"ied" poems
slave is someone who does not have authority over their own lives slave is someone subservient controlled dominated by somebody something slave works very hard for little or no pay slave is property of somebody something slave is someone forced to obey
sycophant is someone servile who overly flatters more powerful individual for personal gain sycophant is bootlicker brown-noser fawner flunkey doormat lackey lap-dog yes-men parasite toad-eater (pause reposition) somebody possessed of excessive vanity may cultivate sycophant swarms
side by side they stand clothed in black not quite similar the one slightly taller possibly because the other suffers poor posture perhaps they are related because in odd way they appear alike or of same ilk yet upon closer scrutiny it becomes apparent they have very little or nothing in common the taller one with troubled sad eyes the other smiling obsequiously the taller one more muscular ***** from working menial labor the other with curved spine slumped shoulders because of undue bowing and crouching while blowing smoke up other people’s *****
sadist is someone who attains ****** gratification by inflicting physical pain shame to other people sadist is someone who delights in excessive cruelty degradation to others
********* is someone who achieves ****** pleasure from being hurt humiliated abused dominated punished often self-inflicted ********* is someone who enjoys being harmed misused mistreated ignored by others
sadomasochist is someone who gets ****** gratification by alternately or simultaneously enduring hurt causing pain to somebody else sadomasochist is combination of sadistic masochistic tendencies in someone who obtains ****** pleasure from inflicting submitting to pain cruelty
sycophant slave snakes up leg of movie actress dictator who gains pain through pleasure 2000 miles from equator IED cell phone detonator sycophant dilettante ***** up to sadistic art critic or publishing editor on escalator while below on main floor of shopping mall ice rink figure skater pirouettes bows to nominator surreptitiously bribed by infiltrator mutilator
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 4:38 AM UTC
Technology:
how I love you and loathe you
in the same breath
your phonic ears
listening out for
a babble of distress
from a childs vest
sleeping soundly
in the next room
your ten tentacle arms
purge my words
and shelter emotions
across vast distances
for long lost friends
to find comfort
in 140 characters
your innovations
are the respirator
the breathing lungs
the beating heart
the bionic limbs
that help without want
to walk again
if only you could
just once
guess my words
correctly
just once
is all I ask
I invited that girl
for a pint
not a riot
and the black berry
ripens in the east
is now an improvised
IED
Technology:
will you ever be perfect?
or will you always
be evolving
how will you know
that you have not
stepped back
to be overshadowed
by an ape
punching numbers
searching for Shots
and finding Pints
in the middle of
a dusty Riot
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
i look out into dark, savoring the quiet, the stillness of new dawn, wondering who die today, whose life will end and whose will change forever, sending a shock of wave of pain and grief from an epicenter of a dead soldier
who will die today, whose mother wife daughter will cry today, whose father son brother will fall today
the sun has risen, reality has set in, its time to ride, its time for some to die, we roll the dice, who will land snake eyes
to sit in the humvee, knowing you are playing russian roulette, you can’t have hope, no inkling of a dream, lose the desire, it is the only way to survive, knowing you may die, give up all hope, consider yourself dead, be grateful at the end of the day when you are not. the drive down suicide alley, like the walk up gallow’s stairs. now i know how they felt. you surrender to fate. you stop thinking, you stop feeling, you go numb.
no longer in control, my life is no longer mine to live or die
i don’t believe in You, not since i was a boy, but i pray, that if we hit an IED, that i die instantaneously. i don’t want to lay on the ground, feeling the horror of dying, crying that i want to live, screaming out for my mother like i’ve seen happen to other guys
there are things worse than death, the living hell of coming home in pieces, physically damaged, emotionally traumatized, spiritually disillusioned, which slowly erodes and destroys your life. a new war, another battle, this time at home, fought in your head. the cycle of trauma 6-9-12, addiction, depression, how long do you let yourself free fall till you hit rock bottom
i am a man, i am not suppose to be afraid, but i am, i can’t show or say, not to them, especially not to you. i am not allowed to show fear, be vulnerable, you will lose respect, stop loving me, tell me to man up, in some subtle way
when everyone has left, everything lost, when the pain is greater than the fear. you must, you will, reach out, or die in combat, killed in action, in the war fought in your mind.
