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victoria Feb 2018
Slice it neater

Deep red
thick wet
dripping to the floor
Head pounding
Memories hounding
Do you want some more?

Cut deeper
Slice it neater
You know what you need
Feel the pain
Memories drain
Body starts to plead

Emotions lifting
Fear sifting
Calmness rears it’s smile
Lost restraint
Feeling faint
Numbness for a while
Not written about myself, I’ve not self harmed in years... written about a character in a film...
TS Feb 2020
Trigger warning : aggressive ****** encounters, ****, violence

Walking down an empty street in London, I‌ was drawn to a crumbling, empty church. It's as if ‘decay’ was written on the walls. A sight unseen, I‌ just had to explore. It looks as though no one has been there for years, decades, or maybe even centuries. Wooden trim adorned the boarded up windows and an altar like a hidden stage lay in the very front. Layers of dust coated the floor. Two balconies towered over either side of the altar and what was left of the chairs sat facing the front of the church. The room was almost a half circle, drawing the attention to the front altar. The ceilings seemed to rise for miles and the windows cast haunted shadows on the floor. Everything is dingy and dull in color, as if it was a forgotten coloring book page that has faded overtime. As I tiptoed across the floor, I inspected each little thing almost in search of a lost treasure.

The energy is strange, almost as if it had been frozen in a paradox of time. Everything was left as if they fled in a hurry, untouched by the passing of years. What was it about this place that I was drawn to? What community used to worship here? What happened to them that left this church in this state. I‌ wasn’t sure I would find out the answer to any of these questions until I‌ spotted a dusty old book on a table by the door. Inside was a language I‌ did not know and notes scrawled on the page margins in pencil. “Gratias agimus tibi propter Princeps tenebris, princeps infernum.” it read. Was this latin? That might make sense as many of the Christian religions’ texts derived from the latin language. Since google is a thing now and we have an infinite access to so much information, I decided to give it a go.

‘We worship thee prince of the darkness, ruler of hell.’

I don’t think this was a Christian church…

As I‌ read these words aloud, a whisper seemed to escape from the walls around me. Carefully, I continued to explore, making sure to not disturb anything. Toward the back of the room was a wall trimmed in wainscoting dusted in a faded brown stain. A large hole was torn through a space on the bottom and a faint light flickered from inside. Was I not the only one here?

Next thing I‌ knew, I‌ was on my hands and knees, crawling through this hole. Why am I not able to control myself? I‌ should have left the instant I‌ read the inscription.‌ Something tells me that someone wants me to be here. Through cobwebs and rodent dung, I‌ reached an opening and stood up. It was a room with dirt walls and floor. There was a single oil lamp lit on a desk across the room. The furniture was skewed about and a questionable, almost luminescent red powder on the floor across the room. When I‌ got closer, I‌ also noticed the shards of glass spread on the ground around the powder. I reached down to touch the powder. I‌n the blink of an eye, I‌ was across the room, wondering what had happened. Before I‌ could even form a full thought, there was movement from the hole in the wall I‌ had just climbed through. A‌ little boy appeared, no older than 8, dressed in ***** wool trousers and a half tucked in, stained linen shirt. He wore a newsboy hat on his head that had certainly seen better days. On his shoulder was a worn bag which looked to be carrying something heavy.

“Hi there. My name is Anna. Are you lost?”

He walked by me as if I‌ were a ghost.

He was looking around, almost searching for something.

“Wh-what are you looking for?”

He made his way to the desk in the corner with the oil lamp and laid his bag down on the chair. He looked under and around with a near disappointed look. What was he trying to find? His eyes suddenly widened and he darted toward a nearby bookshelf, pulling down a crystal decanter from the top shelf. It was full of that same ghastly powder I saw before!‌ I‌ turned to look at that spot on the floor, only to find it clear and no broken glass scattered. To my surprise, the decanter came hurdling across the room, right passed my head, and smashed into the wall. I‌ turn quickly to see the little boy and he was gone. I blink and again am across the room where I‌ was before. I‌ shake my head and rub my eyes. What just happened? I‌ should really get out of here - I don’t think its safe to be here.

I‌ turned to leave but caught a glimpse of the little boy’s bag on the chair. Why was this still here? Why wouldn’t he take it with him? I‌ had to see what was inside. I picked up the bag and pulled each item out; a rock-hard loaf of bread nearly mummified, a small black book on elementary mathematics, a very old key, and sort of spherical item wrapped in a brown cloth.

I‌ removed the cloth to reveal a black clouded crystal ball. As soon as my hands touched its surface, I blinked and I‌ was out in the main room of the church with at least 30 people lingering around their chairs talking. I was no longer holding the ball, and everything had a bit brighter of a color to it. The room was still dark but the windows were not boarded up. There still lie some rubble on the ground but much less than before.

“Uhm, hello? Who are you? What is happening?”

I reached out to one of the people and they said nothing - they didn’t even acknowledge my existence. Everyone was dressed in very old clothing. Corsets, bustles, and shiny leather shoes. It was as if I stepped into a chapter of a victorian era book.
Despite the demeanor of the patrons, their clothes were still a little worn, torn, *****, and drab. Everyone carried on their conversations in a reasonable tone until a bell rang - everyone found a seat.

A lanky gentleman appeared at the altar in black clothing and spoke to the crowd.

“My fellow followers of Lucifer, I‌ beseech thee to bow down in worship to our almighty prince. He hath lead us to the depths of the fire and bestowed on us the power to destroy life itself.”

Each person knelt down and faced the ground in what I‌ would assume is reverence.

“For over a thousand years, this temple has held a dark mass for our dark lord, in which we show our dedication to his unholiness in the form of a sacrifice. Who among you has brought a gift to Satan himself?”

A petite, young, beautiful woman rose and approached the altar. Her head bowed in reverence and a veil over her head, she held out her arms. The man took a small item wrapped in a brown cloth from her and set it on the altar. They continued their ritual by spreading what I imagine was blood along the edge of the altar in a circle. As the man worked, the crowd of people mumbled in unison like a prayer. I watched from the side, trying to understand why I‌ was here and why no one would speak with me.

“Ma’am, what is this place?” I‌ asked a nearby worshiper. She said nothing.
“Excuse me,” I‌ nudge a young man to her left, “what is everyone doing?” He did not even look at me.

The mass continued in latin and I‌ watched quietly in confusion.

Nearly an hour passed and the mass seemed over. The people start chatting away as they had before and the gentleman at the front makes his way to the back wall where the hole was before. The young woman stopped him and asked to speak. I follow them to the back of the church. The gentleman quietly opens a door hidden in the wall right where the hole was and they walk in. I sneak in with them as the gentleman closes the door.

“Elizabeth, I am glad you came today. I was starting to worry that your faith was wavering. You haven’t seemed yourself lately since that human left.” the gentleman addressed the young woman as she sat in the chair by the desk. Everything was neater now and the furniture was placed in a purposeful way, much like a room in a house.

“Jonathan was the love of my life, Cain. I miss him every day. I don’t wish to go on in this world any longer.” Elizabeth squawked back with tears in her eyes.

