity.
Seeking justice, going to war,
doing battle with those
who would destroy us all...
us being..
the little guy..

They were never the little guy.
They were always someone who I would never be.
To me well, I would always be the one getting saved
and not the one doing the saving.

And as I grew up I realised, to my horror,
that none of this was real.
Heros like this did not exist and that real life is most certainly not a fairy tale.
And some of it, stranger than any fiction I've ever read,
and believe me,
I've read some ****....

'Heros' like this will very rarely come to save you.
But, I will tell you something...
If there is one thing in life I have learned it would be that,
there are heros,
and those heros are in fact...
us.
The little guy.
Me
and You.

And... In our own stories,
we get to play the leading character..
but only if we choose to.

You see...
In fairy tales you do indeed have the fearless warrior.
They dance and sing their way through the stories,
where the village is saved, the wicked witch is destroyed,
were monsters are caged and villains are brought to justice.

But,
more often than not,
the real hero of those stories
is the little princess
who wields the frying pan.
The young girl from the village
who cuts off her hair
and defeats a whole army.
The girl in a small town
who loves to read
and shows real courage and tames the beast.
The boy who,
over coming his physical disabilities,
tames and flies,
of all things,
a dragon.
Showing the whole town he is indeed..
a warrior.

And I could not continue this long *** analogy
without mentioning the story of Frodo and Sam.
Through the mines of Moria,
across the dead marshes and lets not forget who defeats Shelob...
on to Mordor where they reach mount Doom.
Almost defeated, Frodo could not take another step
when carrying the ring,
it was just too much to bear
to finally put in the fire of mount Doom.

And then, even after being sent home,
it was actually Sam..
Sam the gardener,
Sam the loyal companion who faithfully,
with courage and determination,
carried Frodo and battles on to the end.
He,
Sam the gardener,
was the real hero of the story.

Time and time again it will be the little guy who saves the day,
time and time again it's the little guy,
the underdog,
the one least likely to succeed
who will be the true hero.
They will have been told they are not smart,
worth nothing,
are unimportant.
Sound familiar?

They will have been through many trails and tribulations,
many which could and in fact should
have brought them to their knees,
but it didn't,
it hasn't...

Because,
like us little guys,
they know what is right,
they know what is good
and they know that they must carry on
because,
if they don't,
well...
the bad guy wins.

And it is the same for us in our every day lives.
And in our own stories you will find,
you have the biggest part to play.
Should you choose to play it.

We face our own villains, demons and ogres.
For us these come in the form of anxiety,
depression, addiction,
abusive partners,
disability and a thousand other things
that can and does bring us to our knees.

And time after time you will show courage
when you think you have none.
You will be brave when you think you are not.
You will carry on,
even when you are face down in the dirt.
I too have been there,
many times.

And sometimes,
things are so desperate,
too hard for us to bear alone.
We can't be all that we want to be..
and so enters our story...
our friends.

In almost every story I have ever read,
in every moment that I thought I could not carry on,
there will be someone else
who sneaks up beside me...

And these will be our companions,
our sidekicks,
our friends.
They will be the ones who hold us up.
Those who will cheer us on.
Those who will mop our brow,
straighten our collar and send us out fighting again.
They too are the heros,
and where indeed would we be
without them?

So please,
take heart that we do not travel this journey alone.
We are not the only one in our story.
There will be others to help us along the way.

Some may stay for only a page or two,
some for a few chapters,
and others you won't be able to shake
for love nor money..

And so,
when things are at their worst,
when it is the darkest hour,
when all seems lost,
they too will be there,
at your side..
you just might have to write them in.

And they will be with you.
Being the little guy.
The hero.
Right along side us..
****.. sorry it's long..
My excuse is that writing is my one true love.
I just wanted to write about the heros,
our friends, in our ordinary lives..
and this happened :o)

Probably quite **** really but I got carried away.
Ann M Johnson Apr 2016
Heroes and villains seem harder to define
when somethings happen to blur the lines
The villain style of justice may appear better than no justice at all
When the system fails the victim and makes the victim feel so small
Where are the Heros when evil abounds?
Are they still around?
Who fights for truth and justice throughout the land?
Who is brave enough to take a stand?
Remember heroes often are easily disguised as ordinary people and don't stand out in a crowd
Their anonymity allows them to work behind the scenes
they effectively crush the evil villains dreams.
The Heros tirelessly fight for truth and justice and selflessly care for others in need.
They support and encourage those that the villains of this world have knocked down.
The villains can too easily be found courtesy of our television screen they often make a showing on the 6 or 10 o clock news they are promoting violence they don't care about anyone else's views.
As far as Heros go you may discover that a Heros heart is contained inside of You.
Hero or Villain?
The choice is yours
Today you could take a stand to right some societal wrong
Today you can be strong and be a Hero to a friend or loved one or a stranger in need. To them can  make a difference indeed.
Hero's Traits:
H elping
E ncouraging
R espectful
O pportunity
Perhaps these traits are within you
Be the Hero that you long to see!
KellzKitty Jan 2015
Costumes,money,power, fake identitys, and fame
These are the traits of the heros we know better by name
Batman,Thor, Iron man and more
Are here to save the day
But that's where it's wrong
For they are written and drawn
What about the heros who's names actually do belong?
The heros who leave their homes and family's
To fight for us so we can be free?
They don't know our names
Nor do they feel they need to
They go through suffering just to save you
They die and don't come back because they are not fiction they are real
The pain they feel from a bullet is truly real
They go through sleepless nights and endless days
Because that's the price our freedom pays
They volunteer and sign up for this
No mater the pain they don't give in
Not knowing their names should be a sin
Their spouses and children are home alone
Not knowing if their loved ones will return dead or alive
But the soldiers do this so we can survive
They are the real heros both men and women.
Our soldiers who have faught and died for us
Are the real heros who deserve us
They deserve our recognition and our love
So thank you soldiers for everything you have done for us.
Onoma Apr 2020
the epicenter

of hands shaken, drained

of blood--miserly grasps.

turning and cleaning a wheel.

a home leaving home.

passed up by a bus driver

blue at the collar like you,

pretending to respond--

but having a blowout with

schedule, while waving him

down for a solid already profiting.

despising the unrreconcilable need

that sustains him.

"an essential worker."

"heros transporting heros, right?"

understanding the de-servant

of karmic implication.

where rage should have been.

there was none, there i remained.

instead, the language of an

oldish latino man trying his best to

communicate with me.

telling me what he did ******

himself by leaving us out.

moments later he began to **** by

the right of the bus's glass waiting room.

**** splashing the pavement.
jeffrey robin Apr 2013
What's to do?

The little kids lookin and findin
And talkin to

Eachother

And the heros they always
Find

When they need to find heros

Or they make heros
And go on with what it is they must do

In order
To stay free
--

Life is simple
When ya quit
******* around
--
Ya do what ya gotta do

You become heros
Ya
Make heros outta eachother

Ya
Stay
free
.
Because?
.