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 5:13 PM UTC
I'm twenty seven years old
Not, old by any standard
But, in my world...I'm seven
Seven years removed from an IED
Seven years away from the day that changed me
Seven years into my new life
We were on a routine mission
If you can call anything in Khandahar
routine
Convoy escort, some press folks
A country singer and his band
And us....always us
We were Military Police
Bringing 'em in, taking 'em home
there we were,
Same trip, same road
same barren landscape
same potholes
same, same, same
Until November 4th, 2005
Nothing has been the same since then
I'm a Sargeant, Military Police
William Blankenship
Fort Hood, Texas...just a kid...until
We were on Operation Squire
routine....all routine
The first humvee hit an IED
flipped right in front of us
the bus of civilians, stopped
radio chatter like mad
Rocket fire took out the Stryker LAV
Blew it to bits
No survivors
We were pinned down
We didn't return fire
Couldn't....didn't know where to
And had to get the civilians to safety
We were only 2 miles from base
LAVs were on the road immediately
I don't remember much about it
Just, that it was routine
Started with the headaches
took about a month
Then, the nightmares
Sent me back home to get over it
To a Veterans Hospital in Texas
Still saw the humvee flip
Heard the screams
Saw the fire, and watched the explosion behind
And I wasn't sleeping anymore
Couldn't handle bright lights for a time
Still can't, but not as bad
Doctors said it was PTSD
I said, "you think?"
What else could it be
Two years they kept me in there
Two years I saw them die
Then...they hooked me up with a service dog
New program they said
He'd keep me relaxed
I couldn't take care of myself
And now, they want me to have a dog
I said, I'd try it...but no guarantees
Said his name was Squire
funny....I knew that name from somewhere
But, couldn't remember where
Big, oafish, Newf he was
Like a small fridge with hair
And big, brown eyes
Squire....
First day he just sat and looked at me
Waited until I started to move
And he moved with me
Came over, and pushed his head under my hand
It's been that way ever since
I move, he moves
I eat, he eats three times as much
We bonded pretty quick
I still get the dreams,
but, Squire knows and he's there
Under my hand, calming me down
That's all he does, calms me down
He doesn't take away the dreams
But, he helps
I don't know how
But, he helps
They still die, and I still scream
But, not as often
Just routine....
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
I sit here alone, gazing into the distance forlorn.
And my heart beats faintly: it is battered, bruised, and foreworn
Tenderly, I close my eyes and think of you: the subject of my dreams.
And as I do, I feel the ripples as my heart begins to tear at the seams.
So I close my eyes harder, to see the form of your spellbinding smile.
But as the wind rustles through the leaves it takes my mind off you for a while.
However, as always, my heart begins to yearn for you my dear: I wish that I could, even if for a moment, to hold on to your fair hand.
But my mind is quick to remind me that I did get to hold you, yet things didn't work out as I had planned.
At this point, my mind is now clouded with thoughts of only you.
I look up to the sky and perhaps there is hope for us, it is so impossibly blue!
But in a sudden twist of fate, the orange and yellow embers start streaming through, a touch of sunset on a distant hill
And here I Ied myself to believe that the gravity of my emotions could quite possibly make time itself stand still...
I loved it all my dear: the wishing, the longing, the yearning and the wait
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 3:07 AM UTC
Last night,
I spent 45 minutes
In the bathroom
Because my doctor
Told me I needed more
Calcium in my diet.
He says calcium
Will make my bones strong,
And if I want to grow up
To be as big as my dad
Than a hefty glass of milk
Should do the trick.
I'm lactose intolerant.
But to this day I wonder,
Is calcium the culprit?
When an infant's bones
Are crushed by tanks,
And all that is left
Is the dust,
That you wipe away
With the palm of your
Blood-stained hand,
On an unmarked grave
Too old to remember,
But it keeps on
Coming back.
Back to a time
Where potential meant
The possibility of
Developmental potency.
Not the supposedly
High capacity for
Danger.
Like the flowers
In the spring,
Build their spine
From our breath;
Change is the
Life in our blood.
The minute an
Eighteen year old's
Parent's swallow the fire
Of an IED 6,032 miles away,
Believing their child fought for,
Change.
Verb.
To make or become different.
Verb.
To give or get foreign money in exchange for:
Verb.
To remove a ***** diaper from a baby
and replace it with a gun.
Where do you run to?
When sleep
is the only place
In a thousand miles
where you can find God.
