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False Poets Jan 2015
like yours
if you'll reciprocate

follow you
if you'll follow me

repost mine
repost yours

pump up those
double discount
quantitative adulations

making everything here,
cheapened and discounted

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave...
when first we practice to deceive.”

standalone
on your merits own
the only way to stand
upright
The reward for our ancestors
Who fought and bled in wars:
A habitat of heartless ******.

What a worthless waste
Of empty vessels to inherit.

Not a gift of love here, merely more chores,
Meaningless words of habit
And badgering demands.

Plastic fruit,
Ingratious friends,
Submitting smiles,
Slimy bags of debt.

Where's my kin?

Ah, I see it.
They're the slaughtered.
Keep your rancid meats, then, suckers - you win.

I'm bound for my heavenly harem, killers.
You can swallow sins.
Thus on my genesis Love's fought Regret
My Ardent Sire whose Merits installed
These English Gifts whom I have thanked just yet
Carried Misconstruction; And docked the Fine Toll
This that Penance be my Honest Attempt
Yet still besieged in case of Bad Timing
The Gold I carry an Issue I Contempt
Will try once more to Win his Best Blessing
My how the Fortunes some drive the Mind mad
And took my Heart back to a Wildman's State
This cannot continue; Much have I had
Sponge this Circled Self back to my Constraint.
The Human in me, the Cause of my Lone
And Sister's Reason I banged on the Phone.
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2017
Rest in this, my bruised and weary soul:
I was a wretch, chosen to be a beauty;
a slave, chosen to be a bride;
an orphan, chosen to be an heir;
an enemy, chosen to be a friend.
I deserved nothing but wrath and death
yet received everything of life and grace.
I am loved beyond any dreaming of it
and blessed above all worldly wealth.
I have the incomparable birthright of those
whose Father is God and whose Lord is Jesus Christ—
righteousness from Him and peace with Him.
I am a cherished gift from the Father to the Son.
I was paid for by the Son’s own blood
and am "engraved on the palms of His hands."
I am the living temple of God’s Holy Spirit
Who empowers me to do His pleasure and bring Him glory.
I am the LORD's, chosen and set apart for His delight.

What more could I ask?
But that's only the beginning...


I will live as blessed as I believe myself to already be,
for "I have been blessed in the heavenly realms
with every spiritual blessing in Christ,"
"given everything I need for life and godliness"
through knowing Him and His precious promises,
"an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade—
kept [securely and eternally] in heaven" for me.
I've been "raised up and seated with Christ";
my "life is hidden with Him" in the Father,
and "He will fill me with joy in His presence,
with eternal pleasures at His right hand."

Oh, that "the eyes of my heart would be enlightened
with the spirit of wisdom and revelation"
to see what’s already been prepared and given to me
and to know much more fully the One Who has
so meticulously prepared and lavishly given it.
As I walk intimately with Him and rest confidently in Him
(based only on His merits, never my own),
I am given free access to my account
in His heavenly storehouse and enabled to appropriate
its glorious riches to every circumstance of my life,
even the most searingly painful and confoundingly difficult ones.

I have a spiritual Fort Knox available to me
through knowing Christ Jesus my Lord,
but He Himself is my greatest treasure.
Without Him, nothing else matters.
Nothing else has meaning if I am not found in Him,
clinging to Him and carried by Him.
When I finally become desperate for Him alone,
I begin to understand the profound reality
of all He desires for me and offers to me
in my spiritual inheritance in Him.

There are infinite presents to be unwrapped
in His presence which cannot be told
in human words or comprehended by mortal minds,
but they wait to be taken hold of by
any and all who would take hold of Him.