Because ya gotta be free
Muggle Ginger Aug 2012
My big brother has always been a hero in my eyes
His actions were misleading, sort of in disguise
But I looked to him for the path to walk
Even before the days when I learned to talk

We were just kids, we would stay up late
Talking about our problems and all the people we used to “hate”
But as time went by, as if in the beat of a heart
We found ourselves in worlds; different and apart

The things he did and all the people he knew
Were of no use for me to actually get a clue
Begging for help, without ever saying a word
Makes it hard for your little brother to know your pain

Like the haze of smoke, we got caught coughing, trying to breath
But the oxygen was gone from the brother’s past
Nothing left but monoxide to toxify the bonds of brotherhood
We separated to two separate countries, how it was always supposed to be

But it was exactly different than it should have been
My brother is a hero for he showed me what not to do
He showed me who’s not cool – by being their friend
He helped me set my life on its proper way

So my brother I want to say,
You’re my unexpected hero.
Lindsey Wells Oct 2012
I feel like
A superhero
Even though
I haven't done much
I have
The superpower of invisibility
I help others
By disappearing
From their lives
Unrequited Love Nov 2013
So I have decided to be my own hero

Not because I'm a good role model
or someone to look up too

But because it will just be so much easier

My decisions won't shock me
nor will my actions

When we worship people like
John Lennon
Or
Kurt Cobain

The drug use seems so tragic
and the gunshots leave us terrified

But if its just me I won't be taken aback
By how much I have changed

And no one will care about what I do

Cuts on my wrists wouldn't be front page news and my failures will be forgotten and ignored

But most of all I think that if its me

I won't find the drug use that tragic

And the gun shots won't be that terrifying
it is said that
a prophet finds no honor
in his own country

hard truths
boldly spoken
are received as a
wretched cacophony
threatening to melt
the caked wax
blocking the closed
intolerant ears of
intransigence

Madiba
once found no
personhood
in his homeland

his people driven
from their land
by Voortrekkers

snortling Boers
gobbling the land
uprooting native
people from villages
they had occupied
since the dawn
of time

spilling Zulu blood
into roiling rivers
of conquest

meeting peaceful
petitions of the
aggrieved with
Sharpsville bullets
splattering
the blood of
innocents onto
hardscrabble roads

redressing crimes
against the victims
by corralling them into
denuded Bantustans
where rivers do not
flow, grass never grows,
game cannot graze;
only the dust doth blow

riddling the captives
with torments of
Transvaal Apartheid,
mocking the speakers
of mother tongues with
the fained eloquence
of bastardized Afrikaans

the dominion of the
oppressors, sanctioned
and affirmed by exiling
a people from their land,
outlawing their language,
dividing the nations into
a fallacy of separate
destinies where a forgetful
history blessed with amnesia
will anoint the conquerors
with the spoils of abundance
stolen from the vanquished

Madiba spoke of these things
and was awarded a prison
cell for twenty seven years

but the hostages of
a conquerors justice
remained destined
to be freed by the arrival
of an accepted truth
set free by the very words
prophetically spoken

prisons cannot contain truth
steel bars cannot imprison
the idea of divine justice

it slips through the smallest openings
like a wafting fragrance of the first day of spring

it saws away at the rust strewn steel bars
like the surest movement of a master carpenter’s arm

it melts the thickest links of iron chains
in the fiery forges that burn in the hearts
of all freedom loving people

the truth of justice
is born and takes flight
on the wings of history
covering the globes
cardinal ordinates

nesting in the most
humble villages
and mean estates
on God’s good earth

truth and reconciliation
can never be separated
planted together to grow
healthy nations and
communities of
trust and restoration

Madiba, you always
found honor with
the salt of the earth
the children of light
who seek to dispel
the darkness of
acrimony and
*******

we continue to
walk your way
guided by your
prophetic visions
we take the first steps
asking liberators to join
with oppressors, pairing
in a magnanimous walk
along wholesome pathways
perceiving the buena vistas
of reconciled communities
firmly established
on foundations
of peace, equality
and justice for all citizens

I caught a fleeting glimpse of Madiba
as he rolled by in the Canyon of Heros
showered under a June blizzard of confetti
and a resounding acclimation of love.

I was a plebe inhabiting a lower floor
Broadway office, yet my station blessedly
brought me closer to Madiba.  As he passed
I was moved by his miraculous smile and felt
the colossal reverberations of his waving arm
triumphantly hailing the sweet freedom of
liberation all hostages of feigned justice
exude in the vindication of divine justice
enraptured in the joy of affirmed truth.

Dearest Madiba
we are enriched
and blessed for
the time you walked
among us.  

You fought
the good fight
my brother.

Rest easy
for we shall resume
the climb to
the next mountaintop.

Well done Madiba
Godspeed

Rolihlahla “Nelson” Mandela
7/18/18 - 12/5/13

Ladysmith Black Mombazo
How Long

Oakland
12/6/13
jbm
Joe Cole Jun 2014
On this day 70 years ago they stormed across the sand
Boys of many nations to remove the tyrants hand
Heros all those boys so young who shed their blood for us
In that ****** fight for freedom

Across the sand they struggled neath a hail of shot and shell
Never glancing backwards as around them comrades fell
Fear was in their eyes, terror in their hearts
Many never made it and twas on foreign sand they died

Yes they died to give us the freedom that we have got this day
They died to free the world, for us they made the play
Boys from ever walk of life crossed the beaches there
Office clerks and farmers and the ones who cut our hair

Yes they were heroes all who gave their lives for us
But lets not forget the few who made it possible
The girls who made the shells, the men who built the tanks
They were the unsung heroes
They have also have earned our thanks

Without their dedication to the task they had in hand
Many more would have lost their lives on that shell torn blood stained sand
They to can hold their heads up high, they knew they did their bit
In bringing freedom to the masses when they broke the tyrants grip
Afternote... nearly all 4,400 allied soldiers died on those beaches 70 years ago today
Aaron McDaniel Feb 2013
I went to put on my shoes this morning
To find that I had put yours on
Last I had checked,
You were still learning to walk
You could barely say my name
As we played in cardboard castles
Sitting behind the couch
Quietly eating our chef boyardee
Mom didn't know it, but she was playing Hid n' Seek
She was losing

My brother is growing older
Still on the beginning of his path
Going out of his way to point out the three hairs he nurtures under his arm
He's about to learn about love
Broken hearts
Success
Failure
But he has one thing no one else does
He's equipped with a heart
The composition is no longer organic
His heart is a composition of Steel and Gold
Beating for all those around him
He's a better person that I can ever wish to be
Ten times the kindness
Ten times the humor
Ten times the *******

You're still learning to walk your path
You may fall
Don't be afraid to reach out
I'll be here to catch you
Always
Happy Birthday, Hunter.
13 down
Forever to go
Nolan Higgins Jul 2016
And all your heros are gone,
but you refuse to take off the mask.

A loudmouth, a capitalist,
with greasy hair and a golden toothpick,
he is your enemy
he is your oppressor and
he sits upon a throne of coal and blood
with armed security
and a nation built for him,
to protect him and his money,
a police state, pat downs on the corner,
murdered in the street,
your daughters gotta eat.

He grows fatter and fatter still,
he loves complacency,
he loves contentment,
he invests heavily in both.

He knows we are strong,
he knows we are many,
he knows he must divide us to win,
he knows we're his greatest weapon,
so he created Fox News,
he created TMZ,
stealthily,
we didn't even notice,
he created NPR and KVIE,
he gave them masks that look like ours.
They look poor,
they look starved,
they look like us, but they have a different master.