Cain goes to comfort her, sits with her, and holds her in his arms as she sobs gently. He offers her his handkerchief and she accepts gracefully.
“Darling, you have so much more to give here. Lucifer needs your fortitude and dedication. But most of all, I need you.” He says, wiping a tear from her cheek.

As she rests her head on his shoulder, I look around the room. The powder is no longer on the floor and the decanter is on the table. I turn my attention back to the couple and I‌ see him kiss her softly. She turns away,
“Cain, please…” she whimpers, “I am not ready for this yet.” Cain nods and stands up. He walks across the room to a metal bowl with a pitcher and pours a glass of water.

“You should leave, Elizabeth.” he states without making eye contact. “You have no business being here if you will continue to cohort with humans. You have been given a dark gift that you are wasting away. You have been made beautiful to be a glorious gift to our community and you have disgraced us by your unfaithfulness.”

Shocked, Elizabeth stands and walks toward him with more tears in her eyes, “Cain, you know I‌ love you. I‌ want to stay with the community, to contribute and prove my worth. Please give me a chance.” she sobs.

He takes her in his arms and calmly says, “Elizabeth, you know what you must do. You know your purpose. You are the source of intimacy in this coven. You are our only hope to offer what we have to Lucifer.”

Elizabeth sighs and softly agrees. She looks defeated, tired, sad. I just want to wrap my arms around her and tell her it will be okay. I‌ blink back tears from my eyes. As I open them, I‌ am back in the main room surrounded by people. Cain is standing at the altar beside Elizabeth who is dressed in a beautiful black lace gown and veil. Cain lifts the veil from her face and kisses her neck. Her expression unchanged, still flooded with defeat. Cain starts to unbutton her gown. What is happening? Why are all these people watching this? She doesn’t look happy… why is no one stopping this? Cain starts to aggressively remove her clothing until she is standing bare and vulnerable in front of the crowd.

“What are you doing?!” I‌ scream.
“Leave her alone!” I‌ run to the front to try and stop them but I‌ am invisible.

As Cain removes his trousers, Elizabeth stands there calmly but with deep sadness in her eyes. He motions to the altar and Elizabeth lays down. Cain climbs on top of her and starts to penetrate. He begins aggressively … well there is no other word for it besides ****. He is ****** her. Her eyes fill with tears but she blinks them back. He gains speed until he finally ******* inside her. She blankly stares at the ceiling and a single tear rolls down the side of her face, landing in her now unkempt hair.
Why? Why did this happen? What is going on? Why did no one stop this?
A man in the crowd stands up and walks to the front. When he reaches the altar, he begins to undress.

No.

Not again. There is no way. Why would they be doing this? Why is no one stopping this?!

Man after man after man violates Elizabeth while she lays silently on the stone altar. I am sobbing now. Why am I‌ powerless? Why can’t I‌ stop this? Why is this happening?

What seems like hours pass of this horror and Elizabeth finally stands up. She puts her gown back on and replaces her veil. Cain stands beside her and grabs her hand. He recites something in latin then repeats in English, “The marriage of the many.” They begin a ceremony similar to a wedding but instead of a groom, on the altar lies the decanter of powder.
The ceremony continues and I can hear Elizabeth faintly sobbing, “Jonathan…” she whispers. She blinks back her tears and looks up. She sees him standing by the door, tears off her veil and runs to him. He was not there. Men from the crowd drag her back to the altar. She is screaming, “I‌ won’t marry him! Jonathan has my heart. I‌ would rather die than give myself over to Lucifer!” Cain hits her across the face leaving a throbbing red mark.

She cradles her face from the pain as Cain yells,
“Don’t you dare disgrace us! You are the ultimate sacrifice to our king and you must obey!”

Cain drags her back to the altar and chains her down. He pulls a knife from his belt and lifts it in the air yelling, “To thee I‌ offer, oh king of hell, this sacrifice of violated innocence. Come forth and bestow your gifts upon us as we offer her to you.” I‌ lunge forward to try and stop him. Just as he is about to plunge the knife in her chest, the decanter on the altar opens and the powder bursts into the air. A loud voice bellows through the church,

“You dare disgrace this innocence. An offer of such little worth hath no result for a coven such as yours.” A strong gust of wind throws Cain against the wall. The blow kills him instantly. The crowd bursts into chaos. Elizabeth, still chained to the altar, is hysterically sobbing and trying to break free. From the cloud of wind, a man walks toward her. He is tall with dark features. He has deep black eyes and a chiseled jaw line and body. He walks to her. Elizabeth looks up and is speechless. The man crouches down to unchain her and kindly helps her up.
“They hath defiled you, oh innocence. For this they shall burn.” He speaks in a deep voice. He extends his hand and half of the crowd turns to ash. He looks into her eyes and kisses her neck.

