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CK Baker Jan 2017
they stained the back deck today (with a hard to match 7 periwinkle)
400 square feet of knotted pine (in a striking rivet sequence)
red ant drivers (who can forget those little ******)
caked fir needles & feather cone
bug hologram & cedar moss
graffiti crack & cut joist
wheel rut & pick
pike stain (s)
sow bugs
foul bits
and two of
its former pins
somewhere near
the erratic 9th stroke the
side kick (and his sloppy dullard)
fell sadly in a cacophony of sick laughter
anxious peckers, poinsettias, grub box, rail stems
lacewings (womanlike in their task), third door down windows
old ergonomic chairs (so highly touted in the checkout isle at Lowes)
all for not, I guess ~ seems they never reviewed the Homestead Manual on Fine
Deck Painting
Rita Sailor Jan 8
i moved down the street
across the pub you've done your drinking at
the new guy's sorry to say
your name doesn't ring a bell
                                                  guess five minutes is five munites now
We, the voice of the most oppressed,
Work in the profession remaining the most humble,
Throughout histories, as slaves our lives still remain tumble,
With our strangled necks, we are deliberately suppressed

For the centuries, our voices remain unheard,
Like a weeping fish at the sea,
We are treated zombies at the rush of a blood,
Collecting by hand, the human society’s poops & pea

Things for us got intensely worse,
We work as a group with an isolated curse,
For our livelihood, go into manholes as bare-bodies
Mostly get out as dead-bodies

From pathology to oncology,
We are treated untouchables, even by the modern technology
We are the oxygen-offering trees that remain green
Hurting ourselves, collecting excreta making this world neat &clean

With our hand-cuffs we shout and fight,
Rulers remain drunken-deafs to our plight,
Hell with your knowledge, to those who go to college
And keep pushing us to the drainage,
We remain living dead and frustrated, to get our right

When asked about work, we remain dumb and blind,
Fearing the responses to our ***** revelations,
Because humans are unemphathetic and unkind
To get our life some elevations.

Our mind said us “Please think! Please Think!”
When we revolt not to work, societies stink,
We warn, Witness your locality *****,
To our sufferings, if you keep blank & empty.

We are a collective voice,
Representing inhuman humanity,
That keeps the society on a poise,
So raise your voice, with a clarity of choice
To get us work with the utmost dignity!
Manual scavengers is a decent term. People who collect human and animal excreta on bare hands are the manual scavengers. The quality of these people in the south-east Asian countries like India remain pathetic. Their voices are often neglected and ignored by the rulers. They remain struck in a state of vicious circle, where poverty and untouchability keeps chasing them continuously and push them towards this work. This poem is a pain of the masses that had been engaged in manual scavenging for centuries immemorial that continues unlikely, till the present day. Rulers don’t offer the mandatory occupational standards and technological support to the manual scavengers. The motive of this poem is to voice their concerns to help them work peacefully and offer them a dignified life. This poem is written in the style of a ballad.
chichee Jan 24
I'm reading a step-by-step manual on
how to love yourself again.
'Cause although fundamentals may be philosophy,
Rewiring is all physics baby.
We all need a reason to escape gravity
and plunge ourselves out of orbit.
Self-sacrifice isn't worth ****
if you're wired for it.
To stand on the edge of a tall building and
think of jumping.
Inertia and hysteria.
The magnetic pull of your body to the ground.
To return back to dust.
Loving myself is
a little bit like that.
Schrodinger's cat lives, Schrodinger's cat dies, but you never know unless you open the lid.
you do not remember,is what you should know first,
remind yourself that:
you do not recall writing an eulogy as a love letter,
you forget about the graves you've dug,
all the pretty faces and estranged loves you've buried here in agony once

foreplays should not burn as repeated pictures in the back of your mind–do not speak of how you have this body memorized—
so you do not put the same record on,
you do not dance in the same room,
you do not sway to the same tune,
offered first to those that intoxicated you with life