For He gives and gives and gives and gives,
and even when He takes, He gives.
#
~~~

Inspired by the Holy Bible
(quotes from NIV)

Ephesians 1:3-19; Romans 5:1-11; 2 Peter 1:3-4; 1 Peter 1:3-4;
Ephesians 2:3-6; Colossians 3:3; Psalm 16:11; Isaiah 49:16

***
Angel of Plymouth, your Winged Heart's inflame
Un-Grate this Laurel which merits your frown
At last you found her; Then enrich your name
So why wear the Shirt if it keeps you down?
Tarry me, please, to your Toried Reason
Which Pure Faith crippled to un-hook your Wings
Fill your Hour's Due; And renew your Season
Then know full well that her Telephone rings
And Live you considered to Sky's Content
Happily blessed by Hellen's Burning Brow
She caused your Curls; Which many Intent
Thus winning her Fortress Time did endow.
Remember this always with all Support
Those Frightened Moments need no more rapport.
#benjdaley
Harriet Cleve Mar 13
At  pychiatrists Christmas party

everyone left their heads at the front door

left their white coats at home

hanging on the line

like abandoned ghosts up for adoption

no one mentioned schizos' or psychos

avoided comments on weirdos or whackos

disdained any attempt to converse on madmen

lunatic's, headcases, nut jobs, sad cases, lost cases,

bad pills, sickos, paranoids or alien abductees

which meant they had nothing to talk about

except how scarecrows are tragic figures

misunderstood by society and crows

'True! True! they all muttered after the wine flowed

in red rivulets down their analytic necks

and caused their grey matter to ponder

on the merits of their profession

before waving goodbye to one another

collecting their heads on the way out the front door

not knowing the scarecrows had stolen their white coats

and were dispensing good advice to worried crows everywhere

watched by sobbing farmers who never knew their travails

It would bring a tear to a glass eye listening to their stories

a bale of straw looking on swearing

' when I grow up to be a scarecrow I will be a pyschriatric one'

only taking days off on Christmas'

'where at the parties  I will not discuss schizoids or psychos

avoid comments on weirdos or whackos

disdain any attempt to converse on mad crows

lunatic's, headcases, nut jobs, sad cases, lost cases,

bad pills, sickos, paranoids or alien abductees

which means we will have nothing  to talk about

except the poor humans and their miserable lot
CK Baker Nov 2017
The feds are making headway
(generously passing out their treats!)
while the whistle blower
and his boon companion
hit the 22nd floor

fiscal plans
are tidily falling into place
and the suits are all busy
chasing their dimes
dancing around the spire
full of wine and cheer
(seems the demand side imbalance
has got everyone doing the same old shimmy!)

they’re all studying their bollinger bands
MACD's, and treasuries
just like the good old days
santali would say
while capitol hill is busy
with its own pleasantries;
repatriate that currency
hold those rates
bring the boys back home!

the affirmations are robust
and filled with glee!

conspiracy thinkers
are busy in their own back rooms
initiating the trade
and building their counter claims
as pork bellies
and soybeans
continue to soar
(looks like eddy and the margin men
are at it again!)

what happened to that bear masquerade anyways?
they really were a band of brothers
colourful clowns
with big painted smiles
ready to lead in any parade
but they met with the resistance
a horned wall
satan’s horsemen riding high
with bags hung heavy
under dark squinting eyes

are we near an end?
the undertakers will say
it's only a blink of an eye
to the thin red line
where risk takers and front men
all jump ship
debt addiction is crippling
and hell breaks loose
when entitlements are out
and towels are thrown in

there’s a center piece here
those pugnacious statesmen
with invigorating tales
have had their place
time to clip them at the limbs
and pull the punch from the bowl
(sobriety has its merits you know)
let’s head to the commission
and throw darts to the board ~
seems the moral blueprints have faded
Every day the liquid of grievances moistens my cheeks
My special mother like a towel wipes it away
Without her I don’t have another shoulder to lean on
Even though the other shoulder is somewhere for others.

This liquid of grievances blossomed into an ink
An ink that will paint my million wishes without drying.
Wishes that compose a letter to you, my unknown soldier
The soldier whose heroic exploits produced merits he desires not.

I always ask myself many questions without answers
All streaming from why you planted a seed you never desired.
You left me without bidding farewell even to mother
As if you travelled to the next world to join our ancestors.

The only memories of you that I have are your handsome pictures
The pictures your Juliet kept as a memory of her special Romeo.
These twenty miles I have walked without you are like hell
With every step carrying a thousand wishes of meeting you.

Upon my arrival on this earth your Juliet named me after you
And every moment our name is called I see visions of you.