Our master is the earth,
our master is our coworker, our neighbor, our mailman,
our dishwashers, our bus drivers, our minimart clerks.

Our masters are not the TV,
our masters are not the radio,
our masters are not the New York Times,
they are not National Geographic,
they are not BP,
they are not our principals, our administrators,
our policemen, our CEOs, our investors, our bankers,
our insurance providers,
these people hate us,
they hate us because they can't squeeze blood from a stone,
and
the rivers are running dry,
the factories are standing still,
the people, our masters and our friends,
they're in the streets,
they're shouting "BLACK LIVES MATTER"
they're shouting "NO JUSTICE NO PEACE"
"NO MORE WAR FOR OIL"
"**** THE POLICE"
"DOWN WITH THE 1%"

and soon
and soon,
The False Gods will grow so fat
and we'll have nothing left to eat but them,
and on that day we'll sit down to dine
and it won't be civilized and it won't be pretty,
their blood, our blood, will feed the rivers and their flesh will feed our hungry children and their money will burn and warm our chilled bones but we can't wait,
we can't wait for this to happen because everyday they grow stronger,
we grow weaker and the river becomes dryer.

The Bourgeois is our enemy,
they say 'All Lives Matter'
they say 'Work Hard and Your Dreams Will Come True'

BUT THEY LIE
Jaide Lynne Dec 2014
I hate to break it to you but heroes like Superman, and Batman, and Spiderman don’t actually exist.

But that doesn’t mean there aren’t heroes in this world, they just aren’t in capes and spandex. They can’t fly or shoot lasers from their eyes. They can’t lift a car with one finger and they aren’t affected by kyptonite. These heroes are people you pass every day, you may speak to them, and you may not. But they are there.

The 18 year old kid who takes care of his brother when his parents leave and decide not to come back he is a hero.

The 9 year old boy who saved his friend by pulling him out of an icy lake, is a hero

The mother that decides to leave her husband and take her kid with her when he starts hitting them, she is a hero.

Those who stand up for what they believe in, are heroes

The little girl who used the Heimlich maneuver (which she saw on a disney channel show by the way, see disney can teach us useful skills) to save the life of her 1st grade classmate who was choking on an apple, is a hero

Every friend that will drive to your house at 3 am because  you are home alone and you are scared of what you might do if you are alone much longer. Every friend that tells you that everything will be alright, and that you may be ******* up, but that doesn’t mean that you will always be that way, friends that remind you things can and will get better. Are all heroes.

The woman who caught a baby that fell out a window is a hero.

The firefighter who risked everything to save a little girl or little boy is a hero.

The men and women in blue are heroes... Or they are when they aren’t shooting innocent people...

Or the man who broke his neck and had to give up the career he had done his whole life, but then turned what could have been a devastating change into an opportunity to follow his dream and is now happier than ever because he realizes that life is too short and can end too quickly to be unhappy, and now he is one of the strongest, funniest, most joyful person I’ve ever met. He is a hero.

Or the woman who went back to school after her divorce and now is happy and able to not only support her self but also her family.

These people are real life true heroes, not some made up ******* with super powers. Because you don’t need to be able to fly or see through walls to be a hero.
vircapio gale Jun 2012
love-energy swinging toward bitter blows:
a father’s pride becomes a son’s,
he becoming bitter becoming hatred
in the midst of love abused,
a civil fight for freedom failing in the eyes of youth:
these minds of ours turn wildly—
change to the beat of unknown drums
and death knocks us up
pregnant with a new generation of hate,
of goals to love: the obliteration of hate’s mother,
but question on, worship your mind,
build a shrine of doubt and find
darkness emerging as a deeper shade of black
knowledge? knowledge?
myths laid upon us through the perspectival dimming of language
no one’s fault? societal pressures
no cause for blame? survival instincts
no source of evil? history has a gun to their head. . . .
no use for these words? meaningless.
dialogue, yes, for the birds,
the carrion of hope
once the breeding stops
and lets the precious journey start:
down the cesspool of quasi-oblivion,
where we’re all a minority of one,
grasping for meaning in an abyssm of phantasmal foundations.
words, words, the excuse of words;
when father’s left no ground to walk on,
the son sits there digging
ditches for the death of systems
holes in the fabric mother wore,
tears in the existence we thought we knew.

what is this about? question marks
swerving away from sour truth
bleeds the nonsense through the flesh of what we love
and dying, dying, hate becomes a source of love,
guilt projects a softened heart
kneeling down now
outside, but wanting in.
affirmed, dejected.

[OR
are they swerving away from faith
simply a defense against the actions to take
ontic procratstinator! hear me now!
safety is the goal behind every measure
seek danger and you run the dangers of comfort,
seek comfort, and delusion becomes your handmaid.]

for knowledge of past dogma is dogma too
and the heart pumps it anyway;
for existence is. O heart, your sutra
flows nimbly on into eternity,
but you take this life and live it now,
the rhythm born of a mystery,
sacred to the foolish,
sarkin to the wise—
and the dancing wise man
birthing a new enigma
travels on into the depths of the ordinary
with a smile and a bow,
a hop-skip like Nietzschean
melodrama.

I can write it once for fun,
twice for accuracy,
thrice for fame and ten more for shame.
Do you want to know what it’s about
or do you want to figure it out?
the game of pride makes fresh
the fish of mental seas;
but truth is less cozy;
dagger in your existential eye.

no conclusions to be embraced without the whim of faith?
no art show game gripe to win but for the game of taste?

this bout goes on, this Bout goes on! oh how I wish my mind was lacking!
but no! the sacrifice, but the sacrifice,
pigs of Aristotle knew no quarrell,
no such quarrell.

when does such a poem become a forced effort?  when will I stop questioning myself?
where is this urge to destroy originate?
what ******* language am I speaking in when I think?
what and why,
who the but questions, questions
falling spiking holes in teh floor of contentment
or is it laziness: should I tak emy e pick now or wa itf ort he rig htto **** newith mystic alllllllllllll certainty from be yo ndt he fen ceof lan gua ge.

