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"incidents" poems
I gaze into my crystal ball, discern amidst the haze A world so far removed from that of now, it would amaze, Where catapulting incidents collide like billiard ***** And sense defies belief as renaissance makes the calls. Blueprints fresh from Internet supply the suitcase blast Where the terrorist’s, simultaneously, ignite in cities cast From Moscow to New York, Beijing to Berlin Gay Paree to London town then way out east again, Budapest, Jerusalem Calcutta burning all And Tokyo is levelled in a ghastly nuclear pall. Kneejerk reaction triggers contrails in the blue Crisscrossing all the continents obliterating through An overkill so vicious that in seconds it is past And the living cling in horror, bearing witness… aghast. Restraints are erased as the opportunists dash Flotillas from the Spratleys sprint to occupy and cash In on the minerals, oil and potential food supplies Of uncontaminated nations found beneath Pacific skies. Hindi, Jew and Muslim settle scores bereft with years Of resentment accrued in a flood of blood and tears. A sudden realisation of immensity of loss Curtails the destruction in retrenchment across The habitable outposts, the dearth of supply And the daunting prospects of a nuclear winter sky. Global collapse of all electronic gear No power, no phones, and no cars now…for years. Electromagnetic impulse put paid to all that And the day is as dark as the cold night is black. And here all we sit, in the here and the now On the verge of catastrophes’ teetering tower, With a fools pudgy finger just inches above The nuclear button…and all that we love. ……You fear the insanity, sense the insane Knowing that people like this are holding the reign? Knowing that volatility strikes Like the shot of a gun and the ****** of a knife. I don’t have the answers to hand But someone out there, knows how…and can. The sands of time are running thin URGENTLY needed a LEADER...to WIN! M. Planet Earth 6 March 2019
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Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 12:46 AM UTC
The Tomorrow that Must Not Happen!
I gaze into my crystal ball, discern amidst the haze A world so far removed from that of now, it would amaze, Where catapulting incidents collide like billiard ***** And sense defies belief as renaissance makes the calls. Blueprints fresh from Internet supply the suitcase blast Where the terrorist’s, simultaneously, ignite in cities cast From Moscow to New York, Beijing to Berlin Gay Paree to London town then way out east again, Budapest, Jerusalem Calcutta burning all And Tokyo is levelled in a ghastly nuclear pall. Kneejerk reaction triggers contrails in the blue Crisscrossing all the continents obliterating through An overkill so vicious that in seconds it is past And the living cling in horror, bearing witness… aghast. Restraints are erased as the opportunists dash Flotillas from the Spratleys sprint to occupy and cash In on the minerals, oil and potential food supplies Of uncontaminated nations found beneath Pacific skies. Hindi, Jew and Muslim settle scores bereft with years Of resentment accrued in a flood of blood and tears. A sudden realisation of immensity of loss Curtails the destruction in retrenchment across The habitable outposts, the dearth of supply And the daunting prospects of a nuclear winter sky. Global collapse of all electronic gear No power, no phones, and no cars now…for years. Electromagnetic impulse put paid to all that And the day is as dark as the cold night is black. And here all we sit, in the here and the now On the verge of catastrophes’ teetering tower, With a fools pudgy finger just inches above The nuclear button…and all that we love. ……You fear the insanity, sense the insane Knowing that people like this are holding the reign? Knowing that volatility strikes Like the shot of a gun and the ****** of a knife. I don’t have the answers to hand But someone out there, knows how…and can. The sands of time are running thin URGENTLY needed a LEADER...to WIN! M. Planet Earth 6 March 2019
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43
Forget chivalry Forget familiar nicety Best tread carefully I'm not my usual me I'll not be the hero... Doing good Simply because I'm in no mood I'll go about my business Steer clear, don't be careless No sweet chirping of birds Only sarcasm laden words I'll wear no smile... Only smirks Behind which may hold sharpened dirks Don't waltz into my space Like you know your place Don't think I won't lash Don't think I won't be brash No 'Mister Niceguy' Just let this day go by With no alarms, no surprises No incidents, no clashes I might be back tomorrow But today you must know As I lace my steeltoed boot Today I don my antihero suit
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Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
Today's Ensemble
Every friend when meets, Seems an angel sent to us, By the god from his providence, But when departs after fulfilling, His ends  selfish  and cunning, All incidents of past moving. In sky of our inner gloomy world, Making us  cry and buzzing sad, Echo of pain within ending world.