Visions that provide a false hope that I will see you after the call
A hope that you will answer the call of your name in my presence.
The poem  "A letter to my father" is a sad poem about a child whose father left before he was born. It is considered one of my best poems.
Jonathan Oct 2018
That got your attention
Didn't it?
Even though I am a stranger
Who couldn't possibly know it to be true
And worth is subjective
Arbitrary
Those who know you would disagree
And point out your merits
And you would weigh yourself
To realise that not all parts are equal
Who am I to say such things?

And yet you take the time to read it
Reread, incase you misread
In reading you contemplate it's truth
You are my puppet, and me your puppeteer
How could you be such a sheep!

Why are you amused?
Why does insult carry more meaning than praise?

It's easy to hurt.
Sticks and stones may break your bones
But words can make you think you deserved it.
We are social beings and so
We look for validation
But insult stands out
It leaves a branded mark in our brains
And so we spotlight it
Unfairly
Unjustly

It's easy to be sad.
But it's fulfilling to be happy.
Being positive is hard
But it's worth it in the end.

How could I possibly know?
I couldn't.
But I do.
And soon you will too.

What are you doing now?





You are reading!

Now you are smiling.
You're Wonderful



Inspired by Dennis Willis's "You Are a Hallucination"

Sticks and stones line borrowed from xkcd's comic.
https://xkcd.com/1216/
Mikaila Nov 2018
There is no cure for my self.
I will sit up nights
And read poetry aloud
And cry harsh tears as my words fall away into the darkness.
It is my nature.
A voice of sorrow lives in me
And it speaks, always.
It murmurs beneath everything like a brook.
It sweetens my days
And swallows my nights.
It is not without its merits
But it is
Painful.
I am a sad person
Always have been.
I ache, and always will.
Love soothes and frightens me
But beneath it grief runs steady
The only thing
That is always there
Heedless of any other turmoil.
It presses into me-
A small trickle, less than rainwater-
But it has carved me deep over years
Deep, deep,
It has cut caves into me.
It is the heart of me, the softness of the stone
It is my weakness and the source of my life
And I have hated it for as long as I have known it was there
But it
Doesn’t care:
It only knows how to continue
Not how to feel.
It doesn’t stop for love
Or for anger
Or for joy.
It gouges a path through all of them,
A deep, steady drumbeat
A persistent crawl
And I am witness to its slow erosion of me.
I watch with apprehension
An unwilling subject
A reluctant vessel-
For I know that as gentle as it seems
It has stripped away all this so far
And will go on
Until nothing remains.
Title is a reference to the poem Elm by Sylvia Plath.
Dr Baljit Singh Nov 2018
Where shall I go counting your faults when there are no faults?
Life journey going through, a horse with cart

I stopped eating chips when you sat next to me
You want to count my merits, very beautiful you are

I write poems; it is not the collection of faults
I could never perceive the honour; three hr.  

Dr Baljit Singh
Wednesday 14th November 2018
Wk kortas Nov 11
Such were evenings of the type too often marked as sultry,
But sometimes such descriptions are apt
And thus denoted as so;
We would be well into the bottles and cans
To such point as we were not wearing them particularly well,
And so we spoke of things
Which may or may not have mattered,
The relative merits of cinema femme fatales
Dead four, perhaps five decades,
The notion of such women who had it,
(Followed by the de rigeur toasts to Chrissy Hynde,
And long may she wail)
Various things which disappeared with the fog and dew
Once sunrise made its unhappy presence known,
And when the old boiler suggested that sleep and abstinence
Constituted the prudent route to follow,
I excused myself for a walk,
(Nodding to my brother-in-law as he nodded,
Possibly but not invariably still awake)
Undertaken in various shambling states of unsteadiness
Back to my mother-in-law's house
Muttering silent regrets for the lack of bread crumbs
Mixed with somewhat less than sotto voce snippets
Of songs sung earlier with considerable gusto
And nearly adequate fidelity to sharps and flats,
And if I had maintained a relative judiciousness in my intake
(The alternative an unpleasant return to my domicile pro tem,
Usually marked with an entrance featuring mud and mayhem,
More or less forgiven the next morning)
I would, if the evening was clear and still,
Speculate upon the nature of the starlight,
Be it the distress calls of celestial bodies dark and listless
Or something in its salad days, so to speak,
And often it would strike me as somewhat less than fitting
That not a single glass had been raised to their health.
Yenson Dec 2018
The Rent-a-Mob loonies, the gangsters and the Racists
damaged scums of society and contemporary politics
Ignorant arrogant sociopaths who want it all for nothing
Indulgent wasters in nation awashed with opportunities
In idle union they scream, feed us poor and **** the Rich