you do not light her mouth,gasoline boy
you do not fuel her insides
with the same lies that burned you
you do not kiss her still tasting like the bleeding red of someone else's lips

you do not,you cannot **** the sadness out of her
corpses do not feel anything,do not hear you pray to another god
corpses do not have hearts that break upon being touched by hands that know pleasurable pain well in the most repulsive ways
you do not look at the eyes burning with saltwater
you shrug it off as how you ignore warnings and triggers
we revel in the body's warmth,it feels good pretending it's alive, but the body pretends it's not here
pretends it's just paper skin and friction igniting,acting as catalyst of our self-initiated destruction

you chase your high
the locks come loose
everything unhinges from their hold
darling,there is nothing ghosts fear more than being lost

and after the deed is done
you do not stare at the remains,
you do not paint your face with empathy
it's all for love,it's all for fun
besides, dead girls do not bleed
nor do they cry
**** what
Sharon Thomas May 2017
you ‘why’ her.
While she is thrilled & happily beside you,
Telling you when she’s up to something new.
Your pre-existing notion of setting a “ya” for her limits,
Persistent "no" to her wishes,
She grows up to know that,
if she got to do something new
She got to fight over the, 5 Ws & 1 H!
Ow! & you convince it’s out of distress not mistrust!
And by the Indian parenting manual,
questionnaire weighs heavier at a girl.
“This time”, “That day”,
" This place", “Those people”
Would impregnate her!
Sons of yours -
Son of nights! freely hatching eggs past curfew.
Not foreseeing the evenings his sister would come crying.
Parents when you talk on equality & empowerment,
Let broad mind not hit the very ceiling of your house
Let rest mindset that proclaims gender roles,
The differential idea you set on them,
From who uses broom to who chooses groom.
If misogyny is permeated in the roots of society
Cleansing and changing begins in the family,
Before there in your minds, first.
Tea Oct 2013
I remember crying during lunch my senior year of high school
My math teacher’s eyebrows colliding turning one plane into a fractal image
He had sat there every day for nearly four years
Helping me struggle through an unreal number of numbers
Literaly and figuratively
And again and again the numbers on my math test said
You are less than average

But behind the eyes of a determined math teacher
Never read, what my insecurities where screaming
Refusing to believe the numbers, I sought one thing
Some unspoken meaning
I almost found it the day of my graduation
I almost found it between my teacher’s eyebrows
Wearing it like a point of pride
I was the first of my family to hold
Such a light thing as a diploma
Instead of a heavy head
Weighed down by ******
It nodding under all the pressure
The first to feel the lightness of feather
Instead of a sixpack
A lame back, from manual labor
I was flying
College was my next undefeated feat
Again I let an institution tell me what I was
Test scores tell me what I should meet
Intelligent measured by something
That couldn’t understand its diversity
Trying to tell me I was less than average
When I was just an individual
Above a point of comparison
Excelling in conceptual understanding
Debating and good energy

I could construct social interaction
Like gold, I learn to read people
The power in my phone
I learned that it wasn’t the diploma that I should be proud of
Not the thing I sought after
Not what I would show my little sisters and brothers
To show them how to live better, how to be stronger
Burn brighter. Burn longer.
So here I am
Red faced and scared
spoken word
was hiding, but always there
in between my math teachers scrunched brow
Was the answer
I could have cheated if I had known how
If I knew what question that needed answered
Had realized it was never in his book
I should have listened to what I saw
Not to the math test I took
I haven’t failed by choosing something outside of school
That I am not defined by the score
By numbers or lines
By this institutional rules
Test scores or even rhymes
I am not less than average
I just don’t average out
That power isn’t really in a piece of paper
Power is found in your words
And chosen behavior
That silence and insecurity
Means nothing really
The answer wasn’t in his book
It was in his look
And his persistence to prove
He just wasn’t good enough with words to prove it.
No allusions to talking sticks,
or metaphors of a chrome plated god,
because it's only life.

