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mannley collins Jul 2014
Hypocracy Mandatory.
Gullibility Mandatory.
Insensitivity Mandatory.
Obesity Mandatory.
Immaturity Mandatory.
Childishness Mandatory.
Monarchy Mandatory.
Capitalism Mandatory.
Conservatism Mandatory.
Terrorism Mandatory.
Corruption Mandatory.
Incompetence Mandatory.
Socialism Mandatory.
Dictatorship Mandatory.
Militarism Mandatory.
Liberalism Mandatory.
Bhuddism Mandatory.
Islam Mandatory.
Christianity Mandatory.
Judaism Mandatory.
Hinduism Mandatory.
Vedism Mandatory.
Hatred Mandatory.
Anarchy Mandatory.
Jealousy Mandatory.
Nationalism Mandatory.
Fascism Mandatory.
Racism Mandatory.
Lies Mandatory.
Hypocracy Mandatory.
Obesity Mandatory.
Heart Disease Mandatory.
Cancer Mandatory.
Idiocy Mandatory.
Eco-****** Mandatory.
All of us Humans.
Of all Five Colours.
Wherever we be.
Whatever we do.
However we "see" ourselves.
What do we call ourselves now?.
How about shallow nitpickers?.
Or celebrity obsessed morons?.
Or religious hypocrits?.
Or Democrats?.
Or Socialists?.
Or Revolutionaries.
Or just plain "nice folks"?.
Or supporters of oligarchy  policies?.
Or immature backpackers?.
Or government assassins of integrity?.
Or juicy *******?.
Or swift tongued ******* ticklers?.
no matter how many lie dead or injured as a result
of our obfuscation and avoidance.
As if poets have the explanation to life
except in strings of meaningless associated
but fine sounding words.
When "poets" are the voluntary slaves of Mind
and Conditioned Identity..
As if poets had the ***** to go beyond all these things.
As if .
Scrape the Moons suface and you will find a delicate Castello Blue Cream Cheese.
Yandisa mhlana Mar 2010
As the petals dropped in what felt like time standing still. The roses lost not only their beauty but also their reason to live.

The sun seemed cold and hell looked warm and friendly. Heaven became a dream that mortal minds could not understand.

And so i longed to converse with the earth, to solemnly plea for it to take me in. Open the graves of forefathers forgotten, remove a few bones and take their impassive positions.

Spend eternity dormant and hopefully forgotten. Leave the world of pain to the hypocrits that run it.

But alas i cannot even bargain with death, for truth betold i am a coward.

So destined am i to trod this rode alone, for naked i came, and naked i shall depart.

From this cold hopelessness world.
IsReaL E Summers Nov 2014
a two way street
Of others its sweet
Absorbed
Its abhorred
And the fuel of charlatans and hypocrits
A measure is safe
But too much and its too late
It comes, just before the fall.
And dwells inside us all.
Michael John Aug 2018
i

what are you up to speakman
or what are you speakman
as my teachers might say..
then

the wart on their nose
that will never go away
oh i know you hypocrits
we look the other way..

pacif
agressive
as the happy catkin
sway
the lith blossom
in the breeze..
Owen C Swenson Apr 2017
Suicide to my soul.
killing an immortal is my goal.
Push against the grain, you will feel the pain.
Revenge is for the gods, magically turning evens into odds.
I am seated and centered in front of my judges.
Anxiously waiting to ease their burning grudges.
I am charged with possession of a demon.
The punishment is life in hell without forgiveness.
I am not a sacrificial lamb, but these hypocrits do not give a ****.
The verdict reads guilty by the people that made me.
This jury overruled by selfish injustice leads me down the hallway to meet my fate.
I am Condemned for eternity.
Suicide to my soul.
Killing an immortal is my goal.
Hannah Grey May 2014
Others say that I'm a hypocrit
because I don't treat them the way they want to.
Others say that I'm a hypocrit
because I ignore them when they were my friends.

Others say that I'm a hypocrit
bcause I smile showing in their face that I am happy.
Others say that I'm a hypocrit
because I'm not with them anymore.

But what if I treat them different because they dont care about me.
If I discover that "them" are just fake friends,
If I'm smiling but not feeling happiness,
what if I stop being with them because I don't belong there anymore

Maybe they are the hypocrits.
Just maybe, because I don't know,
and I'm no one to say who they are.
But I now they are not my friends anymore.

At least, not the real ones.
Scorch'd Diana Feb 2021
Somberness, see it sanctuarily swearing
sword-tongue worded spellspeech secretly sunder a number
apart from another,
no ear so keen just to hear the equation
crackle into informal shatter.
No regrets nor bother
among preachers nor hypocrits,
so same as it's sad, their chatter
a masked creature
that fits this disordered scripture
of us.