Strangers come Poland, Bulgaria, India and all over
to work in farms, hospitals, hotels and Constructions
Building futures and faring in endeavours with sweat
Crimson gangs and Renta Mobs states we serve nobody
**** the wealth makers, **** the parasites and let's drink

Our shyster gangs of Revo-comrades and malcontents
See killing fields, whereas strangers toil and find rich pickings
Our Revos Distract, confuse, sow seeds of dissent, make strife
Blame all others, lie and decieve, fling indulgent political turds
Rent brainwashed Mobs,into ***** bridgard to do their ***** work

We all know life is unfair and even roses have imperfections
Some are born to riches in spades and some born to beggars in dusts
Those with time, sit and ask God why, just a fact of life to accept
But from dust has risen billionaires, whilst riches have made duds
Insane Crimson sits in spurious guise and odious fallacy playing God

Yeh, **** the Rich and feed the poor, why hide and use Rent a mob
Why not air your case in broad daylight and stand your conviction
The coward you are knows it hold no sanity for those with sense
Except for thieves, the workshy and wasters who cheat to survive
In your city of merits aplenty, Revo-crimson is beneath contempt
Rahim Sterling - Nothing annoys the Racists more than a successful Blackman or a black male with potential. The sick of the Society will all rise up in arms to Destroy them. They can only abide the subjugated and oppressed black male, the ones they can use in Rent-a-Mob...
Look to the person on your left
And to the person on your right
And pull out your phone, and look at yourself through the reflection of your screen

Each one of you has been affected by toxic masculinity

If you looked and saw a woman,
You saw a victim, someone
Who's been tied down and told what to do
To stand in the kitchen and do the dishes
While the man stays in the other room with the TV
And has an affair with the sofa

I hear the two of them are happily married now,
In fact, the couch and the man are inseparable

The man becomes the couch, and the couch becomes the man
defiling that once holy entrance to that place you used to be able to call a home

When you were younger, you couldn't have known what the world would tell you you are
But now that you've grown up, you felt the pains and gained the scars
Now you know where the world wants you, and what role you play
On this stage, where the director's decrepit creaking hands come and defile you,
You holy sacred place.

He sits there and pays no attention to the hardwork going on adjacent to him
His thoughts are confined to whatever pretty colors and captivating sounds float across that screen
His eye lids shut only to keep from having a drought because he does not contemplate
He just sits there and waits for you to be done making his dinner for him

And what if he's working in the other room, and you can't see it, is there some sort of redemption for this man?
I cannot say, but he cannot expect to stand to the side of his life, pretending he has no emotions, teaching his sons that this is acceptable behavior,

Stop sinking into oblivion!

And when the woman speaks up and expresses these buried emotions, hurt ones, she is antagonized, like
Isn't this just another ***** with her crazy feelings?
Like shouldn't she be watching so that the chicken doesn't burn on the stove?
Like what happens if I let my guard down and let her in
And acknowledge that she is a human being?

The man says he can't do that
He can't lose his power in the situation
So he tells her those feelings she has are invalid
He makes her feel like the antagonist of the story of this man's life
And the only reason she stays with him is because she's developed Stockholm syndrome
And she doesn't want to be alone
And because if she's heterosexual, this version of a human being is the only one that's so readily available to her,
The kind that treats her like garbage, disposable, unable to have her damnable emotions redeemed

But a critique of something doesn't merit doubling down on that ideology you grew up with,
It merits its changing
So,

Men in the room, hear me now

You are victims too!

You are told to keep it in, keep the tears back
To stand up straight, to provide, to not show any weakness,
But you are most strong when you acknowledge those weaknesses openly
And possibly discover that some of them aren't even weaknesses
They're just a part of being human

And this trend is so hard to break, so hard to crack through stone that was laid 22,000 years ago
But here we are
The buck can stop with us

We can stop antagonizing
We can start acknowledging
We can stop treating people as subhuman when they express emotion
We can start skipping in the streets and holding each other's hands

Because there's nothing masculine
About treating other humans like ****

We can eventually reclaim that word, but first it has to be exposed for all the harm it's done

Look to your right
Now look to your left
And look at your phone again

Each of one you can be a part of the solution
Not a part of the propagation of bad myths
This is the script to another talk poem that I wrote but never published.