I can make use of a woman
with supple ankles stepping off the bus
kindling my hips and heart,

(but you've heard that one before,)
and, it's only life, so this might
just read like an instruction manual,

or both halves of a confessional,
but there will be no use made
of dancing dogs or moonlight

in battle, because it's only life,
and I have never really known
what it is I want to say to you.

It’s something like, "I love you,"
but asides from just being
very frightening to say,

I also think, it's more.
If it's only life, it's also
only death,

and what can be said that penetrates
death. What can be said
that won't collapse like engine failure

in the span between you and I,
if I try to say an "I love you"
that's truer than death.
Sam Hawkins Jun 2017
With lift-off intentions I jumped to fly.
I was something like root grounded tree.

Taking flight was so very hard
though my guru counseled me.

With acquired and studied implements
I tried to cut each holding.

My intellect in truth was rather dull,
though Spirit bolding.

In hieroglyphic manual page 222
I intuited hints, incantations true.

Here for scheming:
Fly O Fly O Fly-O!

I recited that fortissimo for a week
in lucid dreaming.

Then my weighed body, my un-weighed soul
together I suppose remembered simply,
God had intimated flight for me
(gratuitously gave).

In classical mind's eye I spied
Icarus sploshing in a wave.

Then Aboriginal Self.
Whoa, Hello! I said,
shocked at that showing

I know... I know... I know...
with ease -- be natural, be still.

Unequivocally state
(this way make a start)
I need help.

so I believed it
so I spoke it

and then I sailed and sailed away
with freedom, my heart.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2016
one thousand poem children

one thousand poems has mine soul commissioned,
a thousand more neath stone vault doors do attend,
patiently waiting revisions, rescission, catch and release permission,
waiting room patients, looking to buy a more favorable diagnosistician

this prolificacy,
nether curse or blessing,
this profligacy,
poem children fathered by single mom mothered,
borne nightly in dreams borne
from the northern, the southern,
the brains twilighted hemispheres,
who coordinate, drawing deep,
consulting a bartender's manual
a creation guide of mixology,
'how to intoxicate the brain'

cheap gin, multi-generational scotch,
visionary vermouth, the reddened cassis of life,
memories in the white grapes of possibilities,
futures unrealized, colorful takes and retakes,
a directors bespoke make-believe tales,
impossibilities, divine and mundane,
all into one admixture into the venous cavities poured,
nerves to blood to consciousness,
courtesy of the ganglia

the brain stem transmits them
fully formed to my
good morning sunshine
cracked and dried lips for re-emission

nigh head upon the pillow,
the hair trigger,
my rapid eye heartbeats, each a demanding sweetheart,
some performed to a discordant metronome,
in a controlled rage, my mental waste,

the residuals,
purified with language as the
orchestrator, debate moderator

dreams, once recoded, once accorded,
the disordering tempestuous,  
neurons cease-to-fire,
now just words, just words, just womb excretions

did I admit to a thousand?

more like tens of ten,
one, two per eventide,
have washed  ashore, for some thirty years recorded

my brain pixilated,
its big shot game controller,
demanding purchase of more;
more storage space, more games,
not admitting in advance,
that it filters blends, conflates and purges

by combining
psalms and ditties, infantile rhymes and
new vocabularies of  human aging idiocies,
though newly acquired, immediately forgot,
so always room enough for
one more episode

I study the brain, I study sleep,
study living and dying occurring at
their point of intermediation,

*this more knowledge gives no relief,
it becomes this poem becoming,
testifying that I prosecute myself
based on the evidence,
and if insufficient,
dream up nascent visionaries
from places that come unlocked,
tales from the vault vivisected,
the proper verdict

sixty six years
of accumulation,
and still know so little of
proper space utilization,
writing poems proper

but nightly come the dreams,
nightly comes the trial,
comes the judgements,
comes a man-made customized
whitewall tired judgement,
and to you
submitted for
judicial review

strange that each one of you
becomes, adopts, adapts my visage,
my words in you, reflected,
a jury of my peerage peers,
which is why my appeals are
always returned in the file labelled

until the next nights dream
James Floss Aug 22
“Rise up!”
Said Cpt. Janeway Mulgrew to
Every woman everywhere

“Rise up!”
Said Lin-Manual Miranda
You have to take a stand!