When rest
is the only peace
you haven't felt
since they said
the war is
finally over.
When dreams
Are the memories
Of your children’s
Stardust
When you
Can’t adjust
To the lack of future
Freedom liberated
From materialism
When no
Dictionary
Has your definition
of Change.
Noun.
Something you find in your pocket.
Verb.
Something you find in yourself.
Change,
Is not something
You can touch;
But it's something
You should want
To feel.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 3:05 AM UTC
He and she walk alone so young.
So young he and she are.
Without another's tender touch
and tender kisses.
Being without a loving, caring other;
expressions desolved by war.
They're still in the desert
guarding buddies.
They're still in war-torn towns.
So young they are.
Behind every house door lurks
an unseen enemy.
Every crevice in their home-sweet-home,
a hidden device.
Every patch of an American road
hidden IED'S.
Every turn,every corner,every glance,every walk,
Every position, for some, a hand gun hidden in his
or her belt.
So well they learned their craft.
Their home vehicles are now Hummvees.
Their towns are now
the unfriendly and foreign Middle East.
They walk alone,these ANGRY ISLANDS,
unto themselves they are...
RW Dennen
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
All weapons of
the fates you've sealed
Are no match for
this pen I wield
The power to
articulate
Ticking rhyme bombs
to detonate
The conflicts waged
gambling mankind
My perfect hand
is treaties signed
Hellbent hounds pray
like dogs, I hunt
Frontline this notebook
battlefront
With metaphors
of mindless drones
Like similes
to brainwashed clones
Whose C4 booms
and IED's
Can't build bridges
like ABC's
Or tear them down
with death regimes
By rusting through
the war machines
Flamethrowin’ my
verbal grenade
With ****** noun
scorched-earth tirade
On militant
cold-blood elite
King cobras know
I'm packing heat
Seeking missile
resolution
Winged raptor
devolution
Prehistoric
barbarism
Literacy
cataclysm
Stockpiling
extinction bones
We're cavemen carving
fallout stones
My Hiroshima
prose explodes
With nuclear
bushido codes
Released from my
katana's ward
To free my press
from shogun lord
Oppressing haiku
imagery
And samurai
epigraphy
Expressions of
my ronin soul
Omitted by
the daimyo
Satsuma is my
poetry
My final draft's
Nagasaki
Ink cartridges
strapped 'round my neck
I print no charge
or background check
And ****** every
live round free
Of innocent
blood elegy
And killing sprees
of gunned-down news
Domestic violence
black and blues
A Number 2
pencil dependent
Obsolete
lead-head amendment
Open carry
shoots a blank
Empty shell case
at my think tank
So grip this peace
then **** and pull it
**** my diction
write the bullet
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC
.
•up the
wall... he wou-
ld climb every night
again and again... • every
time he did, to the bottom he
would fall•fortunately aid came
quickly to where he had lain... • on
handsome horses, sat men moustach-
ed and tall • overhead the moon cried
sullen and grim•*oh why does he always par-
take in such foolish endeavour?*•the men hurr-
ied back on thundering hooves to save him
•he laid motionless awaiting to be put toge-
ther•"we're the same, both ellipses, she and i"
•same words he would repeatedly mutter
•*"to be closer to her I will always try•only
then she would know that forever
i'll be falling for her"*•
**IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------|
|--|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------|---|
|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------|
|--|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------|-------|---|**
.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
The young boy wrote his Christmas Cards
Wrote his name as neatly as he knew
He put the ones aside to take to school
And in his bedroom he hid two
These cards were special for the boy
One was for his Uncle, one was for his dad
The cards just had to reach them
And here's the plan he had..