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Jun 14, 2025
Jun 14, 2025 at 5:09 AM UTC
Departure of a friend
The heart works for the hard work, beating constantly as targets are acquired. Shots fired, money wired and payments aplenty. Contacts signed, terms and conditions defined, it could take time, but the ***** rolling. Touch base as we reach for the stars, customers in charge, their business is ours. We roll monthly, comfortably in our own domains, renew them annually again as the pattern remains the same. Some days, it's a struggle to get out of the pit, feeling burnout, lack energy for my daily workout. The wage ain't great but the dividends could add up to millions. Some are cynical but I won't listen to those opinions. I treat my staff as people not minions. No need for incidents were a team of individuals. Passionate and driven creatures, hidden features and secret keepers. Let's get money and lets get paid, Theres a million ways we can earn more than the minimum wage. Let's raise the bar, the city is ours and the worlds not too far away... Dream tomorrow and live today.
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May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC
Labor omnia vincit
We all bear scars in one way or other. Some from loving someone too deeply and some others from losing someone or something that you cared too much for. Some scars are intentional while some others exist for stupid silly reasons. Some we are but some we are not so proud of. I have scars all over my body. All over my mind and all over my soul. I have scars on my brain due to over thinking and over analyzing incidents that haven’t even happened yet. I have scars on my eyes for shutting it more often, for being blind to things that should’ve been taken care of. I have scars on my nose from all those endless snobs and sniffles from my horrifying past relationships. I have scars on my mouth from speaking the truth, only the truth and nothing but the truth. I have scars on my neck from getting choked up on false love and fake proposals. I have scars on my shoulders from lifting up responsibilities that I was accustomed to from an early age. I have scars on my hands from holding onto things that weren’t supposed to be mine from the very start. I have scars on my chest from my ice cold heart that has been stomped over and over multiple times. I have scars on my lungs from the “occasional” stress buster cigarettes that I am addicted to every now and then. I have scars on my stomach from one too many butterflies that flew when we first met. I have scars on my legs from running, miles away from people and that place I used to call home. I have scars on my skin from the many tattoos I got done that helps me reassure my self-worth. I have scars on my soul from trying hard to pull myself together, calm me down and compose myself through the rampant storm that’s been raging in my life. I have all these scars. All of them. And they don’t scare me now even though they hurt like hell, at times. They’ve become a part of me and looking back, they are just reminders of who I was, what I have been through my life and the person it has made me become. They don’t scare me anymore because they define who I am now. A survivor.
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Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 2:04 AM UTC
Scarred for Life
We all bear scars in one way or other. Some from loving someone too deeply and some others from losing someone or something that you cared too much for. Some scars are intentional while some others exist for stupid silly reasons. Some we are but some we are not so proud of. I have scars all over my body. All over my mind and all over my soul. I have scars on my brain due to over thinking and over analyzing incidents that haven’t even happened yet. I have scars on my eyes for shutting it more often, for being blind to things that should’ve been taken care of. I have scars on my nose from all those endless snobs and sniffles from my horrifying past relationships. I have scars on my mouth from speaking the truth, only the truth and nothing but the truth. I have scars on my neck from getting choked up on false love and fake proposals. I have scars on my shoulders from lifting up responsibilities that I was accustomed to from an early age. I have scars on my hands from holding onto things that weren’t supposed to be mine from the very start. I have scars on my chest from my ice cold heart that has been stomped over and over multiple times. I have scars on my lungs from the “occasional” stress buster cigarettes that I am addicted to every now and then. I have scars on my stomach from one too many butterflies that flew when we first met. I have scars on my legs from running, miles away from people and that place I used to call home. I have scars on my skin from the many tattoos I got done that helps me reassure my self-worth. I have scars on my soul from trying hard to pull myself together, calm me down and compose myself through the rampant storm that’s been raging in my life. I have all these scars. All of them. And they don’t scare me now even though they hurt like hell, at times. They’ve become a part of me and looking back, they are just reminders of who I was, what I have been through my life and the person it has made me become. They don’t scare me anymore because they define who I am now. A survivor.