why go back? why try?
the difference between communication and self-indulgent writing is the effort to conform to the extent necessary for the sharingof truth... and so nobility demands conformity, however long it takes and however wonderful it may be in the mean time to simply spill my fingers across the trypesu ritre lia shjkk e a A b B i IG load o f ***... as if the hiddenness of deconstucted language masked my immaturity as a poet, as a person, as a thinker, as a wallower in shame.  as a Man. as a *** machine. as a weak creature. as a creature of potentially great accomplishments but small ***** at the present, as a person hiding from the said for fear of having to live up to it, as one who doesn’t believe his words half the time, even noe, ever noer rht all suiooos  dhjhjh tuof rhty w arbif trya dfyoudng huddkkfkd fmdmf dfdlililhkjga wyeruipok smmm tuhtuth dgfhg dagdh f dhajkdf  fuduudjjd fh d hdhhd bit b not n tno totot t ototot  read read read read read read read read read reda dnrenadkf leadsd fhdus duig hgjhdf dh sdmf sialdihf duf dreioan ign udfin the dh diguicse of hjtkjh heioa never heros heilike hte  e9a 1 1 ih kj n h ogma doifj hedOLvever otitoto the  ososososririrroow ww dance waiting at the librasyer renckjh c concon con iejr a  goodo excucse to t constraint no nt rot th even dfhight hwith th d dear on the all ndklfn eh fh searching thioart worthless buthen I find htheihadf htis hivoih Valid dfkdljhf jhkajh yea it s i kjh Lavlls ishn Vadildld meaning ngon woven into nonesense nd fnidoijifj bJar in Tennessiossdnohf  a freww few deletes and the important words become clear however taxing on an hypothetical reader from the future in which I do hope to become g”reat” half-heartily,  though for show.  .  .and the experience of writing is revealed through the laziness, or tiredness, of a recent graduate trying to write something meaningful after a summer of passion and *** and drugs and resentment toward the family and the sad economic advice given him.
James M Vines Oct 2015
Its 3:30 in the morning and a child is crying. A single mother gets up though she is bone tired. She sings to her little one and sees that it is fed. Then wearily crawls back into her bed. Up again before 7:30 so she can catch the bus, to a job she really hates, but do this she must. A nurse makes rounds on the morning shift, just as she is about to get off a call comes in. A house fire has occurred and a burned child is on the way, 3 twelve hour days and she has to stay. A policeman keeps watch through the evening and into the night. Its Saturday and he missed his little girls play. He watches the video of it at 4 am, hes proud but its not the same. As we go through life, we often forget of those who struggle and sacrifice just to make it by. People who go above and beyond to help the rest of us. Unsung hero's that make possible daily life.
Joann Rolleston Jun 2014
Now, the truth

Luke & Leia is this love
Thank God not the wrong kind
Siblings apart since birth
Together till the end of time

Darth vader concious
Dark, evil, twisted
Luring Luke innocent
No Luke! Don't do it!

Doesn't matter he's your Dad
Doesn't matter how sad
He doesn't give a hoot
Who on earth he shoots

Stormtrooper beware
Puppet of your master
You will be beaten big time
By a gorgeous little Ewok

Chewy & Han
You are the man
Milenium shoots them all
You saved the day
Kept Darth vader at bay
You saved our heros
Wicked

Poor Han solid
In some ungodly squalor
Not the nicest end
Certainly not Han Solo's plan

Geez George ... really ...

Tin & metal
R2, See threepio
Nitter natter chatter
Lots of friendly banter
Cuter than buttons
You just wanna hug em

Jedi Knight Yoda
Played his part of course
Strong in force
He helped the cause
Although he has passed over

Goodness wins in the end
Good force takes the flag
Mighty, Epic, Timeless
And gloriously mad
star wars
dennis gunsteen Nov 2010
christmas wishes to the world
god bless you an your family on christmas day.
thankyou for helping poor an sick on this christmas day.
may all children of world be bless with all riches of joy
an happiness on this christmas day.
lets share the love of  peace  an joy on this christmas day.
To gods special angels, to the men an women.
that fight  for are freedom and fight  for  peace every day.
keeping us safe from  harm, thankyou,
very very much!!
you   are the  true heros on christmas day
god bless you and  your  family on this christmas day.
this  world is  a wonderful place ,
and so are the   people.
can we share the love of  peace, on this christmas day.
an build a world of peace in are  hearts,
by  share the love of peace.
on this  christmas  day.
by shareing are love for one  another.
as we  walk this road in life.
lets  share are love of  peace for the children
of this world.
by building  a world peace , one brick at time.
yes we can!! build a world of peace,
an share the love of peace,
let give peace a chance.
on this Christmas day.
to the world let stop the  hate,  let share the love of peace.
with one another.
on this Christmas day.
as then Christmas wishes to the whole world an family of this  world.
merry Christmas.
may god alway bring  endless joy
and peace to  your  life .
an walk with peaceful hearts,
never hate in your hearts
an alway  share love of peace in hearts.
for the  world and the people of this world.
to build a better world for the children,
of this world
an let  share the love of peace in are daily life,
with  one another .
most  greatest gift one  give
in one life.
is bring endless joy of peace to
one life.
to my brother my sister of this
world.
how can i help you  my friend,
i love you  for you my friend.
lets   share the love of peace,
in are  hearts, for one another.
and build a world of peace
as we walk and  travel these roads
in life.
an bring a smile to child
face is truly  joy to see.
on this Christmas day.
god bless  every one
in world .
build a world peace and
walk peace in your daily life.
lets share the love of peace ,
as we travel these road in life,
lets share are love of peace.
to one another in are daily life.
is most  greatest gift in life .
we can  give to one another in life,
is love an peace,
in are life.
so merry Christmas  world.
may god alway bless you  as travel
these roads in life.
share the love of peace .
Jake muler Nov 2015
I took a chance for a new job today and I realized.. Even if I get the bottom of the totem poll job, I'm a working man. Those are the best. We know how to and what to do best. Cheers up to the working class hero!
Christopher Lowe Dec 2014
Pretending used to be so innocent
You would play pretend doctor
And oh how brilliant
A flawless performance
And all those years not a patient lost
Ahh the pretend heroes we were

Now it's a little more sinister
We pretend we are busy or sick
And we think we are intelligent
Like no one will know
And year after year we fill with lies
Pretending to still be super heroes
When we really turned into bad guys
We all got plenty of practice. Anyone have any better title ideas let me know.
Mikayla Smith Jan 2017
I’d like to know what a hero is;
Pretty simple, I believe.
Explain to me how a hero is
Supposed to act
And when the fool’s
Heinous crimes will be
Given a reprieve.

What is a hero?
Is a hero supposed to mock
What causes the danger
Or laugh in the faces of
Those who wish for change?
Where’s his cape?
Where’s his dimming lights And crowded stage?


What is a hero when he
Starts the problems he was
Deemed to end?
What is he but a hero when
The foe becomes his friend?
Is he still the powerful
And mighty
When the journey towards
Greatness has become too flighty?

Is a hero supposed to cower
Behind the power?
Is a hero meant to
Lead with hate instead of love?
Is this “hero” your definition
Of the “great” America we’re still
Yet to become?
What is a hero doing with
You?
How are we going to get this
Message through?
It’s not he who is the hero
But we the people
Who went within a second From a million to zero

It’s not them who are the
Heros, but the villains
Overruled by corporations
And common greed.
What is a villain wearing a
Hero’s mask
Doing imprisoning a country
That struggled so long
To be freed?
As you may have guessed, this poem is about the one and only Donald J. Trump.
soul in torment Oct 2013
Bullet wounds

Bloom crimson

upon the chests

of

the thankful.
Poppy Day approaching when we wear poppies on our ******* to honour the fallen in battle. Always reminds me of a bullet wound and the Somme
Paul Roberts May 2012
We cannot all be the finger on a tigger,
a silent team in the night,
unknown heros correcting a wrong
with a long awaited right.
We have our place.
We can be the strength behind the trigger,
the pull of full support,
the welcome mat for those unknown heros,
a team that comes back one man short.
No, not all can be the messenger,
not all can bring the sting
but all can band together and let Freedom finally ring!
They are more than guys who cover themselves
In numerous tattoos. The screaming you call "Devil's music"
I call it clarity. Their music was there
When everyone else failed. They proved life is worth living,
They save lives. Their lyrics have meaning,
They prove diversity can't hold us down.
They are the guidance of the lost.
They are the light in a dark tunnel.
You call their music screaming and emo, I call it
**Purpose
Silence Screamz Sep 2014
In days of the past, the bombs and bullets did fly,
my comrades in arms had said their final good byes.
Their blood and their souls was left on the shore,
their battles were over but so not the war.

