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Jing Xi Lau Mar 8
Rain sprinkling on our glasses.
Wind rattling our coats.
We were walking down an unfamiliar street,
Gravel crunching beneath our feet.
You smiled but then you stopped,
A curve that wasn't fully stretched.
You pulled out your hand from your coat pocket,
Began counting on your fingers.
Counting the days we have left.

One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Stop.

Maybe if you stopped counting,
Numbers would cease to exist.
If numbers ceased to exist,
Whatever we have left,
Could only be measured by moments,
Not days,
Hours,
Or minutes.
But moments.

In each moment,
A baby is born into this mess of a world,
But is readily embraced by it.
In each moment,
A schoolgirl is crying alone in a bathroom stall,
Waiting to be saved from isolation.
In each moment,
A couple shares their first kiss.
In each moment,
Beer bottles are smashed,
Wives are beaten,
Children threatened.
In each moment,
A dreamer stops dreaming,
A poet stops writing.
In each moment,
Hellos are idly uttered,
Goodbyes are not said.

How does one count every moment,
On fingers that are numbered?

Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Stop.

You didn't understand.
How could you?
So in that moment,
I grabbed your hand,
Held it in mine.
Our fingers intertwined.

Five.
Ten.
Brody Blue Nov 2017
Here we go again,
Another yarn to spin;
As you, once again,
Pretend that it's the end.
And that, besides your curls,
Your dimples, and your pearls,
You're not like other girls
And you wish you were my world
And I wish you were all, my darling
But I don't get to make the rules

A man is not a man
Because he has a plan
And, just because he can,
Counts ev'ry grain of sand.
For as sure as they are numbered
And that one and one is two,
Twelfth & Vine is on his mind
And Mississippi, too;
But I wish you were all, my darling
But I can't seem to pick and choose

Each time you come back down the hall ––
(Each time you earn my trust) ––
You confuse what you're supposed to do
With that which you must,
And by the idols of the mind
Young is wasted on the youth
So to hell with being honest,
For once I'll tell the truth:
That I wish you were all my darling
But I wish they were all mine, too
A song about hokum
Johnny walker Nov 2018
Sometimes looking back on my time with Helen to be absolutely honest I believe Helen new long before I
ever did her days where numbered
Or perhaps maybe I didn't want to admit this to
myself for fear of being alone, but Helen would ask me to take her out In her wheelchair at 4 o'clock In a morning
Freezing cold wet windy just to wheel her up the road and back, less time to
take her, then It was to get her ready afterwards she
always be so grateful In thanking
me
It was If she wanted to make the most everyday
the day every hour minute and second, no matter what nature threw at her she was not going to be robbed of an opportunity to go
out
Will admit there were times because of the weather I didn't want to take Helen for fear she would take poorly get pneumonia the last Saturday she insisted on going out for a drink, our son begged his
mum not go
out
But of cause Helen refused
his advice went out within a day of doing so she took
Sick, double pneumonia and along with all her other ailment she went In
Hospital but never came home
Helen was In  Hospital with pneumoina she never came home
CK Baker Aug 2017
the banners are blowing steady
(fully extended in the hot august wind)
contemporary in style
tightly trimmed
and all gloriously dressed
in the latest colors and hues
it’s a fleeting distraction though
as the caskets
and children
and grieving widows
are rolled steadily across
the burning tarmac

it’s the beginning
of that inevitable
two part proceeding
a skotoma for the ages
delusionary in nature
rich in grays
and eerily reminiscent
of that foreign reign
clipped in silence
with dark roots of fear
set deep in the bowels
of a chapter
of unimaginable sin

indifference as pronounced
as the accompanying salutes
haphazard sentiments that are
cloaked in the horror
of endless
aborted days
forgotten buggies
and bunkers
and rat packs
how could the switch
be set so wrong?


it’s truly an illusion
(this way of the world)
simple indulgence can grow
so beastly and consuming
try telling the tale to the
tibetan monks
or broad peak sherpas
(those boys know how to get it done!)
how to bask in
the ice cold waters
how to savor
the lava hot falls
couldn’t the others
have figured this one out?


the flags have settled
at half mass
and are tinted
in a charred yellow brown
the lifeless dreams
and inspirations now
in the rear view
leif running solo
(exempt of his trusted gunners)
ready for the numbered lines
his eyes open
to the ever changing
enemy at hand
The Day...
...huff, huff, ...huff
breathe
Not one but many,
downed
twenty-two a numbered set
Push!
break, reset, align...
frost, huff,
Great God of Light reveals our Glory!
breathing...breathing
Field of pain, torn, exhausted,
sweat, rain, mist, colder
as grass-stained; the warrior's drobe.

Situate,
whistle! -stop!
Realign,
Randint, paired, matched to offset...
feign, move
'Eleven-by-Eleven,' storied beget
tension

Forty-Five!
Eighteen!
Okemah!