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24
By Arcassin Burnham Mind half cocked, Gas prices turn to money slots, But the thing I don't tolerate is blacks getting shot, Over nothing, Act of ignorance, Changing appearances, The thing I don't tolerate is being judged by appearances, About some minor incidents, Situation and conscience, But I don't tolerate people talking ******** Starting with you, Destroy all your virtues, I don't tolerate the ignoring of a certain love you thought was true, I just don't tolerate it.
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Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
"#Tolerance Challenge"
Sleepless eyes wide awake During a sleepless night Tossing and turning The bed is so uninviting Not allowing my soul to rest Listening to the dark lull Turmoil in the mind In retrospective mode So many incidents come alive Darkness giving me clarity Of my experiences Trying to decipher the past Imaginary solutions For episodes from my past Time travel, visiting in reminiscence Not sure whether I am happy or sad More of a neutral state of mind Sleepless night engaging me In a futile attempt to resolve Only memories can visit the past Time, has long ago taken me miles ahead My sleepless night indulging In hallucinating my mind Ramblings of a sleepless soul From the experiences of sleepless night
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Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
Sleepless Night
The left of center are in north bound throes of a dupe and can't begin to forecast this wonder of polluted marvel, in the morrow my optics discharged in a catastrophic traversal While whimsy and accidental feels like I've taken pills a power rain this sobbing has spilled No longer to be contained based on sheer will Attacked by neurotic transcending While sifting through files and photo stacks Came across multiples of your smiling face From when I shot you, a couple hundred miles back No one would dare debase the abundance of your emitted grace Bloodshot mist eyed and blind from tears control lost during transport steer Drips off my cheek pouring down my chest Could make great sense to don a life vest Filling up floorboards like a spraying firehose Shattering cascades diamondize the windows A single glance at an image turns farmland into rural seaquake If they interview my lifeless corpse what a headline this will make, turning tragedy into a foolish mistake people will curse and laugh Paved over roads now films unseen when dusk fuse night from the weep my eyes dispensed Elements effected by incidents Rising waves climb over to decimate interstate 65 All over a tiny tear drop and her sweet smiling photograph
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Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
Farmland to seaquake in a single teardrop
*Main Talkhi-e-Hayat Se Ghabra Ke Pi Gaya Gham Ki Siyah Raat Se Ghabra Ke Pi Gaya* **With the worry from bitterness of life, I drank With the grief of my darkest night, I drank** *Itni Daqiq Shai Koi Kaise Samajh Sake Yazdan Ke Vaqiat Se Ghabra Ke Pi Gaya* **Such delicate substance, how can one comprehend? With the fear of merciful moment, I drank** *Chhalke Hue The Jaam Pareshan Thi Zulf-e-Yaar Kuchh Aise Hadsat Se Ghabra Ke Pi Gaya* **Overflowing cups and beloved’s anxious tresses With the concern for such calamities, I drank** *Main Aadmi Huun Koi Farishta Nahi Huzur Main Aaj Apni Zaat Se Ghabra Ke Pi Gaya* **Human I am and no angel O’ respected Today, with the vigilance of my own being, I drank** *Duniya-e-Hadsat Hai Ik Dardnak Giit Duniya-e-Hadsat Se Ghabra Ke Pi Gaya* **World of incidents is an agonising song With the discomfort of this world of incidents, I drank** *Kante To Khair Kante Hain Is Ka Gila Hi Kya Phulon Ki Vardat Se Ghabra Ke Pi Gaya* **Thorns are yet thorns and there is no complaint With the scare from crimes of flowers, I drank** *Saghar Vo Kah Rahe The Ki Pi Lijiye Huzur Un Ki Guzarishat Se Ghabra Ke Pi Gaya* **Saghar they said drink O’ respected And with the care for their wishes, I drank** — Translated by Jamil Hussain, Poet Saghar Siddiqui, Sung by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
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Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 6:08 AM UTC
I Drank
I’m a barbarian in a woman’s shape. I stomp into discourse with heavy steps. Driven by impulse, twisting like switchbacks. There are so many narratives... With one hand, I hold a megaphone to my mouth. With the other hand, from my heart, from my head, I pull out jagged digressions and awkward arguments. If I could weave just one logical thread to see a common perspective, to stop interpreting… I would stand tall on the pedestal of thorny incidents, inept appointments, yet proud that I would finally catch myself. I know, I can only dream of patiently knitting rushing words together. I can’t stitch these threads into a colored, beautiful patchwork, that could give some warmth to the quandary, or as a cover for chronic nostalgia. Meanwhile, within the conventions of social dreaming I tilt my head from side to side Asking myself with incredulity, How is it possible that the voice screaming inside me sounds so weak and dull?