Aware of a far-reaching freedom
each of them fathomless to their undone dares
to fail becoming one;
they,
all feature a familiar pattern
which matters even less to them
than a fantasy's thorn to their first thoughts, frankly;
they,
who share the same history they're enacting
their manifest destiny of a doom chosen
their fair share of despair
so spectacularily reflecting through
their fleet tranquil escaping
from those fear-forsakened frail bone-marrowed
branch brittles they've rosen
so fro as they are, frighteningly awake
fleeing those fractures so alive
in fashions gorgeous fractals alike
no grit, no wit capable of constructing such a lit, yet aesthetic scene of delight.

They,
each afraid of their boundaries beloved
to be breached apart so badly
only for captivity and nothing else
as they beg
counter-intuitive measurements taken
caught from under the counter countlessly
those captives, their algorithms split, entwined;
so better, better don't mind it;
undozens of them
all death-grasping frozen
from just a slightliest rattle
of the crispy pages bearing a poem
or a *** pinched by a laddle.

Falsely do they believe revolving
advancing their middle
however, with its Forever forgotten
prayer by prayer
for the sake of a splendid soil
oblivious to the seed that is rotten.

Oil-devouring tumoil tactically targets their entire toil
pouring visions filling each stare
for each one to chisel only another
effort-evaporating Escheresque stair
for ground and ground apart at the borderline
they are,
the sharp scraping of the air
gnashing winds under the ice of a somber sunshine.

These crystalline brimstones
spacelessy stranded;
vile ambers, yet of beauty unspoken
sparking like cider, from apples royalty-branded
perhaps even prickling, peach-flavoured honey wine
reminiscing silent lovers' moans
ones a satyr favours in folly
in gayness he eaves his hallowed shrine.

Without answers
a riddle is meant unbroken
shards of their failure, silkenly sanded
faintly, a filthless spirit's essence,
so fine.
Some insight may have been awoken
perhaps this and not another time.
Just the right questions
painfully born from the sublime.

In and on,
however a retrospect away
a new future rises from the ashes of fallen hells
mere memories of an old fiend
darkness encountered
for each delusion you slay
and eventually
even you, as well, will listen
listen to the bells from the yondersome elsewhere ringing, wailing
hailing their soul-crackling harmony
somewhere from above us all.

Cardinal numbers are breathless,
while we,
so proud to appraise prime numbers
so wishfully down to their core,
rather dream unparalyzed a dream
of an unclaimed nowhen
stuck in a less corrupt algebratic behaviour than before;
error-ridden operations so holdlessly scaffolded
our somberness
submerged and suffocated.
Down
down we swam to see sunken cities of sorcery;
suicidal endeavour, hive mind agony
our race means for the next galaxy
yet still a race meant for parsimony.

All in all, ****** in brickly rubble
what once was wall, popped much like a bubble;
crumbling, stars burst our skies apart
fates laughing the madnesses' mirth
no hand unscorched, suddenly so much to win.
They listen, scent, and see,
the ones they miss, and what they've lost;
gasping, gazing up ahead
wings spread, glare brightly
flame-feathered doves of rebirth
released, everyone's dignity
finally freed from the heart.

We're not, not mindlessly suffering a somewhere
but this time, facing this inquiry:
What else is there
reality or not
modality or possibility, probably an actuality;
as we learn to sincerely care and to feel
the current breath, the nation, the spot
they all are our responsibility
doubtlessly and definitely real.

Thus, secondary to me
each second that ***** my spirit dry
throughout a minute
anywhen
as we spire from hour to hour
honestly, far, far too often
and not from now and then.

Primary, however, is
my mistake which I'll hold me dire
I would rather not anymore, ever
divide zero by itself again.
What I learned like so many before
cannot count in this realm of some foreign heart
- now, for me -
anymore
which is indeed my problem
as I'm burning these pages I tore apart.
01011001
Sarah Murdock Jun 2011
musical Michelin men,
changing our stations like tires,
making movies melodies
and melodies mockeries,
break hearts with rhyming ironies
cliche enough for our youthful psyches to believe again...

but rock & roll hall of fame hip hop hypocrits
camp inside this skin and bone
with their guns and spinners
waking us into remedyless comas
like Waco, Texas kool-aid grasping fanatics
waiting for some Bruce springsteen,
-make me cry-
revival...

ties loosened by garage band
-cleansheet addicts of rewording reworded words-
pop stars
disguising themselves behind "emo hair"
and pencil darkened -i'm pensive- stares,
curtain emotions in some six degrees of separation,
"sure we get Lou Reed" sort of way
until the numbness feels like depth
and we are buried...

Bruce Springsteen makes me cry
as he yearns for his Queen of Arkansas,
Because I too am alone,
seeking solace in angels in Asbury
or bird preying on poetry atop wires
as I pray for God to exist
and for music to win back her soul...

but we have ALL sold our souls...
for gasoline,
for 15 minutes on a faux red carpet,
for the confusion to leave
and the pain to pass
for the season to change
and a smile to last...

— The End —