Rush...

In the fields herds collide,
as Chaos, Eros, Geron, Adonai,
War portends a losing side?
The cheering throngs cast coronae...


Eleven steers to sacrifice,
go they do to God.
The ritual structure to suffice,
Violent nature absorbed by sod.


BULL
The origin of football is Sparta. The Game of The Sun. Contact was only allowed when in pursuit of the ball or upon players with ball in hand. You threw the ball at the sun and any player who caught it could run it downfield. All forms of contact to get the ball were allowed including eye-gouging, biting, bone-breaking or even killing. See Justinian's Trogus.
ConnectHook Sep 2017
White folks: pack your bags and go.
Our nut-brown world is quite offended.
Make your shame-faced exit NOW,
and leave your mansions unattended.
Wait—before you pass the doors,
it's time to settle ethnic scores.

No more ragtime Minstrel show.
Our Moorish science took it down.
Black lives matter. White, less so—
now move your pale face out of town . . .
but first, shell out for racial shame
Caucasian losers of the game.

Cultural pride is ours alone:
kings and Egyptian queens we were.
The glories of our race, well-known
bedazzle in a darkened blur
(clear to Africa's descendants—
puzzling to you white dependents).

Blackness lent your world its light,
taught the Dutch to tend those flowers.
Scandinavia grew bright
under our beneficent powers.
Negroes gave your blondes their beauty;
helped those Norsemen shake their *****.

The Seven Wonders of the world:
we built them all. No vain conjecture
dims our banner, black, unfurled,
above eternal architecture.
Arts and knowledge gained from us
are what we threaten to discuss.

We invented math and science
which you robbed from Timbuktu.
Swarthy wisdom's brave defiance
caused Old Europe to renew.
All our treasure that you plundered
testifies: your days are numbered.

Classics of our Greeks you stole:
Philosophy was never yours.
Shame upon your racist soul;
for Bach and Mozart both were Moors.
Misappropriated treasures
call for ruthless hard-line measures.

Latino fate falls next—but, where ?
Jews, Turks, and Arabs: are you. . . white ?
Orientals everywhere:
choose your side and join the fight.
Blackness rising! Late the hour;
heed your call to fight the power.

Crackers need to check your race—
stop rooting for that ****** clown.
Rednecks all up in our face;
racist throwbacks got us down.
But as your statues bite the dust
your light goes dark (you know it must).

So move on out, oppressor, thief.
Long have you held our nation back.
In some white galaxy seek relief—
but here the light itself is black.
Stars are racist. So is the sun.
Now let God's great black will be done.
Truth is stranger than:
http://tinyurl.com/yc9va3pl

Candace Owens understands . . .
Paras Bajaj Jan 19
The emptiness in my eyes,
The truth behind my lies,
The fall before my rise,
And the goodbyes;

It scares me.

The dark beneath my skin,
The light within my sins,
The voice that loudly sings,
And my broken wings;

It scares me.

The scars I can't heal,
The pain I can't feel,
The loss I can't deal,
And when I am real;

It scares me.

The silence in my little talks,
The stillness in my moonlit walks,
The thought of separate ways,
And my numbered days;

It scares me.

The demons under my bed,
The words spinning in my head,
The blood in my sweat,
And my cold breath;

It scares me.

-Paras Bajaj #PoetrybyParas
Instagram : @mr.parasbajaj
Alike to Twin Minds with Hands and Feet possess
Perform their own Stage and make a Good Score
With such Lyrics does their Rhythm address
Defined in the Air; As once did before
Which, in some Ardent but Doubtful Degree
Would deny the Advice handed down in Print
Since they are a Pair submitted to Belief
That to answer those Charges was far too Mint
Much for their Lifted Chins to Cower in Shame
Knowing the Goals they defer would spell their End
But why would they Work so much for a Name
When in Wrinkles are their Numbered Values spent?
There is Reason why the Pool is cleaned Within
To drain-in the Lust; To blue-out the Sin.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
iamtheavatar Mar 2017
Wake up sleeper!
Your summer days are over.
Tidy up and prepare for winter,
lest you be caught off guard.

For we have a steeple with lots of faces,
and symbols and catchphrases,
and pulpits and pews

—but never a
Duluoz and Kerouac.

And do not mistake
silence for absence.
And patience for
impotence.

For just as the sun rises
from the east.
So shall justice be served
for the least.

So then, let us say:

May our days be numbered,
and our troubles few.
And may this sweet surrender
bring us life anew.

**iamthe_avatar ©2017
A poem for love.
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
This—  This is the closest we have been in forty-seven years. Graveside, I close my eyes. See again, her lips smeared, her head turned, as she had lain unconscious. Whispers of Other Men—   Immoral—   Immoral living—  Declared unfit for motherhood and I am only days from four.  