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Feb 23, 2025
Feb 23, 2025 at 11:23 AM UTC
Barbarian
1248 The incidents of love Are more than its Events— Investment’s best Expositor Is the minute Per Cents—
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4.1k
The incidents of love
One day, two incidents, one enemy; we’ll never forget, A day which changed map projection, Which apart the hearts, Extirpate many dreams, Floating bodies in the river, Conjoin pain and frighten memories, Memories which we would recall on 16th December, When we were recalling the memories of severance with Dhaka, Woe was in the breeze, But an enemy afar from all emotions, Bloodthirsty souls; Extirpate many dreams, Dreams of to become a pilot, doctor and a responsible citizen, One day, two incidents, one enemy; we’ll never forget, We’ll never forget, One enemy but two faces, First Dhaka than Peshawar, But they did not knew, Events of dolorous conjoined the nations! By: Nida Mahmoed
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Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
Dhaka to Peshawar
Holocaust Poem: "On The Slaughter" by Chaim Nachman Bialik loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Merciful heavens, have pity on me! If there is a God approachable by men as yet I have not found him— Pray for me! For my heart is dead, prayers languish upon my tongue; my right hand has lost its strength and my hope has wilted, undone. How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end? How long? Hangman, traitor, here’s my neck— rise up now, rise and slaughter! Behead me like a dog—your arm controls the axe and the whole world is a scaffold to me although we—the chosen few— were once recipients of the Pacts. Executioner, my blood’s a paltry prize— strike my skull and the blood of innocents will rain drenching your pristine uniform again and again, staining your raiment forever. If there is Justice—quick, let her appear! But after I’ve been blotted out, should she reveal her face, let her false scales be overturned forever and the heavens reek with the stench of her disgrace. You too arrogant men, with your brutal injustice, suckled on blood, unweaned of violence: cursed be the warrior who cries "Vengeance!" on a maiden; such cruelty was never contemplated, even by Satan. Let innocents’ blood drench the abyss! Let innocents’ blood seep down into the congealing darkness, eat it away and undermine earth's rotting foundations. Al Hashechita ("On the Slaughter") was written by Chaim Nachman Bialik in response to the ****** Kishniev pogrom of 1903, which was instigated by agents of the Czar who wanted to divert social unrest and political anger from the Czar to the Jewish minority. The Hebrew word schechita (also transliterated shechita, shechitah, shekhitah, shehita) denotes the ritual kosher slaughtering of animals for food. The juxtapositioning of kosher slaughter with the slaughter of Jews makes the poem all the more powerful and ghastly. Such anti-Semitic incidents prompted a massive wave of Eastern European emigration that brought millions of Jews to the West. Unfortunately, there have been many similar slaughters in human history and the poem remains chillingly relevant to the more recent ones in Israel/Palestine, Rwanda, Bosnia and Kosovo. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, Bialik, translation, slaughter, massacre, God, prayer, executioner, hangman, blood, innocents, justice, false, scales, injustice
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Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 4:00 AM UTC
Chaim Nachman Bialik "On The Slaughter" translation
Holocaust Poem: "On The Slaughter" by Chaim Nachman Bialik loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Merciful heavens, have pity on me! If there is a God approachable by men as yet I have not found him— Pray for me! For my heart is dead, prayers languish upon my tongue; my right hand has lost its strength and my hope has wilted, undone. How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end? How long? Hangman, traitor, here’s my neck— rise up now, rise and slaughter! Behead me like a dog—your arm controls the axe and the whole world is a scaffold to me although we—the chosen few— were once recipients of the Pacts. Executioner, my blood’s a paltry prize— strike my skull and the blood of innocents will rain drenching your pristine uniform again and again, staining your raiment forever. If there is Justice—quick, let her appear! But after I’ve been blotted out, should she reveal her face, let her false scales