Elizabeth looks to the ceiling with tears in her eyes and mutters, “Please don’t hurt me…”
“Why would I hurt the most purest gifts my father has given the world?” He says as he holds her face. “I have removed the human from your life to clear your path to glory. In my father’s spite, we will be betrothed tonight. You shall rule hell beside me and bear my children.”
She sobs, “You … you killed him? I loved him!”
“Girl, you know nothing of love.” He says flatly. She looks at him in surprise, tears still falling down her cheeks. Chaos is still roaring around them as the crowd tried to escape the hellfire. “These filthy creatures are not worthy of your power. You belong to me now.” She tries to break free of his grip but he is far too strong for her. He lifts her up and lays her on the altar and begins to overtake her as she cries.
I stand to the side helplessly. Sobbing with her. I close my eyes and wish it over. I‌ want to leave now. I can’t take this.
Silence. I open my eyes to the sudden stillness and there sits a pregnant Elizabeth in a dark, empty church. Tears are gently running down her face and I realize that I‌ have not yet seen her with a smile on her face. Lucifer appears to her and holds her in his arms. I can’t hear anything. They are speaking but there is no sound. He lays her down and she yells - she is in labor. A small bundle wrapped in a cloth is delivered and the dark lord holds it in his hands and looks down calmly. Elizabeth stands up behind him with anger in her eyes. She pulls a knife from her cloak and plunges it in his neck. He drops the child but Elizabeth reaches to catch it just in time. She runs to the door with the cloth in her arms and slams the door behind her. A furious Satan rips the knife from his neck and runs to the door. He slams on it with his fists and yells. I‌ still cannot hear.
I blink and see Elizabeth on the steps of a church, crying softly. She gently lays the bundle on the door step and runs away. A woman appears at the door and picks it up, cradling it in her arms.
I‌ blink and see Elizabeth back in the church, holding the decanter and stealthy creeping around the corners. She turns around and Lucifer is standing there.
“You have betrayed me. All freedoms have been stripped from you. You will no longer sit beside me and rule hell. You will be caged and retained for only reproduction. You WILL bear my children and I‌ shall take them from you, never to be seen again. This will continue until I‌ have used the last of you and then you will be destroyed.” He exclaims angrily.
Elizabeth stands straight up, holds the decanter in her hand and yells, “I‌ banish thee, Satan, to the confines of this prison. You shall never again walk the face of this earth.”‌ As she opens the lid, the dark lord plunges the knife she used on him into her chest. A gust of wind engulfs him into the decanter. Elizabeth drops to the floor. A‌ knife in her chest, she struggles to put the top on the decanter. She crawls to the wall where the door once was. She begins to peel away the pieces of the wall weakly. She works in pain for what seems like hours until she makes it into the room. She drags herself over to the bookshelf and hoists herself up. She places the decanter up as far up as she can and tries to cover it with a cloth. As she reaches, she falls. Upon hitting the ground, she fades into dust.
I‌ stood there silently, shocked. This woman. I feel like I‌ know her. She is so strong and brave. I‌ am in awe and also in tears. I‌ collapse to the ground in the dust she left behind. I‌ mourn her, her hardships, her life. She deserved so much more.
I open my eyes and I‌ see a little girl, maybe 5 or 6 years old enter the room. She looks around. I yell, “Leave!‌ This place is dangerous!‌”
Bewildered by the things around her, she wanders to the bookshelf. She looks so much like Elizabeth. Could this be? Could it be her daughter? She is holding a small bag. She sits down at the desk and opens it. Its her lunch. She begins to eat and continue looking around. She sees the light from the oil lamp gleam off the crystal decanter. Excited, she pushes the chair up against the bookcase and climbs up. On her tippy toes, she manages to reach the decanter. She sits back down and twirls it around, moving the powder from one side to the other. A small amount of powder escapes in a puff. You can hear a whisper, “Victoria…” I‌ hear. She hears it too.
“Hello? Who’s there?” she squeaks. She puts the decanter down and walks around. She turns around to return to her lunch and is greeted by Lucifer himself, though she doesn’t know this. He is weak. The remainder of his strength lies in the decanter. He can’t speak. He grabs her and yells - she screams and breaks away from his grasp. She takes off in the other direction and crawls back through the hole. She looks behind her then darts toward the door. He is standing there in front of the door. He waves his hand and the large metal door bolts shut. She stops dead in her tracks, stares at him for a moment, then takes off.
Frantically running through the church, Victoria is trying to find any means of escape. Tears in her eyes, she evades Lucifer’s grasp several times. The windows are boarded up, the doors are bolted, and it seems there is no way out. Suddenly a little gleam of light comes from above. The balcony. She starts toward the wall and begins to climb up the trim as quickly as she can. Lucifer is close behind, yelling but unable to speak words to her. She reaches for the balcony and pulls herself up.
Suddenly I‌ am outside on the balcony and Victoria is reaching for the railing. She is reaching for the light. She is reaching for me. She looks into my eyes and yells, “Help me! Please!” and extends her hand. Surprised that she can see me, I reach out to grasp her hand but before I‌ can get her, she is pulled screaming back into the church. I‌ lunge forward to pull her back but land on the floor of the back hidden room breathing heavily. I stand up and dust myself off. I am in the middle of the powder and glass that was on the floor. I grab the book I‌ found and start to run for the door. I‌ can’t get caught by him, he will **** me. A thousand things are running through my mind. I crawl through the hole and head toward the door. Something compels me to look back as I pull open the door.
There he stood.
Staring at me.
“Daughter, fear not. I will find you and we will rule together with your sister.” He says.
Daughter? Sister? Who am I?
Trigger warning : aggressive ****** encounter, ****, violence
eleanor prince Aug 2018
once more
layers of casing
are torn

papers culled
windows gleam
sheets smile

the cost is high
if not see
when to stop

can I find north
after all
I’d asked

so life’s paths
once veiled
in yesterday's grime

dispatched
to the winds
reveal

another vision
refreshing as
spring rain

seeking every fissure
quietly lodged boarders
not paying rent

evicted
as another corner
begs mastery

along with
a neater place
it dawns on me

atrophy
is the order
of things

vacate for a few
short paces
and face

it all again
wrenching me
from the lulling

status quo
of my stilted
blindness
sometimes when we ask for greater clarity in life, to be able to 'see' things at a more profound breadth and depth, a cleansing of sorts emerges on every level
The rose is obsolete
but each petal ends in
an edge, the double facet
cementing the grooved
columns of air—The edge
cuts without cutting
meets—nothing—renews
itself in metal or porcelain—

whither? It ends—

But if it ends
the start is begun
so that to engage roses
becomes a geometry—

Sharper, neater, more cutting
figured in majolica—
the broken plate
glazed with a rose

Somewhere the sense
makes copper roses
steel roses—

The rose carried weight of love
but love is at an end—of roses

It is at the edge of the
petal that love waits

Crisp, worked to defeat
laboredness—fragile
plucked, moist, half-raised
cold, precise, touching

What

The place between the petal’s
edge and the

From the petal’s edge a line starts
that being of steel
infinitely fine, infinitely
rigid penetrates
the Milky Way
without contact—lifting
from it—neither hanging
nor pushing—

The fragility of the flower
unbruised
penetrates space
Terry Collett Jun 2015
Morocco
some base camp
by a beach

in 19
70
a small bar

Miriam
sitting there
drinking her

Bacardi
and small coke
wearing that

very snug
bikini
coloured red

like her hair
of tight curls
up one end

a very old
Moroccan
was strumming

a guitar
him smoking
cannabis

happy guy
what's that stink?
Miriam

says to me
cannabis
I tell her

how'd you know?
A girlfriend
I once had

smoked the stuff
how could she?
Miriam

says to me
I don't know
she just did

I sip my
Bacardi
and smoke my

cigarette
she looks neat
in her snug

bikini
but neater
out of it.
A BOY AND GIRL IN A MOROCCAN BAR IN 1970
SWB Aug 2012
In the freshly seared hours of the morning
there's a hot, bothered growling
coming from beyond
the rose-studded chipping fence posts,
sick with the stench of stained mattresses
and mounds of cage-less garbage-
tossed *****-nilly
into a smoldering, contorted
**** of stacks.