“Rise up!”
Every woman every man, all
The freaky people in the band

“Rise up!”
Wise up!
Wake up!

“Rise up!”
Get involved
Be evolved!

“Rise up!”
With 20/20 vision as
We take back our land
Steve Page Sep 7
Can there be intimacy without proximity?
Empathy without vicinity ?

Can we live without touch,
keeping brothers out peripherally?

No, that path only leads deceivingly
further into living life more miserably

So rather than espousing self-sufficiency
let's discuss band of brotherly

A brother unity that unconditionally
maintains a mature masculinity

A unity revealing a core fragility,
yes - a humility that risks indignity

I'm talking about an increasing capacity
a growling capability
for actual manual connectivity

I'm calling for a comprehensive solidarity
that embraces fierce timidity

You see I stand against living artificially
I'm all for living purposely

Yes, I'm here loudly
Against anyone
The Campaign Against Living Miserably (CALM) is leading a movement against male suicide, the single biggest killer of men under 45 in the UK. Join the campaign to take a stand against male suicide and get the tools you need for action.
I am aware of how it works
Of how I came to be
Your presence was required
Of this we should agree
For years you were protector
Of fragile cargo so to speak
You brought me with you everywhere
The Shepard with its sheep
Investing time and money
And many sleepless nights
With no manual to speak of
To teach the wrongs and rights
I was fed when I was hungry
I was taught my A, B, C's
I was taught to use the *****
To say "thank you", and "please"
To say "excuse me" when I burped
"God bless you" when you sneezed
Just a general compilation
Of everything I'd need
As the years have passed
I've grown into a man
And I have you to thank
For everything I am
Yes, I still have some rough edges
And mistakes are common place
But the fact is, I'm alive and well
Thanks to your guiding grace
On this day that is so special
I hope it stands above the rest
Know you're loved by all around you
And that you're nothing but the best!
purple heart Aug 20
i don't feel myself anymore.
i don't think anything good can happen to me.
the world feels unfair and unjust.
well who can i blame dad always said,
the world is no place to expect rectitude.

so whom i supposed to point fingers at?
what am i supposed to complain about?
when all of this came in the manual.

maybe i have to let goo, and just focus on myself.
that's what most suggest.
well, i try everyday, to forgive and forgive
just to never be forgiven
just to never have anyone let goo
just never.

i am still full of gratitude.
just like time taught me, and no one else.
how are you supposed to lead a life without expecting? just how? doesn't every human require to conduct in a certain way? aren't they?
Survived until I died
Wings so I can fly
Standing at the pearly gate
Yelling, “let me in, I tried!”

Life was all consuming
Difficult to breathe
I had all that I wanted
I have all that I need

I didn’t go without
I wasn’t at all deprived
I had all of my loved ones
Always by my side

I never reached my peek
I didn’t have much drive
In a constant state of mind
Wondering, “why am I alive?”

I never found my calling
No reason I could find
A constant disappointment
Without a manual or guide

I was lost in my surroundings
When I spoke, I lied
Standing at the pearly gate
Yelling, “let me in, I tried!”

Angels with a checklist
The story of my life
Let’s skip all of the inquiries
Please let me inside

A standard to live up to
Life and death they coincide
Rules meant to be broken
It’s for you to decide

Mistakes are never overlooked
Please keep an open mind
If you let me through the gate
I promise to abide