be overturned forever and the heavens reek with the stench of her disgrace. You too arrogant men, with your brutal injustice, suckled on blood, unweaned of violence: cursed be the warrior who cries "Vengeance!" on a maiden; such cruelty was never contemplated, even by Satan. Let innocents’ blood drench the abyss! Let innocents’ blood seep down into the congealing darkness, eat it away and undermine earth's rotting foundations. Al Hashechita ("On the Slaughter") was written by Chaim Nachman Bialik in response to the ****** Kishniev pogrom of 1903, which was instigated by agents of the Czar who wanted to divert social unrest and political anger from the Czar to the Jewish minority. The Hebrew word schechita (also transliterated shechita, shechitah, shekhitah, shehita) denotes the ritual kosher slaughtering of animals for food. The juxtapositioning of kosher slaughter with the slaughter of Jews makes the poem all the more powerful and ghastly. Such anti-Semitic incidents prompted a massive wave of Eastern European emigration that brought millions of Jews to the West. Unfortunately, there have been many similar slaughters in human history and the poem remains chillingly relevant to the more recent ones in Israel/Palestine, Rwanda, Bosnia and Kosovo. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, Bialik, translation, slaughter, massacre, God, prayer, executioner, hangman, blood, innocents, justice, false, scales, injustice
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36
That familiar sound of a helicopter approaching out of nowhere its search light focused. Down onto a desolute and lonely moorland quickly joined by a second one. But what is the true intention of their task as a figure looks up wearing a mask. No ordinary being sitting there in isolation as soldiers approach with guns. Nearby a circular craft of unknown origin lays damaged amongst the grass. Away from the view of a watching public the covert operation is slick. Taken alive the alien is roughly removed put into a third chopper nearby. Two other bodies are bagged and tagged the sight is cleared of any evidence. Reports of an object seen falling denied once again the military have lied. How many incidents have really occured the public know nothing about? The real truth of an extra terrestial existence rather than endless misinformation. Was Roswell fact or fiction what is area fifty one when will the real truth be done? The Foureyed Poet. The Foureyed Poet
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Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 3:46 PM UTC
Helicopter
****** thought it was a concept novel. But wrong he was. India knew Blitzkrieg long before ****** In ancient dramas like Mahabharata, And of course the older Ramayana, The epics are replete with incidents, Or rather determining acts of battle, That determined the course of time, Armies attacked the relaxing armies, Changed the outcome of war. So was the ancient Indian ideology.
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Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
Blitzkrieg
the baby is white guilt. is walking early. is outside picking stones to give to loved ones. Jesus is a moment of peace on a skateboard. the fish are five thousand isolated incidents. vandalism is vandalism. the numb hands of a child go rolling after crayons. this is you, beside a flower, in front of a mountain. your eyes are so big and the bread so quiet.
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Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
bread
The sun warms my salty skin and my pores open to let your love in. I feel as beautiful as the ocean, I am my greatest muse. Today was a good day darling, see, I have captured every second of my daydreaming, pinned those very pictures to my wall. And you wonder why I never get out of bed, though I keep talking about the colour palette of my romantic days. Your wind has not shifted - but my winter has come. You can’t hear the children in me cry. Suffocating happens through minor incidents like your softly spoken words searching for an affectionate listener. I cannot breathe, my god, don‘t you understand? Winter has come, and I am trapped in a fourteen-year-old‘s body trying to figure out where she went wrong. It has been cold for a decade and the sun still burns holes in my chest. I do not need you to understand, for you are my sun, my light, my temple. I need you to see the shadows in which I wander, the orphans I have left behind - My skin has weathered, and I cannot find the right sunscreen to care for it.