He knew that mail to Santa Claus
Made it up to the North Pole
But, he wasn't sure just how his card
Would reach his fathers soul
You see, the boys dad and his Uncle
were taken by an IED
They'd both been gone two years now
Since the boy was only three
He visited the cenotaph
In the park, most every day
He'd stop and he'd salute it
And then he'd go and play
It was a gentle hi to both of them
For he knew that at this place
He could feel them staring down on him
Though he'd forgotten his dad's face
He took the cards down to the park
And he left them by a wreath
Left over from November
He laid his two cards underneath
A man was walking past the boy
And he saw the boy salute
But, he also saw the Christmas cards
And he thought the whole thing cute
He waited for the boy to leave
And he opened one to read
It said "Merry Christmas" , "Thank You"
"I miss you, yes indeed"
The man went to the nearest school
to ask about the lad
To find out if this one young boy
Was a student that they had
A teacher overheard his tale
And called the man in for a talk
At the end she sat there crying
She had to go out for a walk
She went to find his teacher
Told the tale of this young man
Then between them they sat down and
They both devised a plan
The next day when the class began
Christmas Cards they would write
Each one was for a soldier
And to them this just seemed right
They would set up a class field trip
To see the vets up on the hill
In the special Veterans Hospital
to the kids, this was a thrill
The hospital was telephoned
And the vets were set to meet
Miss Johnson and Miss Watson's class
To get their Christmas treat
The kids were dressed in sunday best
Like they were a month ago
But, this time it was different
This time there would be snow
Each card said "Merry Christmas"
All said thank you, some were sad
To think this project started with
A card left for a dad
After all was done and dusted
The kids continued on
They went down to the cenotaph
To give more cards to those now gone
The story made it through the school
And each day another class
Wrote Christmas cards to soldiers
And they delivered them en-masse
By the action of a little boy
who wasn't locked to a computer
He started a tradition
this young boy, the saluter.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
For you it is red, white and blue; firecrackers,
cookouts and American beer. How easy it
must be to assume that by saying “God Bless
Our Troops” you are patriotic. I have an
entirely different view of the 4th of July.
Every boom is an IED, every pop a ******
round. If your God was present when my
brain was shattered he did not show up to
see me through my recovery. You presume
that every soldier is a Christian like you.
I was an American soldier. I’ve bled and
killed in service for this country. I left behind
pieces of myself in faraway lands. It was my
choice. Do not use me to support your moral
propaganda. I am a veteran. I am not your
political stage-prop.
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 7:57 PM UTC
In Flanders fields the poppies blow,
Between the crosses, row on row'.
So wrote the poet John McCrae,
Recording the reality of his day.
Now after ninety four years have gone,
The use of the poppy has now moved on.
Instead of remembrance of the brave,
It sends addicted millions to an early grave,
And today our young troops fight and die,
Without anyone asking the real question, why?
In Helmand's fields the poppies blow,
Beside the compounds where they grow,
Surrounded by hidden IED's,
Planted to **** and maim with ease,
The brave young men sent on patrol,
Hoping they return alive and whole,
As they risk all to do their duty,
The poppy crop provides illicit *****
That funds the continuation of this war,
In which no one can say what we're fighting for!
Tom Higgins 12/11/2012
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
Follow me through skies of Grey
through murky marshland mire.
Accompany me through forest
labyrinths and fields of pale rye.
Step carefully through old mine
fields and feel my chest fall silent
for momentarily my heart skips,
caught by the long grass stalagmites.
The imagination coils up horrifying
imagery, a moment in time where
warriors flee, outmanned and gunned
down, the indigenous falls to his knees.
Look up and seize my thoughts
from falling into the past, for life
is like a bike ride, and in order
keep a grasp, head forward
following an orbit and do not
lose sight of the tunnels end
for satellites which go off track
crash, break, smash and bend.
Sat in the grass staring up, you
giggle and pull my legs, I trip
on accord and hear the twang
of an IED before crumpling
like folded paper, onto a jagged
boulder, feeling a pain in my head.
I roll onto my back and face up to
the battlefield where hungry farmers
fend off intruders who gun them
down again, blink and they’re shackled
as the decorated men of war crack
out cigars, sip from crystal and cackle.
Scrunch these lids and rub my eyes
the image raids from red to yellow
crimson streams appear to mellow
as your face above me, draws calm
overhead, forget the cries of war-torn
towns and villagers who bled
to keep their crop in the forlorn
era which saw many a soldier dead.