Here,
in this spot of dawn
-in today's un-showered
moist enclave-
I find, syncopated
by the vrooooming scooters
and gassy buses,
a fresh hope diffusing faster
than the steam from drains,
-subtler than the soft soju snores
of last night's  curb cuddlers-
slinking up, down, around convenient stores' corners
past every security camera,
bouncing off rib cages,
tickling the barbules of  the songbird
perched in my utility wires
in a nest neater than my bed.
This is summer, Korea.
This is Korea in the summer.
barnoahMike Jan 2011
Shouldering the Load by Himself seemed like toil that He could Easily accomplish.    However,  The Assignment required at least a Minimum load of that which was EQUAL to One's Body weight! !   " But Child's-Play" He thought,  "I can carry my Own Quite Easily !    So,__He signed All the required documents ,  Applied his Fingerprints in the Appropriate  Places,  Affixed His Seal and took the Pledge.   He then,   went over to Stand in the Waiting line for His turn to come ~~        While waiting in Line,  it gave Him the Perfect opportunity to Totally review the Upcoming Event !  With Heated Anticipation,  WAS how He would LATER describe it !   Just Imagine,  To carry the Assigned Load "All by Himself".   Should He first Squat  with back ***** to get a Better Grip?   Should He First put one  knee on the ground in front of Him, OR,  His foot only, so as to better Stable the Load?   He was Really looking forward  to this New Adventure,  "W O W ",  Shouldering the Load ALL by Himself !   This is NEATER than he could ever begin to Imagine.   "GEE"  He had already moved Up twenty spaces,   He MUST be getting Close!    Everyone was so Courteous , Absolutely NO Jostling was occurring in the Line.     This was,he thought " YEAH,  it really was Very Neat!"   Maybe,  Just Maybe in Attempting his First lift,  His feet should be Directly Under His Shoulders !    Made Sense !~~    The Assignment was to  "Shoulder A Load ".    Even if He backed under it,  His feet could be Directly beneath His Shoulders, That too should Work !   The  ULTIMATE  Goal could be Achieved,    BY GOSH,  He could do it  ! !   What an Opportunity ,  He continued to Ponder,  as He Moved up another Twenty Spaces.       ALL He had to do, was to Shoulder His Own weight !    ALL the Paper work had been put into Action,  All the the Necessary Preambles,  Done and finished.    ALL He had to do WAS,   Take On the Task.  GEE=****  how exciting,,,He was NOW Next in Line!    " I,  AM NEXT ,  Good golly Miss Molly,  " I AM NEXT" !    As He saw the Task Before Him,   A Tugging from His Heart went out for those Behind Him,    As the tear formed in His Eye ,   Should  He-Stay"  and help His Friends  "SHOULDER A LOAD " .......
copyright @2011  barnoahMike       Mike ham
spysgrandson Jan 2013
the candy cane sign  
is gray with frost  
its spiraled dance
stopped years before
the old man died    
he, the emperor of hair,
meant to get it repaired  
like all good intentions
and the clipped hair
that got swept away  
day by day,
hour by hour,
minute by
m o m  e n t o u s    
m o n o t o n o u s
minute  
the cutting,
the sweeping
punctuated by
the clang of the register
the hardy laugh at a racial joke  
the passing of a borrowed smoke  
and the buzzing silences
in between
when I would watch and wonder
what spell he was under  
in his royal white regalia  
chopping and chatting away
(at eyeless and earless heads I thought)  
until I would sit in his chair  
and escape the gulag of my life  
with his ponderous questions
about  
feather light skies  
heavyweight jabbing  
the “old lady gabbing”  
the engine
in my “shrimp nip” car  
and how very far
I would go
when I rose from his
leather and chrome throne  
and once again be on my own  
with hair a bit shorter
and life a bit neater  
for a minuscule dot in time  
I would not even remember
when I thought of his implacable place
in the cold past
The rose is obsolete
but each petal ends in
an edge, the double facet
cementing the grooved
columns of air—The edge
cuts without cutting
meets—nothing—renews
itself in metal or porcelain—

whither? It ends—

But if it ends
the start is begun
so that to engage roses
becomes a geometry—

Sharper, neater, more cutting
figured in majolica—
the broken plate
glazed with a rose

Somewhere the sense
makes copper roses
steel roses—

The rose carried weight of love
but love is at an end—of roses

It is at the edge of the
petal that love waits

Crisp, worked to defeat
laboredness—fragile
plucked, moist, half-raised
cold, precise, touching

What

The place between the petal’s
edge and the

From the petal’s edge a line starts
that being of steel
infinitely fine, infinitely
rigid penetrates
the Milky Way
without contact—lifting
from it—neither hanging
nor pushing—

The fragility of the flower
unbruised
penetrates space
Elliott Feb 2018
The subtle cross between intersections, a life of blurriness, through crossed t’s and neatly dotted i’s I removed from the phrase Poetic Form, (trying to spell it without crossing myself back into it).
From lesbianism to manhood,
to cross what being a man means,

I wonder if my own identity is written in pen and everyone wants it typed and edited,
Yet I’ve taken the plastic keys off my computer board and made them into magnets last week,
Setting myself up with stolen magnets stolen blocks,
Putting them in order on my own fridge,
Scrambling them back because there is no order,
They only told you there was so that way you’d sing a song,
But I know now that I can write words, there’s no need for a pre-prescribed song when I’ve written my own,

In my own words.
When I look back and have pages of songs nobody else asked for or decided to write,
When I’m in class and I pocket my songs into stories and my stories under my low grades,
Under my teachers’ requests for MLA format,
I think of that caterpillar I played with in my room when I was six,
And how i thought about how people only wrote about butterflies
And how the caterpillars felt about that,
So when I asked my mother to ask her friend, an author,
If she’d write me into a novel,
Would she ignore me because I was a caterpillar,
Only choosing to open her mouth and write when my story became beautiful and socially acceptable,
When it grew out from the pubescent disliking of itself and stained the sinks of society,
Out of a hot *** of queer and quarantine,
Till the broth of the fluidity of my own being was was down the rabbit hole
Till all that was left was whitewashed spaghetti?

If these songs were anything I could write down again and again,
In pen, ignoring the requests to write neater,
To type faster,
If I put all my work into an envelope I already broke,
Shove it into a mailbox decorated with things people disagree with,
My pages bleeding ink few people can touch without being soaked,
When they ask me what to file me under
I don’t say “minority fiction” anymore

I say file me under “road signs”
At the intersections.
File me under that caterpillar,
In the wheat field,
Next to hydrangeas on the dinner table
A Sunflower in the spring
The harvested Brown Rice,
So when you make me into a meal I didn’t ask for,
I can be at least eaten by the vegans.
I met this girl and wanted to speak to her so here you guy go
The time of year has grown indifferent.
Mildew of summer and the deepening snow
Are both alike in the routine I know:
I am too dumbly in my being pent.

The wind attendant on the solstices
Blows on the shutters of the metropoles,
Stirring no poet in his sleep, and tolls
The grand ideas of the villages.

The malady of the quotidian . . .
Perhaps if summer ever came to rest
And lengthened, deepened, comforted, caressed
Through days like oceans in obsidian

Horizons, full of night's midsummer blaze;
Perhaps, if winter once could penetrate
Through all its purples to the final slate,
Persisting bleakly in an icy haze;

One might in turn become less diffident,
Out of such mildew plucking neater mould
And spouting new orations of the cold.
One might. One might. But time will not relent.
Lucky Queue Dec 2012
I think I figured out why I don't like pencils
They have advantages, I admit
I draw a hundred times better with them
And write fifty times neater than with
My usual plethora of pens
The colors and textures of the ink
Only a small part of my reason
I think I don't like pencils because they are
Impermanent
And smudge too easily
Ink only smudges when wet, and soft
Then it bleeds color all over the white expanse
It is set on
Inks and graphite, they don't mix in my head
The graphite is always too grey for me
Too dull when I use it
The inks give me the paint of gods
To shower in bold all that I deign to
And then pencils wear down,
Far too quickly for my hand
I need to scribble fast and hard
The pen stands much more solidly
And for me the pencil is too subtle and gentle
Not nearly enough vivacity
Jordan Fischer Mar 2016
My life as of last has been and eye opening, head first dive of exploration interrupted by one, sometimes two day long binges of unpleasant sobriety.