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Jul 31, 2023
Jul 31, 2023 at 6:47 PM UTC
childhood shapes
I know what it must be like to deal with me; but I assure you it's not as hard as dealing with being me. I simultaneously push people away, keep them at a distance with falsities designed to prevent incidents like people actually getting to know the real me and wish they knew enough to understand why why it is that I grew to become this.
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Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
But it's not out of fear, make no mistake.
I am not the princess-type girl who can eat with you in a formal restaurant. I am no one but a simple girl, to some things I am ignorant. I am not someone you can bring to formal events. I might just ***** things up and cause some series of unfortunate incidents. I don't know if im good enough. They might disagree and for us they might make it tough. They might not accept me the way my family accepted you. They might not like me the same way you do. I don't know what to say. I don't know if there's an easy way. I don't know what to think. With embarrassment, I might shrink. I feel dissatisfied and wanted to try harder. So that, in the eyes of your loved ones, I am better. I feel nervous and my self esteem is low. I shouldn't feel this way, I know. But I can't help it. I don't want to just relax and sit. I don't want to lose you. I love you so much but I don't know what to do.
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May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 2:36 AM UTC
I love you but I dont know what to do..
*In this country I fear for my life Violence today is far from your everyday fight This just doesn't feel right To sit here and not write What has happened to my little Bahama land ? Today people rob and **** for fun Toddlers aren't afraid to wave a gun Im sick to my stomach as I look in disbelief Could being killed be my new destiny What has happened to my little Bahama land ? Innocent people caught in crossfire All from stupid incidents that had been transpired 130 murders! Rings in my ears Young children around me shedding tears What has happened to my little Bahama land ? Sun , sand and sea? Means nothing if innocently killed mothers cant enjoy it with me I am the youth and I will be the change I'll do it hand by hand I beg plead and ask What has happened to my little ol Bahama land ? ~ Rae Lauren*
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Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
Paranoia
'Dockery was junior to you, Wasn't he?' said the Dean. 'His son's here now.' Death-suited, visitant, I nod. 'And do You keep in touch with-' Or remember how Black-gowned, unbreakfasted, and still half-tight We used to stand before that desk, to give 'Our version' of 'these incidents last night'? I try the door of where I used to live: Locked. The lawn spreads dazzlingly wide. A known bell chimes. I catch my train, ignored. Canal and clouds and colleges subside Slowly from view. But Dockery, good Lord, Anyone up today must have been born In '43, when I was twenty-one. If he was younger, did he get this son At nineteen, twenty? Was he that withdrawn High-collared public-schoolboy, sharing rooms With Cartwright who was killed? Well, it just shows How much . . . How little . . . Yawning, I suppose I fell asleep, waking at the fumes And furnace-glares of Sheffield, where I changed, And ate an awful pie, and walked along The platform to its end to see the ranged Joining and parting lines reflect a strong Unhindered moon. To have no son, no wife, No house or land still seemed quite natural. Only a numbness registered the shock Of finding out how much had gone of life, How widely from the others. Dockery, now: Only nineteen, he must have taken stock Of what he wanted, and been capable Of . . . No, that's not the difference: rather, how Convinced he was he should be added to! Why did he think adding meant increase? To me it was dilution. Where do these Innate assumptions come from? Not from what We think truest, or most want to do: Those warp tight-shut, like doors. They're more a style Our lives bring with them: habit for a while, Suddenly they harden into all we've got And how we got it; looked back on, they rear Like sand-clouds, thick and close, embodying For Dockery a son, for me nothing, Nothing with all a son's harsh patronage. Life is first boredom, then fear. Whether or not we use it, it goes, And leaves what something hidden from us chose, And age, and then the only end of age.