A soul escapes and floats past
your face we pause and marvel
as it pirouettes smoothly, spiralling
slowly into the fog and falling back
down in the adjacent swamp. Trudge
and trace footsteps west of the border
As the scenery picks up, you nudge
my ribs and point down the valley,
towards the green and golden leaves
of Burma where our journey ends.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
polish those internment touting charms
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 9:35 PM UTC
poetry composed in perfect silence
doesn't exist...
for there is no such thing,
perfect silence
there are no
noise canceling headphones,
a coachable prevent defense,
protecting my inner ears from
hearing words forced to the surface,
loudly spoken, up floating
unto the mind's constancy of enraging waters,
the highest definition of
mental disquiet,
the imperfect silence
frag grenades, IED's detonate,
all nicknames for the brain's multi-voices,
all argue raucous,
unafraid of exposure,
over~shouting to be heard,
freely secure in the
seeming silent privacy
of my brain,
mine owned
internecine mental slaughterhouse
and yet,
what I write down,
mine to keep...
my home,
and my mind,
an isle,
an atom of Earth
and flesh cells,
split surrounded by a
broad freshwater river
*the isle of the mind
spits fingers of land and voices,
injecting themselves into
the two~sided, belly~soft riversides,
forming bays and coves,
hiding places for
crafty human devices*
my poor mind,
mind it well,
as this sailing craft called poetry,
now, but a tiny ketch
to keep me afloat upon the
river surround,
while avoiding the backwash wakes
of larger enemy ships of state,
those who gladly drown me
for pleasure,
enjoying the pretending-to-be-quiet
internal screams denouncing
the myth of perfect silence
but the imperfect
poetry
born amidst
imperfect sleep,
the residual,
mine to keep...
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
The young boy walked on through the park
His mother close behind
But then he took off swiftly, though
She knew that she would find
Him standing at the Cenotaph
Saluting, ramrod straight
He did it everytime they passed
No matter what the date
He knew that is was honorable
A place to honur those
Who died defending what was right
And every time he froze.
Each time they went to ride the swings
He ran ahead to stand
He did it, and she was proud he did
Though he didn't understand
A silent sentinel...piegeon perch
Memorialized the dead
There were pigeons all around it
And two piegeons on the head
But Billy didn't mind the birds
In fact he liked to say
The piegeons are the soldier men
Who can no longer play
He always walked around all sides
Always looking for the names
Of his father and his uncle
Bill and Randy James
They were taken by an IED
Though that meant nothing to Bill
But each time that he found their names
He then saluted and stood still
He knew that they would not return
Although gone, their names were here
He saluted them each time he came
Of the pigeons, he'd no fear
This silent, solemn cenotaph
Was a place he loved so much
Although he couldn't see his father
His name plate he could touch
He knew that his saluting
Made his mother's heart strings sing
After his silent hello to his dad
He could go play on the swing...
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
Police brutality
political chicanery, the
privateering of industry
that polarises community
Poetry
you can plainly see is ruining me along with corporation tax and mindless drone attacks,
but
I can bomb my own flat
empty magazines into my own dreams, eject the casings, reload and repeat,
I sabotage my own defences
IED's I have for tea
Nothing feels better than opening a love letter when it blows up in your face
That place is reserved
In the bunker when the fans are on, when the sound of screaming gulls are gone and the air is scrubbed before we breathe
I do believe
and that belief is based on movie reels, deals I've done with the Devil and the good lord's son,
the ruling class, the kiss my *** brigade and pharmaceutical top grade opiates.
If what is
is what is
what it is and
what it takes?
I only open my eyes when I'm sleeping and that's to watch me watching me scribbling out some poetry and
erasing my body chemistry
I can see it
if that is it.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 4:03 AM UTC
It's the last few hours..
the seats and trays put up..
Most of the passengers are starting to wake up..
somewhere down there, thousand feet below...
waiting for me....home.
Asphalt drive ways, no IED's..
warm hugs from friends..
no enemy...
Home...
Please wait till we have reached our destination...
palms sweating now..feel a hesitation..
So lucky for me... a tear fills my eye..
not all of us got the chance to be on this flight...
Home......