They lie here in silence,
They lie here in sleep,
They lie here together among the rolling fields of green.
So these are my heros as I kneel here today,
Never forgotten and never in dismay.

© Silent Screams
jeffrey robin Nov 2010
ghoulish

from out the shadows

ghoulish

we are the lovely, the timid

we are those who wait

for heros and saviors and saints

and see!....what comes!

these!

ghoulish approximations of men

--------

(our children love vampires)

----------

we are so ghoulishly enslaved to the mirror

we are so immersed in the necessity

not to appear "outlandish"

to not believe in 'conspiracy"

or the "criminal conduct of elected white officials"

to simply become

as THEY

---

ghoulish

they come

ghoulishly

we

slink back to the shadows

and call the ghouls

heros and saviors and saints
Words' Worth Aug 2019
Strange that I think of you when I peer into my typewriter, I'd love you to the end of time on the stretches of Brooklyn bridge, well I've remembered two years in her reaction where's the two hours now, faraway and cries on the Sun in false yet true splendor in Ontario suffering from prima-donna stage fright and sickness
Go into the gentle madness, shadows are rising on the silver lining, never knowing who showed them the point of life

You don't even exist in my mind, only when I drink beer behind my darkness, in what's and what's wild?
I ask for the meaning of the light, shines on us all with the same shine, tamed by the consciousness finding itself with a will to remember your mirrored faucet, the tumescent towers
And your body is mine, and so are the pulsating melons boughs filled with the heights of the soul
Spontaneous overflowing with poetry, have ye heard
Asked what does it mean, tatterdemalion women with Utah that can put wheat blankets on New York streets, hanging by the city lights
The limelight is the best fall under, under the material Sun
Go into the madness with a gaily gentle touch, feel like my soulless eyes that turn into tender footed steel

I can still remember those Amish legs, it's common knowledge
I'm in the river hell, comparatively too late to think of some compelling excuse to remember this, too distressed to say the rife brought out the Agamemnon wishing for the book in his loveless eyes
From his dead-end streets, often I'm marching on dawned said Sun


For some music from the speaking silent Zephyr poet handing you the cheap attractions, now diamonds straddling on the starry sky
Have you caught them yet in the pools of joy, and Marxist radio adulation

With its peace and understanding, feeding the hungry souls with foolish eyes, fear death by water
Dealing with slaves with hands that wave the ether
Murmurs, rushes, travel is life, and the road makes the honest difference if taken with a naked mind
Forgetting his drawings in his lunchbox, absent-mindedly abseiling in the speaker's of Parliamentarian cops

Looking for milder weather, when the time stops ticking alive
With conviction in his sails, ready to find his body within the conscious nation
Elysian isles dreamt up beautiful ceilings with smells ready for his father to flee from Troy, smelling the freedom

In the afterlife, concocting darling buds of May in the rarest happiness
We are in awe of your silence unseen
Thee heaven, in deathless glances in thine light, let's stretch out the strollin' midnight in a sheet of the smokestack darkness with the cusp of cutting lives amenable
Short and alone in the lonely places without souls of desolate traces in the days of darkness, not light or darkness, in the heart cannot grow fonder of the bliss, ignorant of the ramifications of woe and the strains of purple haze, Moroccan hashish on the locked heaven for wrathful souls staying in Rabat, waiting for the train to Tangiers
I'm on the shore with my drugs, with my friendly sidekick telling us not to do 'em

He looks the other way and says you have a soul that remembers the ashcans on madness, counting the times you lost your breath writing about a genius with a touch of madness that blesses us with hope

With a touch of dignity and common sense, they call me Mr. Common, drinking his juices up and passionate thoroughly intense
With the pusherman's gaze on Virgil's vigilante asylum in Spiritus Mundi, Looking for sadness realizing there were kind memories analyzing the studied smile often ignoring the crime of what was the bloodied-dimmed by the mascara, make-up
No razors allowed in the hairy meager, merger agreed that they shouldn't cut their dreadlocks with ****** eyes, and dimmed pace

You've mimicked life and found that you couldn't reject the sadness
Now, then and what?
Are we gonna change our faces for your confused state of mind that slow when we talk about Buddhism?
In Hell's Kitchens, what's going on in starry Heaven's dynamo nature, intermixed by the same idea of fairness, all that jealousy as is

Cannibal dynamo, adding to the interest of the Zen, really ******
Some people never go crazy, I wonder lives follow what kind of blue, so sheltered from the Watt's storm
Going into the gentle madness, the storm was left when we were reserved, resolved to set the desolating emptiness ploughing on the secret garden
If we recognize each other, I wonder kind lives do the secret lotuses of the squall of mud, on the run from the solid road

If we are kind to each other, are we friends first, recognizing our love in the latter, the pensive ones solitarily reaping
Nothingness in the new honor of chaotic houses on cheerful streets keeping the men happy with cats on train tracks leading us
Through the depths of kindness, where we find the invisible love forgiving us from the ****** in Narcissus, toiling in the invincible summer
With a dedication, immense and immeasurable as the lost souls in the free outsiders, keeping the outsider with us in good spirits, dreaming of Sisyphus happy, on the stormy
Watching on the watchtower for the island of the gentle darkness, shining the light towards your way back home, changing the weather for sailors

Nowadays, speeches keep us here with the difficult women before the speechless enter underworld lines, kissing them before we leave behind the journeys
We define ourselves, in questions we ask
To be behind, slightly away, maybe slightly to the right, ascending heaven with hats of invoking spirits in the dawn that meets the light of the home, likewise dark is completely tramped
You're writing like a rolling stone rocking the cradle, vamped on pumped highways around yesterday
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart, tied through the worn-out years torn by second-dimension souls
In a third-dimension soul, now in the afterlife

Just like the flowers you left her in some tomorrow around midnight
With weeds and broken stems, in a-getting napes of silken sunset kisses, scrummaging through back pages

Looking for milder weather, under the drapes winning it for the dazed closeted people

Should we order, should we dream of better minds losing themselves to the best of souls behind the Iron hand, curtain clasp
Saying I don't drug, some drugs with chains that turn with wide-eyed gyre opened the women, like a flat tire
A ***** went loose while traveling road under the stars
Gyroscope takes you home, recovering your rocking trains from the platform of D-day, hanging at the mirror or what holds behind
Some cheap things aren't that an expensive dream or you just want the remaining man in the shock of psychotherapy and hydrotherapy
Go into the gentle madness, flying on battery acid and ambition now

Consumerism of socialist wind, and obscene love, in the looks of noble regrets respecting every part of her closed eyes, with the platform train waiting for D-Day
Stealing looks from the bare cup, the cup has always been full of mercy
Suffused with the glances in the silhouetted distances drowning in summer's sadness, finding happiness in a warm gun