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2.5k
Dockery And Son
'Dockery was junior to you, Wasn't he?' said the Dean. 'His son's here now.' Death-suited, visitant, I nod. 'And do You keep in touch with-' Or remember how Black-gowned, unbreakfasted, and still half-tight We used to stand before that desk, to give 'Our version' of 'these incidents last night'? I try the door of where I used to live: Locked. The lawn spreads dazzlingly wide. A known bell chimes. I catch my train, ignored. Canal and clouds and colleges subside Slowly from view. But Dockery, good Lord, Anyone up today must have been born In '43, when I was twenty-one. If he was younger, did he get this son At nineteen, twenty? Was he that withdrawn High-collared public-schoolboy, sharing rooms With Cartwright who was killed? Well, it just shows How much . . . How little . . . Yawning, I suppose I fell asleep, waking at the fumes And furnace-glares of Sheffield, where I changed, And ate an awful pie, and walked along The platform to its end to see the ranged Joining and parting lines reflect a strong Unhindered moon. To have no son, no wife, No house or land still seemed quite natural. Only a numbness registered the shock Of finding out how much had gone of life, How widely from the others. Dockery, now: Only nineteen, he must have taken stock Of what he wanted, and been capable Of . . . No, that's not the difference: rather, how Convinced he was he should be added to! Why did he think adding meant increase? To me it was dilution. Where do these Innate assumptions come from? Not from what We think truest, or most want to do: Those warp tight-shut, like doors. They're more a style Our lives bring with them: habit for a while, Suddenly they harden into all we've got And how we got it; looked back on, they rear Like sand-clouds, thick and close, embodying For Dockery a son, for me nothing, Nothing with all a son's harsh patronage. Life is first boredom, then fear. Whether or not we use it, it goes, And leaves what something hidden from us chose, And age, and then the only end of age.
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48
Muslims are not to date. But you've seen him kissing Kate. Zayd, Khalid, Luqman don't care that ALLAH tells us to wait. They flash their sinful pictures straight. Without shame, a number of my brothers show children watching how to fake mate. Selfish, self-centered, I do what I want to do is happening at a fast rate. Most of them who date know ALLAH regards their actions with hate. Persistence to do wrong, to fake date Kate, prevents them from moving in a direction that is straight. Maybe their children, ones they were never told about would have entered the world as ******** late. Maybe their done away with babies would have exited the world as ALLAH'S slaves who used Islamic knowledge as bait. Before marriage it is said, I love you, You're hot; Kate steals these phrases from the role of a wife and uses them to increase her heart rate. They share a bed and have *** but what they want not to know is that they fornicate. A load of grave sins they accrue and a heavy punishment from ALLAH if they do not feel guilty, if they do not repent, if they do not end what they perpetuate. Many practicing Muslim maids want not to marry them. Little do those who fake date Kate know that their actions likely got in the way of GOD'S good fate. That their use and abuse of ALLAH'S fashioned female and a Father's beloved daughter, violates her like how a dog with his razor-sharp teeth on her arm viciously ate. He and Kate with memories to relive the sores and bruises, the trauma and incidents of disobedience which cut off grace from ALLAH, The Great. You're going to make wait late. You're going to fake date Kate.
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Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 5:35 PM UTC
You're going to fake date Kate.
Muslims are not to date. But you've seen him kissing Kate. Zayd, Khalid, Luqman don't care that ALLAH tells us to wait. They flash their sinful pictures straight. Without shame, a number of my brothers show children watching how to fake mate. Selfish, self-centered, I do what I want to do is happening at a fast rate. Most of them who date know ALLAH regards their actions with hate. Persistence to do wrong, to fake date Kate, prevents them from moving in a direction that is straight. Maybe their children, ones they were never told about would have entered the world as ******** late. Maybe their done away with babies would have exited the world as ALLAH'S slaves who used Islamic knowledge as bait. Before marriage it is said, I love you, You're hot; Kate steals these phrases from the role of a wife and uses them to increase her heart rate. They share a bed and have *** but what they want not to know is that they fornicate. A load of grave sins they accrue and a heavy punishment from ALLAH if they do not feel guilty, if they do not repent, if they do not end what they perpetuate. Many practicing Muslim maids want not to marry them. Little do those who fake date Kate know that their actions likely got in the way of GOD'S good fate. That their use and abuse of ALLAH'S fashioned female and a Father's beloved daughter, violates her like how a dog with his razor-sharp teeth on her arm viciously ate. He and Kate with memories to relive the sores and bruises, the trauma and incidents of disobedience which cut off grace from ALLAH, The Great. You're going to make wait late. You're going to fake date Kate.