Three long years after writing the first stanza,
The drugs still being explored
This has led me to a more beautiful understanding of myself and my few remaining friends
However it seems that I have taken a significant tumble down the socioeconomic ladder
At least my writing has gotten neater
No longer shaken by the withdrawal of a still desired drug

Alcohol has a way of calming and inspiring me
Bringing forth the thoughts I cannot make into sound
My few remaining friends cut down into a seemingly impossible smaller number
I now awake in the night with cold sweats that interrupt my slumber.

Dreams of panic and anxiety, Now clouded with past faces.
Personifications of things inside me
Faces made of thoughts and feelings, Taking over occupied spaces
Forcing out the beautiful and imaginative
Subconscious taking charge, So the conscious may live.
Robert Zanfad Feb 2012
As a kid, my best days had a trip to the park
in summer,
when Mother had time after work
and it didn't get dark so fast

we rode bikes on the paths between broken glass,
watched for stray dogs
(and avoided the grass)
once we saw two men strolling, holding hands
and Mother said not to stare,
"They must  be  Europeans - they do things like that"

her best friend was Mrs. Cohen-Around-The-Corner
they could cluck across our rough fence out back
or toss apples to one another
were there an apple tree nearby
(but there wasn't)
so they used the telephone instead

the woman, she once told me,
"would just die"
if her only son ever brought home

"a shiksa"

I laughed at the word,
because it sounded sounded funny and ethnic
(Mrs. Cohen taught English)

she let her boy back-talk,
even express profanity
in graffiti on a bedroom door
with black permanent marker
(it could always be repainted later, she explained)

mine met reason with
quick backhands or glowering looks;
once even washed my mouth out
with soap
so I nodded in agreement

I revisited the old neighborhood,
to the teacher long retired;
showed wallet photos
and discussed our health
(hers mostly),
hearing accounts of the son away
years at kibbutz,
too busy to call regularly
or make any grandchildren yet

I didn't mention the trip to the park
which was neater than I remember
the kids played tag
(on the grass!)
until a skinned knee needed a kiss;
where I'm certain I'd seen him, now balding,
the kid from around the corner,
holding hands with a European
Phi Kenzie Jul 2018
Have I lost my way
been tossed astray
depraved and often caught in shame

I am Phi Kenzie
suspend all your envy
I’m plenty unfriendly and tense up when sensing

The touch of another
to shutters and covers
and run for the river, ride rough with the rudder

Flown under the radar
I hoped it would stay dark
but no, it’s the day and it breaks the equator

I could go on about my fears
they won’t disappear
peerless endearment from people jeering for years

Eerie queries in tears
near and dear to mine own ears
rearing iridescent essence empirically in spirit

Hear it speared into the ether
reverberating meter
ceaselessly tinker on the readers need to reach eureka neater
Who'm'I?
Grace Jordan Feb 2019
Six years ago, the normal, brainy girl named Grace died. At least, that's when her body was found. It's likely she'd been dead a couple years longer than that. She was survived by bubbly friends and a doting family, who all were wracked by the loss.

Why is this eulogy so late, though, if she was so beloved? Because no one noticed she was dead, really dead, until today. Not even Grace.

When she noticed her brain wasn't quite right, she knew things would never be the same. That's how having a bad brain worked. She'd always be taking medicine, she'd always be watching every little move she made. It was a constant production, keeping all the parts together. Grace was strong and brave and quick to jump onto that.

However, somehow it slipped right by her how permanent everything was.

She knew to stay healthy she'd always have to be working on herself. She knew she'd constantly be changing. She knew she'd be a hard person to love.

But she didn't realize that her brain would stay broken, really broken, no matter how much of a good girl she was.

Six years ago, the girl named Grace was reserved but passionate. Extroverted but in love with her books. A straight A student. A great friend. The perfect daughter. She was messy, but she was focused. And maybe she didn't sleep a lot, but boy did she have so many dreams.

The broken brain took away invigorating, sleepless nights.

The broken brain chased off all her friends.

The broken brain tanked her grades.

The broken brain made her feel safer alone.

The broken brain made her organize everything, because it was the only thing she could control.

But what made it easier was seeing all her progress, watching the graph of her illness rise, even if it was still a jagged line. Grace felt that even if she was broken and moody and difficult that she was getting better.

But today, everything changed.

Looking at all her meds and all her schedules and all her coping strategies and all her perfect practices in place, and still feeling hollow inside, she realized it wasn't just that other people couldn't fix her and make her whole again.

She couldn't either.

No matter how hard she worked, or how much she believed, or how many times she corrected for every little warning sign, she would always be sick. Grace could do everything in her power to make things easier, do everything right, but nothing was going to fix her brain. It's almost like Bipolar Disorder is a chronic illness or something.

After all this hopeful time, she had to accept it wasn't just that past Grace was gone, it was that the ease and sanity that came with her was dead, too.

Being the perfect good girl Grace just never will be enough. Not to make her healthy again. If she spends what's left of her life trying to find that, she'll always be disappointed.

While old Grace, sane Grace, is survived by a neater, hardened Grace, she will be missed. The late night homework and laughing sleepovers and baked goods for classmates and indomitable confidence in the things she loves most are gone.

All we have left is to stand tall and move forward.

It's all we've ever had.
scully Jul 2016
i have no tragic epic to force out of my palms for you
i gave you a blank page and
you chose not to be a part of my narrative
i will spend the rest of my life trying not to blame myself
for my bad editing skills
and red pen i miss you marks
maybe these letters would feel more natural
if my writing was neater,
my words were easier to read
or they sounded nicer falling off of my tongue

i write and recall and revise
and try to come up with a story about
how i could’ve made you stay
if i gave you a pencil
and some paper
would you put me out of my sonnet-style misery,
take the blame out of my cramping hands
and tell me there was nothing we could’ve done?
let me stop searching for words that are
synonymous to the way you looked at me when
i told you 
i loved you for the first time
take these cliches off of my fingertips
let the writer in me learn to
grieve its muse
instead of immortalizing the pain of loss 
and tell me
we never even had a chance
im not sure what to do
Nightingale74 Oct 2015
There once was a bear,
Who sat all alone
On the toy store shelf.
He watched as his friends
Were gently taken
Off that wooden shelf.
They had soft brown fur
And handsome bow ties,
Just like he did.
But their golden coats
Must’ve been softer,
Their bow ties neater.
What made them special?
Why were they chosen,
And not this poor bear?
Days turned into weeks,
And weeks into months.
Still, he sat alone.
So now, he still sits,
Watching and waiting,
Wondr’ing why he’s there.
What good is a bear
With no one to hold,
No one to comfort?
What difference could he–
A lonely stuffed bear–
Make in this big word,
From all alone
On that toy store shelf?
Has he not been beared
From seas to streams
Marked with cutlasses and ashes
Forced to swallow cowries
Why would he not wear down his face?

Has he not been living
On his choiceless delicacy
Concoction of gmelina roots
And garlic sap
Why then would he smile?