Ruminations on the contemplated clouds of highest mountains with a year, the seconds of the blind ash, and I'm selling eternal gazes in black Utah, being spent nonetheless worse for being away from Kansas or being here with the wild hanging over wayward tombs
Looking for self-portraits in white, gray areas shine brighter in the darkness like worthy saviors
Freed in thy name, going into the madness gently, waiting for the song
The song danced once, and there's no way
The dance sang like it were the skirmishes of our youthful daydream nation, ultrasonic cars on sonic and crooked pavements
The worthless machine is the worst, and the world I'm flying on, pools of despair and joy, holding myself in savage stillness
Whispering familiar sounds across the universe, summers lack all conviction, things fall apart
The passion intensity was once there, to be better to the best minds who have an option but sit and stare in the dead of winter
Go into the gentle madness of the midnight blue bloom, coldest distance with the tea for the warmest wordsmiths talking of the apparition of faces
We look into the life of things, through the ups and downs
Although, the saving gentle madness, stares in the long black cold

Looking for milder weather, in tempestuous strong men in declasse purgatory, churning out handlooms out never ran out on Normandy's blue beach wailed, but, the flowers in the grave grew in the impasse of gentle madness of the grave
That doesn't feel like the Eastern silence, hear the rolling thunderous noise, liberalism in the good night of ones in scorn
Contemporary critics resound in working-class galloping horse-rides, do not go into that gentle goodnight,
To the shore washed by noisy waves, chariots of fire
Wired woodwind instruments, for working ire of winnowing maize and corn, to be earnest I'm on a corn cob looking like a starry-eyed soul, marrying the riches with my egalitarian erogenous works, turning and turning
Having no limitation, as a limitation on a dead-eyed love maker
If you call my father, the straw hat pirate that left before I was born in adolescence, a dreamer

Looking avariciously for titillating tides in the mantra that washed over
Sleeping with words that never come out, and the handles the midnight spoon with gentle madness from scorn
Horns blowing on benzedrine, Eli Eli sabachtani cry from those living in the past, foreign to the timeline, crying for better love
Accepting, nothing at all, except my own confusion, better born of

Indignant of a falcon that flies for hatred of callow words
Second Coming! Epiphanies Shining dynamo! shards of childhood recovered by the genius behind the windowpane
He said, "The ocean looks the same."
I realized this with some silent vanity and silent pain, what does it mean, though?
Adonais or vacillating minds focused on the cheap attraction of phantom operas of Russia in Kaddish bowing to others in the other poems, sketches of Spain lay like acts, bowling the drunk-alley to the ******* before the cowards

Vultures in the ceiling of hunting obliterated cows in granite megalithic
Mummified in the tampering tapes of washing sins of our brother
I've got it bad tonight, can you hear me knocking?
I've come with a gentle madness and starry midriff, strengthened by the turning and turning

I'm tightening like a winding clock on winding road, speedometer, odometer baptized, I'm running on the tabula rasa
Mars is a soundless instrument if you play the music of D-day on the heart that knows the days of the adage, dramatically Dr. Manhattan now
Going into the gentle madness, common sense is common sense
Even in the sibilant rocketships, honesty hasn't lost its meaning in the thoughts of the common man

Walt Whitman and Allen Ginsberg met in Berkley Halls, in abeyance, nature with a check and original energetic frenetic ecstasy dreaming up Aeneas and Satryrichon, surely
About my life in my mind, not a soul looking for honesty, mind on my life wrote high on science fiction touting history at school surely positivity dreams for you a surging death
In sudden compare, death can do life and fleeing mother, the divorcee goes round and round, sometimes in the top of 4th Street
Still dreaming of yesterday, let it be I let you down

Parents the same, and from parents that remain the same in that song of fooling us, I might survive if I'm a mirror-clad, tad wise in this robot apartment where the soul stares at the natural affinity, you must get lonely in your reflection, or where it remains are behind, seeing me paralyzed
Where's your head at, in the heartaches and embrace, on the road of health clinics, looking for an angry stream of fixes
If I was buried
Yet, I am deep in this summer and sadness, nothingness or stealing glances from the light that dances
I'll steal your position, and put you in your place
Inner moonlight in ungodly attire, hide the madness around your fleeing prophet, the ceiling of madness dreams of debates
Debates aren't the tool of fool looking for the slander, looking to be outlandish
Going into the gentle madness, the generation of beatniks immolating on funeral pyres, and finding their Bolshevik pamphlet, and getting ***** with the bloodlust with the lustrous
The soul doesn't want, I bet it doesn't see the golden compass
Going into the midnight spoon, I've given up on the gentle madness of somber scalding souls balding it all
She stills walks into the bars, and my hairs turn into wires keep her away
Beyond the false compare, of time going by in the bar, looking for trustees in the flickering hallways

Mad generation in the taped scandalous laughter, of the running streams and stock, thus thinned like Macron's talk of the dull bits of drama cut out
Dramatic clicking of the typewriter, where are we gonna take these memories of suspicion unencumbered
In the name of milder weather for angel-hipsters, my mind cries silver saxophones undulating
Going into the gentle madness, will we have zero summers this year, no winters for seconds, winter waits unperturbed

I want you're to light to turn into heat, you can ask for the money instead of mewling about the life cycle in Pub-side buses with a steadfast old man who is fixed on the highway riders rambling on on composed sordid meets to their fathers, volitional emetics
On the hilts of iron balustrades, behind the curtained ceiling

The lizard can do anything, although he never leaves the highway summers for the search of eternal darkness
Moloch, he is lost in the road, beginning and end, trading paths and treading walks of life from trenches, carrying on the show misconstrued, tarrying it out

Dreaming up Arkansas and carrying out Dadaism in Greenwich village walking past the love in his mind
Dancing on the starry murders, we have to sit and stare at its jazz to talk of it, served by you
Living, undead, unbeing and is telling it me what I liked to be
Or changing us and telling us to like it is, with bated breath that understands
We cry tears in the  cottage stopping leaks with wattles, vines, and forlorn rags to stuff the gazebos, chained to the boat leading the blind
In the darkest lives, the brilliance of justice slips away from hands, then the hand that fed hit me with rulers and lessons
The didact stopped knocking on your door, going into the gentle madness of incredible seductive Seraphim
At what roundabout hour as this rough beast come to last, not taking no for an answer

In frugal free-prose that reads itself, balanced and splendid confusing us all, we could consult with our inner tumult as the life get's colder, warming to the last falconer crying on the Big Sur, in the desolate darkness
She saved sensitive ******* dreams, but, it's you that fortifies my solitude, why am I in this robotic apartment running on oil and simplicity
Electic shock, addiction to water-boarding, I have a wet towel around my waist
There is no was

When I could create man after man in this hospital clock, and the sorrows will never end
****** Suicides! Virgil cries! You now belong on the radio!