AditiBoo Sep 2018
With simple words
She ****** me up
“We live away from the herds
You and I, we cannot stop
We run away when they call
We stumble after we fall
We are the same
Stubborn and untame
We are kindred spirits
Denying our own merits
We constantly seek to escape
To where the sky kisses the landscape”

I listened in awe
Fearful of what else she had in store
I waited for more
She knew me, my version most raw

I thought I was in a league of one
A duckling trying to become a swan
I thought I was alone
Her words rained over my parade like stone

She ****** me up
With simple words
A snowball tumbling from the top
Causing an avalanche with her simple words

Yet I barely know her
In person never met her
I am a daughter, she a mother
Somehow now, to each other
We have become a sister

She ****** me up
With simple words
A volcano forced to erupt
Exploding from her words
#ab
Marlo was a poet deep down to the marrow in his bones.
Yes, his vocabulary was crude and expressively challenged.
Only one guy knew his secret. The nerd from apartment 3b.

'Right' said Marlo to the diminutive Dave.

'You are going to write my poems for me! Or you are dead meat!'

Marlo was a Skinhead from Bromley and well versed in the art of bone breaking, skull smashing, soul destroying, and doling out harrowing hidings to the likes of young Dave.
He could swing a mean chain with the best of them,

'What about your Doc Martens? My job is to polish them isn't it?'

'Don't be a smart ***! Marlo said

'I just found out you write poems and they're not bad'

'Now you will be writing mine and embellish the words to sound like me'.


'No one will believe it Marlo, you will be a laughing stock!'

Marlo lifted Dave up to his face and took out a razor blade.

'Don't ever say that again or I find a new boot polisher'.

'What is the poem or poems about?' replied Dave in a choked voice

'The Skinhead life and it's merits' said Marlo placing him down

'What about 'the Tao of Skinheadism?'said Dave

'What the hell does that mean? Are you having a laugh?'

No! No! This is what I mean. I need to write the poem with you.

Okay! Marlo shouted

'I have an hour free tonight! One hour and you better be on song!'

'I'm meeting the lads to collect the money lenders stash'

'Will you be using a pseudonym?'

'You cheeky *******! How dare you? What does that even mean?

Marlo went red in the gills and prepared to give Dave a going over.

'It means a fake name so no one knows it's you!

'You know till you get famous and people discover your talent!'

'Ohhhh' okay then, we will talk about that and all'

'Now stay here till I get back and get those boots polished'

'I want the purple shining!'

Marlo walked out then and Dave had a nosey at his book case.

There amongst the ******* magazines was a well worn book.

'My time in Cell block 19' by Nailer Thomond

Dave saw some scribbled notes then.

'I don't believe it?'

Here were a number of poems and Dave sat down to read them

They were the work of a pyscho and shocked him to the core.

Suddenly the door burst open. It was kicked in violently.

'You! Marlo you ***** **** *******!

'You're coming with me!'

Dave was dragged out screaming 'I'm not Marlo!'

'You lying *******!

Ten streets down Marlo was kicking in another door.

'You're behind on payments, you *******!'

The screams were horrific as Marlo worked his stuff.

In his mind he looked forward to that hour with Dave.

'After I finish with you, I guarantee you will never miss a payment again'.

Ten streets down, Dave was forced into a car and poems were the last thing on his mind.
Self love:

You have own mind and you accept other minds, do not impose own vision to others.

You make mistakes, accept them, realize, fix them, grow, lear from mistakes. You can do mistakes and that okay.

You care about own needs. And helps others.

You realize yourself, your creativity, your dreams at the expense of yourself, on your own, and not at the expense of other people.

You are confidence but do not demean the dignity of other people.

You care about self and support other people.

You act according to the rules and laws, not exceeding your authority.

Selfish:

You have own mind, your mind is only right. Your don't accept other minds. Everyone is wrong.

You always right, you never do mistakes, you don't accept own mistakes.

You care about own needs. And don't helps others.

You realize yourself, your creativity, your dreams at the expense of other people.

You are self-confident, all the time talking about yourself, about your achievements and talents, while suppressing the merits of other people.

You care only about self.

You consider yourself superior to other people and you think that the rules and laws are not created for you and you are breaking.

Conclusion:

Only through self-love can you love another person.
Only through acceptance and the concept of yourself, can one understand the person and stand in his place.
Everything else is a sacrifice offering.
All people from the epochs egoists, this is our nature. Just need to find balance.

— The End —