Why would he dance?
The voilent drummers in his skull
Were pounding thier drums
Like groups of carpenters
Driving pieces of nails
Into a hardwood

Has he not been marched
Round the village on pant
Bearing a *** stained with dry hen's blood
And rotten bones and stenching earth
Why would he not dash out his wealth
To seek a neater heath?
Wilder Jun 2021
Staring in a mirror. Again
It makes me feel worse just to see

I braided my hair so neatly
Now it's falling apart at the seams

There's a comparison there
Let's not look into it

If I stick pins in
Tie up all the loose ends again

It'll look neater, sure
As long as you don't look too close

Cause there's a glittering metal barricade
Of a halfhearted hairstyle I tried to save
This has been sitting in my drafts for a bit now
dan hinton Oct 2017
60,3913  N, 5,3221 E, Bergen, 22.05.17

The Germans wear you down spiritually. They look through you with eyes of ice. It hurts when you see your friends turn their back on you. When you see the girl you loved, kissed in the canteen by a *****.  Your heart burns. What has he got that I haven’t? Apart from the muscle that pads out his boiler suit. No-one wants an intelligent man. I sit here sipping coffee in a fishing village café in Bergen. The coffee is hot and my heart aches. Soon we will be making our way up through the fjords to Geiranger. The beautiful fjords that embrace you. There is not so much to bear witness to here. The Gravlax is poor and overrated. Everything is shut. The dreary rain comes down on * A colleague drove me all the way to Hardanger Bridge. The bridge that connects Oslo and Bergen is truly breath-taking. I have seen the Milau Bridge in the South of France, the Somerset Bridge, Clifton Suspension Bridge. However, this is really the highlight of Bergen; unless you are drunk.
17.00 - we leave for G.
62,1008 N, 72059, E, Geiranger, 23.05.17

I wrote to Nan last night. I asked for her guidance. I want everything to be okay with Aline. 05.00 hours I got up to see the Geiranger fjords. They were breathtaking; we passed the Rock God in the cliff face. Or rather; he let us pass. Norway is really a paradise. I think how people only think with their bellies. Helen the nurse abandons us half way up the waterfall. I turn back. The Germans have an acute interest only in themselves. One wonders where love lies. I have found Ole’s café – at the base camp of the waterfall. It is here I feel at home. At this coffee shop I must remember everything properly. I must also forget Helen and how angry she makes me feel.  Mr. Edin said: “It’s the system that makes them so. Everyone is born the same.”

62,0861, N, 6,8687 E, Hellesylt, 23.05.17

I hate my life. I hate my inability to fall in love with anyone and anyone to fall in love with me. These days I can’t stand to look at the face that I see in the mirror. Parts of me crumble away to dust. I feel more and more bitterness, in port, towards couples that have found love – to the point of absurdity. Ice-skating; I drift slowly around the rink. It is the only real time I feel complete when I am alone. I see a couple kissing and happy in love. I feel anger and a bitterness burning up within me.  Why can’t I find someone that loves me simply? Why do I have to do all this **** – the garbage of personal relationships. Hellesylt is truly beautiful. At least I feel at one with nature; even if I don’t fit in anywhere else.

59,4136 N, 5,2680, E, Haugesund, 24.05.17

The war against fat, like finding love, is ongoing. I always feel I am the loser. I am a loser. I am sat in a coffee shop overlooking the red and yellow houses. I try and chat up the waitress;  a beautiful Norwegian blonde. I try and embody the image of a sailor. It works to some extent, but actually only reflects back on myself as a person. The aching has grown less. The coffee helps to balm the dissatisfaction I feel with life; as does the view across the river. There is an English couple opposite. How can you complain with that view out across the river? Twenty-five degrees, surely we must be able to leave our pain behind? I feel myself become more and more alive; back to life. The wounds are healing again. The pain passes.

5,89700 N, 57331, E, Stavanger, 25.05.17
We are going to sit and hammer this out. This book, this journal, bears witness to life. That is its meaning.  Why is it so hard to find love and to be loved? I am only an anatomical structure – corruptible, breakable flesh. Stavanger is quite simply a boring town. You can walk from one end to the other in thirty minutes. There is a church; a freedom monument and slated, wooden houses. Yuliana the Belarusian pushes her body onto mine, beneath the Northern Lights like a teddy bear; she hugs me again and again, never letting me go. I kiss her delicately on the ear. She giggles. I can still hear her voice now and the smell of her sweet perfume. Oh, how I burn inside. How many thoughts and feelings wheel in an instant. How capricious this heart is. I must drink another coffee.

59,9139 N, 10,7522,E, Oslo, 26.05.17
I am on the hunt for a Durian fruit in Oslo. My hunt for Hardanger Beer with the appropriate label also continues. We dock right in the centre of Oslo. The sun warms me. Trust me to fall in love with the only lesbian on board. In Oslo’s most popular café, Kaffebereint,  I think how I get myself into such situations. Maybe it’s because I love long nails on a woman. She has forgotten her scarf. I should really do more sit up and visit the gym. My feet are too busy wandering. Sauna Night takes place onboard – a reward for all those who helped out at the party below the mooring deck. I serve punch and party the night away. For a while I forget the disappointment of people and the strangeness of my body. Oslo is beautifully serene. I walk in the footsteps of Ibsen. I try and make my writing smaller and smaller so that it is almost like Chinese ideograms. I close the gap. I try to be neater; to be better. I walk along the boulevards of coffee shops, wondering how I can be better.
53,35 N, 8,35 E, Bremerhaven, 28.05.17
I am back home (in home port) from the Nordic Voyage. I need to rest up in Hamburg before embarking on the next adventure to the Northern Cape. 21.06.17 at 1700 hours – Bergen. What else is there to report on as we approach the quaint fishing port of Bremerhaven? Home. Only that my ex-girlfriend from Algiers has given birth to a baby girl; she wrote to me. Two years old. Name: Eline. Letters are wonderful. The waves lap gently at the boat. If you ever thinking about writing a letter, you should; we haven’t spoken for two years and she writes to me, out of the blue, because of a Christmas card she picked up in Dar Es Salaam. That is life; life on a boat; life at sea; life on the breadline. A sailor’s life is a funny thing; full of unpredictability.  Even as an enthusiastic merchant sailor I can see the draw of this life. – as tough as I am, what else is there to say? Only that another adventure waits me in Hamburg –

The rest of this transcript, as subsequent potential voyages is lost.
excerpts from my latest book
Stephen KING Mar 2014
We open the door the young prince is at his desk
You can tell he's excited his heart beats out his chest
Pen flying across the paper his handwritings a mess
But he tries to write neater, hey he's doing his best
He's trying to show the world a man they've never met
Trying to put into the words all the things they'd never get
And he gone do away with al these feelings of regret
Got alot of things to do, so many things to write
And he aint even tired he's been up all night
Just trying to get it done, and it's gotta be perfect
He's passing up on fun, he knows it'll be worth it
The looks on al the faces when they see what he did
So he looks in deep places for feelings that he's hid
He's got bottled up, he's breaking off the lid
Think the world gives a ****? He's a naive kid
Mike Essig Sep 2015
by Rudyard Kipling*

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea,
There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
‘Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!'
      Come you back to Mandalay,
      Where the old Flotilla lay:
      Can't you ‘ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
      On the road to Mandalay,
      Where the flyin'-fishes play,
      An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!