Aeneas reign in darkness and remember the time when we were stabbed in a time beyond false compare games of funeral rituals, burying

Anchises later wilts about losing fame in the flames of Troy, loser shows fool's glory and sows seeds and seeks gold in Empyrean isles built on Phyrgian scales writing light in the scaled heights of souls, working for self-made princesses of virginity so fair, that hath my honesty behest, dreaming up soup for *** in the breakfast mornings near yet so far from the golf clubs
The good walk is spoiled, with your few aphorisms
We will goodbye today, and speak of tomorrow later

A night in your head, and I'll find your daughter and write a whole culture, storming at the surfeited sea
To contradict ourselves is the constant chill of the given right of tragedy or it's a beautiful thing of corsets and eyes in the look for spectral rides in the rabble-rousing backends, gold heads in bookends is the tragedy of the righteous and hopeless
Nothingness, free-prose of peaches, in thy emperor is it the gift of tragedy often nectarines with skinned shapes and pear-shaped eyes on the valley
Closing on the style of Joan of Arc, John The Baptist, doing it dangerously
I'm burning in the recesses of my mind, tolling out to sea

Knowing power, character demands respect! And work demands fruition
We want our world, back without the words dreaming up the invisible humor with the eternal image of the circadian cry
Where you laugh at this Moloch madcap, cries under stairways of the fifth floor stocked by the barrels, lost and out of touch with their olfactory sensations lose their scent of success
They  have become bad, and the losers have evil
The good, bad, and the search for pyrite in suicides and painless

Locked out of heaven, until they can design the freedom of the people losing marbles in their sojourning each desireable day, sensed the
Guiding thine light in the darkest sound of silent screams from the duets in the sky

Asking what they do, sunflower of integrity
Surely some revelation is at hand
Asking what they doth speak, lasso in the muddied waters
Surely some invention is for the factotum instead
Asking what and I cannot relate and interpret industrialization, with pigs in animal cries from preventing utopia from getting a bad name looking over the live wire
All we need is prayers for the valley, I believe true love waits beyond the hysterical happiness below the herons, one-footed avian following the Roman city of Thugga
Hear the hair of your head, as the time goes by I grow balder
But, she still walks in the moonlight, taller with her head touching us with her free life following the gray cloud
Another year, I left N.Y., on West Coast in Berkeley halls caught up in gazebos and lacunae, selling us education by saddest dollars, under the quiet summers' hands

Dreamed of her electric soul, that, thriving with life, in what form it stood in that body, ashen or manic, gone beyond compunction in convivial jovial East Coast vials keep the invisible humor that tells us the heart understands the gestures of good books and good friends, open books and broken hearts
Unsere Stadt meer und der Liebe Hirsch
The day he reckons and the day of sordid affairs, in morbid decayed despair

She tells him to ready this stony ******* on a granite ****?
We look for the earth, laying in the obscura haggis on the star-spangled banner of twelfth notes and two years from now
The summer from the Dubrovnik, Slovak in their tongue
Hungary was amid the sadness of sorrowful seeds of Tangiersmen

There is no looking for blue eyes in the hallucinations of dreaming up Kansas and Losing Denver, sending their kisses to ecstasy
Lost in thoughts in a dream as the sun beats me to wit, shining on our pleasures in America's songs of the Harlem ghettos following the pact with suffering

Changing the minds of the mad generation
Never found in magic in Greenwich Village
The walks of life, are spoiled under the cloudless migrant sky, bebop doesn't stop and rock the patient under the magical esters of aestivated imagination

Ain't it dull streets, lying on our stabbed backs and the night's right
When you are so quiet?
Isn't that wrong, I think it's cold that you are so warm with something I love
Beyond a summer's night compare thee falsely, to thy will
Why, how now, Hecate! You look angerly. Snow-white and angel-headed looking for heaven in nameless streets

She lies in the saucy bedlam of the questions that affect all of the parasites in his legs without velleity
Preparing him for his chair, rising with the morning, May is the month living in the secrets of the stars
Living or undead, preparing for his chair
You can't stare at much, can you?
Staring at the ceiling with a sight for distant shell-shock
Staring here, I do live in the heart of darkness

Pushing it away, all from my wheelchair in the life of defeat
Defeat is a state of mind; no one is defeated until they left the might out to dry, clothing themselves in sin
Talk of light, do we have no supreme love for the losers
Greatness must be caught by the moon and left for the star-crossed lovers gathering for the intertwinein thine light
Go into the gentle madness, before your flesh goes before the bone

There are people who cannot tarry or aren't getting the attraction of madcap, he had stopped singing with forked lighting
Household objects which ones he didn't say, listing out the neon streets on Groundhog Day, Moloch horridus, you have taken my days now you have my ****** fluids too
I'm you or a promiscuous friend, without the madness, going into the gentle night smoking up marijuana war rooms
Smoking in the cino-smoking zones, carrying barrels for the handlooms, I see no smokestack wind carrying us on barren thoughts aft' wry comments

Rising with the dull roots that fight the gravity or whatever is down there with a raft, we're unfurling winds at last impatient
Waiting for the sun, in the constant chill of the sea
An old man in the honest idea of expressing himself, might not see
Ambitious wings and conviction in his sails too lost for the lively road and lost in them
Going into the gentle madness, America out of my mind
Changed my mind, I can either hate it or learn from the love and let it grow
Second coming talking of indignation in a brass cottage of tears, where fears are exchanged for the company of cold night
Some the fear the water, and hear the hydrogen jukebox in raging drunkardly in cannibal elder's delightful dance
Dancing on the yesterdays, swirling Saturdays, reasonable the shops will be closed on the Sundays waiting for Mr. Common woven

Birdie stickin' out of the sorrel shrub, and I'm in the burning tree poking the pinenuts too
The talk of weather in a wise man in cultivated in cultured and controlled by the plans of talk of intelligent heros in Dog day afternoon
Hymn of the lost summer, war makes maladies or a bad cold, nevertheless, there remains no need to sleep after dinner
With a song that remains the same, with the someone that he loves
Accepting the gentle hand, that touched his wax wings watered by lilies
Greedy flame blazing in my head, the knowledge speaks when wisdom silences others in innocent cognizance
Going into the gentle madness, reaching us in scarred Burroughs stares, becoming a fool in the books of many faceless contents
We keep them in a lunchbox, hurling the bells where the rock tolls for us
Going into the gentle madness, unfurling the epiphanies
Epiphanies! Do not be gay and blind, like a meteorite in the morning
Twenty years of solitude, in once an upon time dreamed dinner sleep

Going ahead without conviction is looking for doubt and not forgiveness
Asking for milder weather in lonesome drugs and forgiveness in breathless protagonists mulling over ancient time
Asking for forgiveness, from a friend on the harbored sky in the old and new bougainvillea of booked streets by stores and they're welcoming empty breezes in redemption, seeking where her hair endeth
Ages in likeness to the guilds of Eastern sages, whites of their eyes sharing the light of the ones guiding us through the bibulous black
In the barren wind of desolate angels blessing their wounds with bleeding howls, souped-up bowls, strapped ancestors to rocketmen searching beyond the jazzmen who once played the blues instead of forsaking their meaning, asking thy will

Her hand wasn't fair anymore, in thine light searching for a dalliance in radiance, while handling the teapot
Had a bad cold, nevertheless, but, a king of my heart dealing wicked cards like a friend knowing of true freedom and open stores of pop-culture creating open looks

Nonetheless, her nosegay was rife with two people looking for faults in the frozen wallflower, on his wheelchair
One-eyed merchant keeping his on the grass of life, making peace with wants he owns, kitsch photos of the Visions of the Lord