At last the gate has opened
I take it all in stride
I’m right here where I belong
Even God knows that I tried
Cora Jun 10
i ask 'show me how you're broken'
expecting to be kicked out for my insolence
you show me how you're broken
i'm kicked in the guts

i always wish to fix
every little thing i see
but we're all messed up differently
and love is only one of the steps
in the lacking repair manual
Akira Chinen Apr 1
a good bullet never saw a good war
a good bullet never felt the hammer strike
a good bullet never heard the thunder
  never felt the heat of the explosion
    that sent it like lightning
      flying from the chamber of a gun
       the barrel of a riffle

a good bullet never tore a hole through flesh
a good bullet never shattered bone
a good bullet never bite into a heart
  and held it in its teeth
   until it stopped beating

a good bullet was never made
  was never made

was never made to steal a child’s smile away

not your sons
not your daughters
not at any age

a good bullet was never made

  a good bullet was never made

a good bullet was never made
to turn a playground into a graveyard
where a mothers eyes drained
of all their colors but grey
fill with storm clouds
that endless pour down
tears of grief over the dug open earth

a good bullet was never made
to turn a school into a war zone
where a fathers chest is emptied
of everything but the pains of loss
for his daughters smile
that he will only see
in photographs of memories
and haunted dreams

a good bullet was never made
to turn a traffic stop into an obituary
where blind hate and fear
flows from heart to hand
to trigger and hammer and...

****** will somehow
not be considered ******
when the hand of the killer
wears a badge
and the training manual
says shoot to ****
as it is more cost effective
and the deceased
will become just another name
to be lined up behind a hashtag
and a slogan...

a good bullet was never made

   was never made

to feel the hammer strike
to leave the chamber off a gun
to steal a life away

A good bullet was never...
Gods1son Sep 2018
I remember...
I was sad because I could only afford four textbooks out of five
Until the best student dropped out of school due to lack of tuition

I was upset because I wasn't served dessert
Until I saw a starving man

I complained my car was manual transmission
Until I saw a guy wishing for a used bicycle

I always wished for a bigger bed
Until I saw a man sleeping on the street

I was demotivated because my job wasn't paying well
Until I saw unemployment rate in other countries

I was ****** with myself when I dislocated my ankle
Until I saw someone without legs

It's definitely good to admire better things but
Appreciate what you have
Because somebody wants just that!
We seldom forget to be grateful and happy with our current state because we are aiming for the next step. We ought to take time and appreciate our growth so far
BJ Donovan Jun 26
I desperately need a manual for it!
I've failed miserably at Love.
I tried harder at it than anything.
It's more complex than Biology and
less appealing than high school Latin.
Cliff Notes for How to Love?
Don't confuse it with Lust which I often do.
Lust is so easy. There are no vows for Lust.
None are required. We all Lust endlessly
day to day everywhere we go; grocery, PTA,
church, confession, the loo, AA meetings.
The rich with mistress might have it right.
I'm of modest means and want to want my wife.
I think the world of her, I'm in awe of her!
I wish I were blind. I would desire her anew.
A stranger in the night.
Ochwatts Sep 2018
Seriously though, perfection is overrated held up in high esteem it seem
Most believe perfection is the absence of the bad the **** and the extreme
Most believe that to be perfect is to be pure devoid of all the flaws or so they deem

However, it all lies in the balance just like the see saw, its not the absence of flaws but the balance of it all
Balance between the good and the bad as seen in nature's law
Well its my opinion and everyone is entitled to one with no intent to cause offence
But under the right lens all this will somehow make sense
Observe, there's no love without hate and pain, we can't have light without the presence of darkness, can't tell what's good without the bad, can't tell what's real without the fakes, mistakes and aches
I can go on and on about this but you get my drift you catch my pace
Just like the faces of a coin, these perspectives help us to appreciate, create, associate and experience
Experiences shape our perspectives and our perspective help shape our lives
That's why I appreciate you... all your strengths and flaws makes you.. you. We ain't picture perfect but we are worth the picture still
So just chill, you don't have to keep trying those shoes they want you to fill
Life didn't come with a manual, we are all just improvising trying to cut the cloak according to our coat.
Maybe you should too and Imma be here for you, just grab ahold of my hand and we will keep afloat.
In my eyes you are perfect so just hold on to that boat and sail ashore, I promise there's more in store.
Wrote this poem for a friend of mine who is dear to me.
Filomena Nov 2018
My mind is a prison.
I can read the sign, but it wasn't mentioned in the manual.
Just sigh and move on.
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