‘Er petticoat was yaller an' ‘er liggle cap was green,
An' ‘er name was Supi-yaw-lat–jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an ‘eathen idol's foot:
      Bloomin' idol made o' mud–
      Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd–
      Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed ‘er where she stud!
      On the road to Mandalay,
      Where the flyin'-fishes play,
      An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!

When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
She'd *** ‘er little banjo an' she'd sing ‘Kulla-lo-lo!'
With ‘er arm upon my shoulder an' ‘er cheek agin my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.
      Elephints a'pilin' teak
      In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
      Where the silence ‘ung that ‘eavy you was ‘arf afraid to speak!
      On the road to Mandalay,
      Where the flyin'-fishes play,
      An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!

But that's all shove be'ind me–long ago an' fur away,
An' there ain't no ‘busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
An' I'm learnin' ‘ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
‘If you've ‘eard the East a-callin', you won't never ‘eed naught else.'
      No! You won't ‘eed nothin' else
      But them spicy garlic smells,
      An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly-temple -bells;
      On the road to Mandalay,
      Where the flyin'-fishes play,
      An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!

I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
An' the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho' I walks with fifty ‘ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An' they talks a lot o' lovin' but wot do they understand?
      Beefy face an' grubby ‘and–
      Law! Wot do they understand?
      I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
      On the road to Mandalay,
      Where the flyin'-fishes play,
      An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!

Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;*
For the temple-bells are callin', and' it's there that I would be–
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
      On the road to Mandalay,
      Where the old Flotilla lay,
      With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
      On the road to Mandalay,
      Where the flyin'-fishes play,
      An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ‘crost the Bay!
Geno Cattouse Dec 2012
one plus one is two.
Right?.                  Grass is green and sky is blue. Right?

You have to be up before you come down. Right ?
If I love you you have to love me too. Right?  Right?.               Smoking causes cancer
                                                                ­                            Liquor cooks your liver.
                                                          ­                                  Stress Bums your ticker.

The world owes me for this that and the other.
If I have a cute face then You should let me La da da da.
Get real. No ticky, no washy.

Mommy kept you under wraps way past 21
Taped rose colored wrap-arounds real  tight to your head.
Fed you spending account till it all turned red. Reality bites.
No Ticky No washy.


                             You had a nice ride all shinny and pimped.
                              Daddy said "son you have to learn to only
                            Claim what you earned" and now your ego has a limp.
And your cool got burned. Guess what Drama king.
No ticky no washy.

Pulled up  to the Car wash to clean up  your  beater.
A little wax on wax of to be a bit neater.
pulled loose change from the tray just below the heater.
You came up one fifty short and cant pay the
Senorita.
Guess what  Steve Jobs.

N.T.N.W.
I saw in your eyes
All the days of July,
Summer night skies
And fireworks that will never die,
Framed in infinity
Beckoning affinity,
Your smile glows
Like Rudolph's nose
The brightest star,
You say I'm nice
But it's just that you are
So much sweeter
All the neater
That it's sincere like ice
Clear but never cold,
I'm not too bold
To say more than hello,
But it's been long
Since I've blushed like jello
And laughed without a song,
The world would be alone
Without a presence like yours,
But I hope your heart soars
Over all its discord
And for pain never atone
Except the twang of true love's chord...
APAD13 021 - © okpoet
Kay P Mar 2014
I feel in love with a girl, once.

She was shy and sweet and liked to keep to herself.
She only spoke when spoken to, and it was always much too quiet
to hear properly
or above everyone else.
Instead of asking her to speak up
I learned to listen.

I fell in love with a girl, once.

She had brown hair and the sort of eyes
poets dream of
I'm no Romeo but Paris better keep to himself
For starlight shifted in those orbs of blue-grey-green
and whole galaxies exploded into being
in my chest
expanding and multiplying
with the power of the universe.

I fell in love with a girl, once.

Her gaze dipped from mine whenever I complimented her
but she gave the sweetest smile
when she thought I wasn't looking
(and I was always looking)
and my mind refused to stop its hellbent pace
as it named our children and decided
she'd have the perfect wedding
she'd be a teacher
(it was her dream)
and I'd be an author
(a dream of my own)
that I'd rock her to sleep
(she has problems dreaming)
and play with her fingers
(so small in my own)
and buy her a constellation
(she loves stars more than she loves life)

I fell in love with a girl, once.

Knowledge flew from her lips as easily as prose from my pen
Facts she deigned to know
littered my mind in her voice
and I strived to remember it all
I did not always have any particular passion for the subject
but her voice was all I needed to become
the most adept student
in existence.

I fell in love with a girl, once.

My iPod filled itself
with music she'd hum under her breath
and I found her in the moments between thought
the pauses between songs
the spaces between stars.
She seeped through my life
leaving stardust on all she touched
She glowed in my mind
as the full moon on a clear night
controlled my emotions
as the moon does the tides
unintentional as gravity.

I fell in love with a girl, once.

Death slipped through her lips
and walked beside her as a constant companion
Her fingers were stained with acts of self-violence
her pale skin bruised and battered
her smiles quickly becoming
the most beautiful endangered species
She was my happiness
but I was no good for her
only another
on the long list
of unworthy.

I fell in love with a girl, once.

I couldn't tell her sister or her mother
her father, or mine.
I could never let the words slip from my own lips
grace her ears with harsh emotion
though she deserved every word
though  they were the truth in every sense
I could only tell our friends
and they knew all along.

I fell in love with a girl, once.

Her hands were small, compared to mine
Her body was petite.
She was soft where I was sharp
smooth curves where I was harsh angles
She was by far more polite and feminine
neater and far more oriented
Whilst I was dirt and mudpies
piles of belongings and wipe-your-nose-with-your-sleeve
She was the good, of the two of us
but ask her and she'll say
the same of me.

I fell in love with a girl, once.

Slipped, more like
slid without noticing
descended at a pace most distressing
in hindsight
and ended up in far deeper in water
than could have been anticipated
(and I can barely swim)

I fell in love with a girl, once.

And still, I sink.
Spoken Word Poem, kinda
tanayja thomas Oct 2014
Its Bad

It make Many people sad

it's dangerous

The only way you can make it if you're courageous


There are many people still getting killed

As you can see the struggle is still real

Many people don't care

Until the only choice  is to shed a tear

Many people are still not trying to change

It is really strange

The community is not better

So someone needs to write that change letter

The community is like hell

That nearly fell

The community is the most horrible place to be According to me

The community is competition and everyone want to win

But there is no changed men

And yet everyone has the nerves to complain

Instead of trying to maintain

Thats my expectation on my community

We would need some fluency

We would need someone who can encourage us

And may not fuss

We need a leader

So this community can be neater

We would need a better community basically

We would need people to take ownership for Their good deeds

We would need a power community

To build a better economy

We would  need powerful people

To make the community equal

The community did not grow

It exactly explode

It declined

Like everyone is so blind

And thats my expectation on the community in about 6 months - 3 years
Simon Clark Aug 2012
(Song title from The Beatles’ catalogue, by Lennon/McCartney)

Nothing nicer,
Sinful sweetness,
Darling desire,
Every time we come together.