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
there are no words
for the way my ski
n electrifies when y
our smoke wraps ar
ound our bodies and
sends shivers down m
y spine because you a
re trickling your finge
rs down my ribs and s
ometimes i can not hel
p but think about how
blood felt trickling dow
n my wrists and by the
time you came around
i was so far gone that i
'm more than surprised
about how someone wh
ose smile is always six m
iles wide could love some
one who wants to be bur
ied six feet under and if i
lost the chance to tell you
that i love you, then i don
;t know where i would be
and if i make my bed in a
grave before you do i hop
e you never pick up the bo
ttle again and try to find s
olace because we both kno
w that anesthetics are neve
r any different from poison
s and if your nerve endings
remember my touch and y
our breath gets short but h
eavy when you think you j
ust got a text from me but
you remember that the te
xt will never come; i want y
ou to know that i love yo
u and that you can make it
through anything and if yo
u do just one thing in my r
emembrance then i want y
ou to never ******* drink
my taste away because no
matter how strong you se
em i still think that my p
assing will make you a lit
tle uneasy and a little diff
erent maybe and i wonde
r if you'll cry anywhere c
lose to as much as i used t
o cry on a nightly basis a
nd will you sneak out an
d walk down to the stop
sign where we exhaled a
nd inhaled smoke and we
held each other and ****
man when i laid on the as
phalt i still wished a car w
ould come speeding by e
ven though that's so ****
ed up and this isn't even a
poem it's just a ****** up
story but if you ever love
d me at all, you won't pi
ck up the bottle- you wo
n't take a shot even if it m
eans remembering the tr
igger.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
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head
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IHAVEAPhD-ed
wazup-ed
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ifurreadingthisurweird-ed
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
A little boy, cried, he died inside.
Felt the pain, still no gain.
Hate the world,still held tight.
Joy wasn't present, karma neither.
left the mom, had a fever.
Name the oath, say the prayers,
Question the rest, salvation, timers.
Undefined verification made him see,
World, goodbye, XYZ.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 5:49 AM UTC
i wrote this and dedicate this for my first love. i miss you. i'm sorry, i'll never be as good as her and i'll never be as pretty as her.
i once loved a boy
who never (really) loved me back.
he was the one
who i thought i could spend
the rest of my life with.
he was the one
who i thought he could be
my first and my last.
but then this girl
who i called
a m o n s t e r.
the scariest monster
she came and
she took him away.
she turned him
into someone i didn't know
she changed him
into the worst person
i've ever known
but mainly
she was the reason
why my first love gave up on me.
it was 8 a.m
tuesday
21st of may 2013
the sun shone so bright that morning
i got a call
it was from him
he said
he didn't love me
anymore
the worst part
from the call was
he wanted a break-up
i said no
i wanted him to stay
he was the reason why i was happy
he was the reason why i stayed strong
he was the reason why i believed in love
he was my e v e r y t h i n g.
he said
i'm sorry i can't
i hung up the phone
i cried
i c ried
i c r ied
i c r i ed
i c r i e d
i c r i e d
on that day
at 3 p.m
i texted him
the last thing
i wanted to do with him
we met
we laughed
we ate lunch
we small-talked
we were holding hands
i even forgot
about the break-up
i kept falling for him
a little bit more.
i hugged him
and
he said
i'm sorry, i think you and me
we can't be together anymore
you deserve someone better
i'm not good enough for you
i'm sorry
it was
the worst day of my life
the first and the worst
heartbreak in my life
e v e r.
01.10.11
until
21.05.13
598 days
of
me
and
him.
and i think that
the words
the first rush of love
always holds a special place
in our hearts.
the novelty of the feeling
like the first drops of dew
on an untouched leaf
makes it special and unforgettable.
are true.
however,
my mother told me
to move on
to not linger in the past
but cherish its events
for you will never
get them back.
n.e
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 10:12 AM UTC
fallen warrior's dying gaze . . .
blurry sun she braids gold rays
gilded strands grace Avrey’s hair
misty tear-pooled stare . . .
Dodoitsu. 7-7-7-5 (26) syllables
gv .2015
Pfc. B.V. , a 22 year old mother of a little girl named Avrey
was Killed in 2010, by an IED, RPG attack near Kunar province,
(145 military women killed as of April.1.2013 in Afghanistan, Iraq & Kuwait
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 10:22 AM UTC
The urge to die shouldn't be so intense
The thought clouds my mind
So thick and so dense
Its strange to contemplate my fate
My life passing by
Like a forgotten date
I often wander if I have the power
To shoot myself
Or leap from a tower
I could only imagine the relief it would bring
but the grief left behind
Would make the devil sing
You'r friends would mourn parents cry
And all I did
was simply die
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
I look(ed) in
the clouds
and search(ed) for dragons.
they dance(ed)
and love(ed)
and sang above me.
I laugh(ed) and cry(ied)
all night, and in day
I look(ed) for dragons.
Up, up up
up in the clouds I look(ed)
to where they say(id)
I can find my dragons.
but now I'm old(er0
and sad(der)
and i'm afraid
as I look(ed) up
that I've lost my dragons.
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 3:10 AM UTC