With a patch of wrath and a touch of madness, go into the gentle madness with the children playing with their swings, in the heat of the night
Nonetheless, these passionflowers call to me over, motionless center pop, when love whistles strangely in whispering song
Where music listens, and knowledge speaks of guiding the listeners look for love on the radio
Environmental collectivism in the laissez-faire fire that started the burning communist captain harboring the blocs, and they never found Lenin until March dawned on, shining! Government! ****** suicides! Virgil cries! Love! Mercy! Robot apartment! Where you drink the tea of the ******* of the spinsters of Utica! Blessed be she who brings death to us all, in the name of thy father
Jack L Martin Aug 2018
Silver backed monkeys talk on the line
never do they squat on the heros of time
meet my best friend who is thoughtful and kind
benevolent son of a seventh son of mine
Dougie Simps May 2014
It's quite outside
Not a noise a play
Not a sound hits
The veins absorb more blood
The sweat on my forehead drips
I'm transforming
I'm becoming who I really am
A monster from a son
An enemy from a friend
My god, I'm evil
I'm demented and insane
I endure the darkness of the soul
I fein for the pressure of pain
Injections of the venom
A death Sentence with a chair scripted my name
I am who I was when you thought you knew me
I'm a villain, I'm still the same!
This animal has been released
The fury of rage broke open my enclosed cage
Where love letters fell to the floor from super woman's page
Spider-Man, superman, send em all my way
My powers aren't going to eletricfy your heros, it's invisble but corrupts the reaction of the face
Terror pumps through my heart
Anger feeds my fist
Blood is replaced with toxins
My thoughts are molded and crisp
STOP ME! I dare you, try!

**Are you kidding me? I'm not an evil villain at all!
Ya just love negativity and anguish
You wouldn't of read this if I didn't say words that die
That intrigue you!
Haunt you and daunt you!
Why do you all love misery?
Why do you need my psychotic thoughts to help you sleep at night?
It probably helps your ignorance, loneliness doesn't match insanity...
Shut up! You know I'm right.
The most messed up twist you'll ever read. You people only like sad and crazy writing. You're misery...it does love company #YouCantStopMe
louis rams Jul 2013
It does not matter!!!
For every soldier living or dead
Is a hero in my head.
It doesn’t matter whether they was on the front lines
Fighting the war- or in the back lines working at S-4 (supplies)
They all contributed in some way
To keep our freedom safe from day to day.
The army, air force, navy, marines
In our battles they are seen.
Men, women, both alike fighting to keep us safe at night.
They joined the military so that our country could be free
And to protect you and me.
The medics who struggle to keep us alive
Not knowing if we’ll live or die.
From the cooks who supply us with the food we eat
Which may have been your neighbor from down the street?
Everyone had a job to do, and every one followed through.
You don’t have to be with a rifle in your hand
It doesn’t make you LESS of a woman or a man.
We are covering each other’s backs
Now tell me!! What can be better than that!
So I honor all of them – for they are my brothers and sisters till the end.
                   “FREEDOM ISN’T   FREE “
Fenix Flight May 2014
I'm just a little Marvel Girl
hiding behind her super heros

Black widow
yes Please
Hawkeye
Even better
Xmen
Avengers
LOKI
drools Yes yes yes PLEEEEEEEASE

I'm just A little Marvel Girl
Devouring everything in sight

You could say I'm obbsessed
But I would say

I have it just Right
I love me some Marvel <3
Megan Corrigal Oct 2011
I wish I was nocturnal.
I would wake up to silence
and the smell of the crisp night air.
I would stare up at the stars
and dream with open eyes.
I would talk to the man in the moon
And listen to his stories of ancient heros
and real life love stories.
I would memorize the song of the crickets
and hum along as sang.
I would walk the abandoned streets
without all the hustle and bustle
of busy people
who have forgotten what it was like to be a toddler.
To walk slow
and look at everything
as though it were the first time.
jeffrey robin Nov 2013
& we come!

AND WE RIDE THE  WHITE STALLIONS

YE haw!...YE haw!!

••

Our banners raised

Upon which are written

LOVE!  LOVE!
LOVE!!

••••

(We get paid good money to do this
You know)



And look see!

Haw!  Haw!!

All the little kiddies

Fall
Fall
Fall !

In--------LOVE!!

••

And then they get confused

And become consumer slaves

Political misfits

Lonely lost souls

----

And we thus conquer the nation and then the world

---------
You know

Simple stuff

••••

So

UPON GREAT WHITE STALLIONS WE RIDE!!

YE haw!.. YE haw!!

Doin our job

Yeah

Doin our job

That's all
Andreas Simic Sep 2017
This poem is dedicated to the victims of Hurricane Harvey
And the people who helped during and after the storm.

An Ode to the Harvey Heroes©

Once upon a time not so long ago
Nature did spur a Harvey in the Gulf of Mexico

As the storm grew into a hurricane
Winds howled and then came the rain

Poor Texas got in the way
And it rained day after day

High water turned into floods
Leaving everyone scurrying including the blue bloods

Onto their roofs they did climb to survive the storm
With so much rain well above the norm

Little did they know a rescue mission was on the go
An impromptu navy of people they didn’t even know

Night and day their saviors were on a mission to rescue
Not knowing the dangers they faced for they didn’t have a clue

But despite the risk and the unknown
How to respond they have us shown

With a great amount of caring and daring
Many a life has been saved though some succumbed to an early grave

So what do we call the brave men and women from far and wide
A hero is what I say and I am not being snide

For they have saved the day for so many of our kin
Not saying thank you and our appreciation would be a sin

So here it is in spades “Thank you” to all who lent a helping hand
And that’s from all of us from across the land

Though things are far from over and done
Many will see a rising sun

Andreas Simic
jeffrey robin Nov 2010
if
and if..............
....................................YOU!

we have traveled

so so far!

-----

live in the real

world

of myth and

supernatural

heros

and

"if........

YES!

it is.............
...................................YOU!"

-------­

throw all the

trash

away

-----------

what if they said

"this is the world"

and YOU said

"FK  you!".....?

well then

id be there

_


how can there be

LOVE

in the fake?

----------

LOVE is

STRENGTH

----------

on the borderline

of LIFE

and

DEATH

(only there

my friend

only there)
Elsbeth Poe Nov 2013
Dealing with being
A living breathing
Human being
That's the stuff
The simple complexity
Of everything
The characters of our stories play
Villains
Heros
Daily change
We come and go
We choose our words
The sky shifts
With the weather inside
The pain
The joyful tears
Echos asking
Why are we here

E.Poe
*Nov. 2013
Alexis J Meighan Oct 2012
The Equestrian

When we met
We could and would
Have a sunday brunch
We ate **** word appetizers
Before eruptions of love for our main course
We conversed about ecstasy
And drank tall glasses of progeny
And picked morsels of fantasy
Passed on the dessert
Enough sweetness in wetness
Salivate like rabid wolves
Over the thought that
your body brings me deepness
I guess I'm in depth
She straddles my imagination
I saddled her provocation
Learn the speed at which her mind gallops
While
We share our addictions
Compare our afflictions
Only to conclude we're of the same breed
An option I could of
If only I would of
But knowing I should of
Cause the timing is never right

Not all heros ride into the sunset
Not all villains would meet there demise

Xin

— The End —