Nothing neater,
Sinful stardust,
Darling dancing,
Every time we come together.
written in 2009
Pep Sep 2015
I talk to you as I talk to myself
but the words find their way back to me
a friend beyond romance, and drama
the perfect stimulation for mentally
disposing of the clutter in my mind
telling jokes that were never funny
selling secrets that were easy guesses
showing the neater sides to my messes
and as these pathetic burdens lessen
to reveal that I wish I were as much to you
and then you tell me on a rainy afternoon
that I give you peace
which for everything that is the least
I could do.
I think you taught me what love is.
So thank you
I miss you.
~sigh~ My best friend lives so far away.
jeffrey robin Aug 2014
)     :: O ::    (
////    •  |||
<>


(  •  )   (  •. )


//////

In praise of DIVINUS

//

I walk with measured steps
Thru the childhood days

Past the **** heads dying in the park
Thru to the cutters and the depressed kids

Who write of lovelessness
Here on hello poetry

///

On the brink of World War III
Wounded to the very heart

Telling of the pain of Loneliness
(   Such deep and penetrating loneliness. )

••

The tenemented poverty
The isolation


The continuous onslaught
The reverberations

The utter lack of hope
The utter abandonment of faith

/:/

The frighten refusal to see
The universality of the dissolution

The pandering to collectivity
The "me-too" egoism

That says
Sadness is enough
misery is qualification enough

The lack of rebelliousness
The turning of suffering into normalcy

The steady worship of authority
The denial that there will be a reckoning tomorrow

••

All the hippies are gone
Replaced by violent lovers and *** addled addicts

The plight of lemmings
Going over the cliff
Into the sea

///

Dear people
There is

Something
Much better

Much finer
Neater

More holy
And satisfying

Than to simply
await death

While telling each other
Nothing of significance
Tiara Prasad Dec 2014
When I was young,
I used to draw.
My lines were a wriggle,
My sketches were a scribble.                          
My colours were a rebel,
Of unmatching lights.
My sky was red.
My trees were blue.
My grass was violet.
Hanging from the dew.

And then I went on,
And learnt to grow.
They taught me, or they say so,
How to draw.

I draw now.
The lines I draw are straighter now.
The pictures I make are neater now.
The colours I fill are existent now.
'What have I learnt?', I ask myself.
You say you've helped me grown. So.
This is what I learnt. I answer,
I drew them a perfect box.
And painted it black.
did you not know the house is tidy,

when you criticise the hedges?. did



you not know my garden is neater

than yours?.



now.



you came from the north adding racial

remarks.



yet act the same here

as that which you say they do.



it is such a


conundrum
kəˈnʌndrəm/
noun
it is kind of you to help,
to feed the cat.
am i the only remain
this side of the village?
sbm.
Lila Lily-Thanh Jul 2010
Are you confused when I talk to her in our language, yet
it is completely out of context, you just laugh it off because you
have no idea?

Are you confused when I do not look into your eyes, let out
a weary, wicked smile; and you think I just daydream, but
the night is already here?

Are you confused when your phone keeps ringing as if
somebody has been frustrated to hear your voice even
just for one minute, yet I just leave you there?

Are you confused when the things I used to do
for you are slowly disappearing, and your passionate questions
just hang unanswered in the air?

Are you confused when the apartment looks exactly
the same, clean and a little neater perhaps, but you can no longer
smell the aroma of my hair?

Are you confused when they ask you why we broke up,
why someone like me would leave someone like you,
and you really do not know what to share?

My dear, I was even more confused than that. I was
not myself with you any more, but when I really saw
you – I made up my mind and could not be late
for another minute.
Originally posted here: http://vietthanh.wordpress.com/2009/04/13/on-time/
Marigold Nov 2011
Your feet are not firm enough.
Moment.
Concentration lapse.
You float away, or you sink down,
Through layers of yourself hidden so long.

Are the bird's feathers necessary?
Or just for decoration?
Let us arrange them better,
Neater,
Not  a one out of place.

If only we had some scissors and some glue,
Then you too, brave friend, could become as the birds.

The sky would taste sweet - but not sickly.
I feel it would taste of health,
But to reach it is so far.
Stand on my shoulders and perhaps you'll make it.

Float on into perception.
Tic Toc Tic Tic Toc
The clock goes on
Like a siren’s song
Calling me into a long sleep
The clock goes on
Until you hear twelve gongs
In this game of time it plays for keeps

Tic Toc Tic Tic Toc
Around and Around this clock with its sound
Like the crier of the town
Trying to tell the news
But nothing’s done, is what we’ve found
Whether it’s humans or hounds
Now it’s time for a snooze

Tic Toc Tic Tic Toc
Am I like the clock, in the endless loop?
Working til my eyes droop
til I can finally count sheep?
Am I a baller, never getting the hoop?
following orders like a troop?
Or am I a leader, one a little neater, like little bo beep?

Tic Toc Tic Tic Toc
Time goes on
It’s time to move on
But nothing ever got done
The sun moves on
Nearing the dawn
Now it’s time for fun

Tic Toc Tic Tic Toc
Now that it’s night
It’s time to take flight
Leaving my other life behind
Of that plight
I’m starting to lose sight
And happiness is what I find

Tic Tic Toc Toc Tic Tic Toc Toc
"Born in a brothel, raised in a tavern, rode in a coffin, died in the streets" - Warkos Diméaus (Nhlanhla Moment)

Tellaby Tellaby neater than me
Tellaby telling me her guy I cannot be
She is a girl that all desire
She kindles the day like fire

Tellaby Tellaby she be a queen
Telling me I am not fit and ill-willed
I sought to hold her like the air circles in the wind
I need her like wool and sheep are twins

Tellaby, Tellaby I wish guys could see
This unsurmountable beauty that she shows me
Tellaby tells me I can only wish,
To have her as mine is like sands that have fish.
Not a thing but a telling wish
Tellaby, she has a heart so rich.
For: Don Warkos
Norman dePlume Dec 2015
an edge, the Double facet
becomes a gEometry--
but each petAl ends in
    But if it enDs
but love is at an End--of roses
              cementiNg the grooved
                       colD, precise, touching
               columnS of air--The edge
Crisp, worked to deFeat
     cuts without cuttIng
                            edGe and the
                           figUred in majolica--
        from it--neitheR hanging
    From the petal's Edge a line starts
    glazed with A rose
                              infiniteLy fine, infinitely
                                      It Is at the edge of the
itself in metal or porcelaiN--
          laboredness--fragilE
    makes copper roses
         meets--nothing--renews
           nor pushing--
         penetrates space
                       petal that love waits
             plucked, moist, half-raised
              rigid penetrates
      Sharper, neater, more cutting
so that to engage roses
  Somewhere the sense
               steel roses--
            that being of steel
          the broken plate
The fragility of the flower
           the Milky Way
The place between the petal’s
        The rose carried weight of love
       The rose is obsolete
        the start is begun
     unbruised
    What
whither? It ends—
without contact--lifting

— The End —