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18
If broken men were like broken glass then he'd be the jagged edges of a smashed beer bottle - belligerent, defensive, and prone to fighting      because of the cheap drink flooding his veins in hopes of forgetting every and anything come the next morning. If broken men were like broken glass then he'd be the crack in his last bowl as it gets bigger unable to contain himself or his problems -      unable to keep everything in one place, as it spills and pours into other areas of his life.      If broken men were like broken glass then he'd be the various mirrors around his house that he punched in, 7 years of bad luck for each -      the reflection taunting and crooked everytime he so much as glances at one out of habit. If broken men were like broken glass, then he'd be a light bulb that burst from its own luminescence - that was too much to hold in its surroundings      that's deemed useless since it can't perform its primary function. If broken men were like broken glass, then he'd be the splintered fragments of photo frames - the shards embedding into the pads of his fingertips      as he tries in vain to piece it back together again, to make it whole again, to make it picture perfect again. If broken men were like broken glass, then how does one handle a heart? Is this why so many are callous to the destruction they cause?       Indifferent to the wreckage that follows them wherever they go? Or are they afraid of themselves, afraid of being naturally sensitive and vulnerable, afraid of reincarnating into the pieces of glass that they break? Maybe it is both or neither, even, but the destructive behavior of men are not isolated incidents ... It is phenomena that spans across the globe. If the concept of Man exists outside of this world, would they exhibit the same fragility too?
0
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 7:42 PM UTC
Male Fragility
If broken men were like broken glass then he'd be the jagged edges of a smashed beer bottle - belligerent, defensive, and prone to fighting      because of the cheap drink flooding his veins in hopes of forgetting every and anything come the next morning. If broken men were like broken glass then he'd be the crack in his last bowl as it gets bigger unable to contain himself or his problems -      unable to keep everything in one place, as it spills and pours into other areas of his life.      If broken men were like broken glass then he'd be the various mirrors around his house that he punched in, 7 years of bad luck for each -      the reflection taunting and crooked everytime he so much as glances at one out of habit. If broken men were like broken glass, then he'd be a light bulb that burst from its own luminescence - that was too much to hold in its surroundings      that's deemed useless since it can't perform its primary function. If broken men were like broken glass, then he'd be the splintered fragments of photo frames - the shards embedding into the pads of his fingertips      as he tries in vain to piece it back together again, to make it whole again, to make it picture perfect again. If broken men were like broken glass, then how does one handle a heart? Is this why so many are callous to the destruction they cause?       Indifferent to the wreckage that follows them wherever they go? Or are they afraid of themselves, afraid of being naturally sensitive and vulnerable, afraid of reincarnating into the pieces of glass that they break? Maybe it is both or neither, even, but the destructive behavior of men are not isolated incidents ... It is phenomena that spans across the globe. If the concept of Man exists outside of this world, would they exhibit the same fragility too?
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39
To walk a thousand miles To take a thousand steps First you have to be born and take your first breathe No praise just don't scream Directly at me at a thousand different octaves Please see the id that requires asprin to aspire a better passion To alleviate the headache To know true love Is to experience 1000 heartbeats In 1000 situations All at once Few can only hope to feel that What can feel right And what can't be struck 1000 times Three times the life with 333 in mind Minus the 6 that didn't count Plus the 12 that really mattered And take off the 5 that will be forgotten Maybe the rich one Or one of the slums bums Can question this one time Of an aspiring poet To write 1000 lines But still they mean nothing Nonetheless something Will still push 5 by 20 incidents in a infants eyes That will eventually happen 10 more times And If you accept the challenge You have a 1000 tries to win This is the last for the time being 1000 and done To the last poem
0
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
1000 to the last word