Before that, in white shift sitting at the foot of her bed and singing quietly to herself. Singing, brushing and lifting her hair. Letting it fall. She is lovely to me. Later that night, weeping, anger, fists and cries.  

At fifty-one I look like him. Fist-Man. Father. He wept in Irish taverns filled with weeping, singing drunks. She had danced the Sunrise on Hastings, whatever that meant.  

She was gone when I was taken. I was gone if she returned.  

A Child Welfare office filled with nervous women, children dressed in Sunday-best and a faint wash of fear—   these memories, all memories, discomfit and jar.  

A metal cup with orange juice. Warm, sweet and slightly bitter. The far end of the room. A bed made in a wooden trunk. Eyes slipping. Box lid closing. Sleep—  

Bewildered, pushing, opened, the room lies stark, white and empty. No mothers. No children. No one waiting here. The lump that rises to my throat is the same one— the same one that rises in spasms from my chest on that dark-boxed, white-roomed and room-filled afternoon.  

In forty-seven years I would stand above her on that overlooking hill. No words to mark her place, a plot numbered between other unmarked and numbered graves. Maybe she was gone again.  

Gone before I could tell her what had happened, that I was sorry, that I would be a good boy, beg her— find me.  

Eyes opened, I have waited long enough. The sun is hot. White lines trail across the sky. Paper from one pocket. Pen from another. I write. Roll tight and push as far in as this ground will allow.  

White paper, ink. Graveside for her. Wayside for me.  
A mark was kept. A mark was left.  

A deep breath in, not held and out.
The Sunrise was a low-end hotel on Hastings Street in Vancouver. The bed-in-a-trunk sequence was as described. The orange juice had a sleeping drug in it and the trunk-bed was used to separate children from parents or guardians without a fuss. '61. Alberta.
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry from common things.)
John died last night, my wife reported

Sadness:

Mostly for him

Some for me

As I’m reminded

My days are numbered

He was a good old guy:

Led a full life

Survived war

And marriage

I wondered what he thought at the end

Knowing his time had come

What an inglorious finale?

Or

Just

Relief to finally be departing

This absurd life?    

I’d invited him to visit my studio

The last time we spoke

He said he would like that …...
Robert G Page Dec 2011
by
rgpage

in times long past young lovers dashed
to reach their secret space.
to kiss and ***** and plan and hope
their future's goals are placed.

never mind their path be lined
with unknown strife and pain.
their love is strong they'll carry on
with carefree youthful gain.

they don't see their life to be
past cupid's hot embrace.
as hot breath blends with kiss' deep
young lovers start their chase.

young love is hot and secrets not
shall block their youthful nest.
when young men dare and young girls share
young lovers start their quest.

its saturday night, dad's packard's right
with half a tank of gas.
with comb to hair in the bathroom mirror
he's thinking 'bout his lass.

its only been a week gone past
his greatest dream came true.
he staked his claim, with hopes on high
and pinned his Peggy Sue.

they talked of passages young men take
to cross that great divide.
to walk the way of their father's
and yes to take a bride.

in the grown up world so long past school
the grown ups just don't see.
teen love is true and made to last
the way it was meant to be.

he got on base with his varsity pin,
the base is numbered two.
this place before he'd never been
he hardly knew what to do.

his body went through changes great
his thoughts a swirling brook.
he cupped his prize with shaky hand
when before he could only look.

tonight's the night he's waited for
yes perhaps go all the way.
to walk with those who've beat love's quest
to become a man this day.

the time is ripe as is the night
it's planned in every way.
she won't resist his manly charms
WHAT MONTHLY FRIEND?
how long does she plan to stay?

and what's her visit to do with us
away from the lights of the city?
who is this friend to ruin this night?
his plans be dashed more the pity.
Hannah Christina Sep 2018
I bought myself a kite to fly
I tossed it up and ran around
I tried to pull it through the sky
But found it just dragged on the ground.

It landed in the mud, it was mangled, it was done
And thus concludes the tragic tale of the kite I numbered one.

My second kite was different.
It caught a mighty gale
I flew it well, then let it go
And in the end I failed.

It joined released balloons and leaves, whatever else is there
In the *****, lonely cloudland in the out-of-picture air.

I still had hope and so I bought
My final silken bird
I told myself that I would soon
Unleash it to the word.

The kite's debut date got pushed back and further back until
It found a final resting place untested in its skill.

I bought myself three kites to fly
The first two meet ill fates
The third one has a dusty shelf
Where it keeps very safe.
Of dreams and men.

I'll probably change the title and maybe edit more, we'll see.  This was honestly in my drafts for like over two months.  I wanted to finally publish it.
Skaidrum Jul 2015
°Lies dribble down my orange-moonlit chin,°
《》《》《》
The truth isn't lingering on
my dawn-ridden lips~
So don't lean in.

◇I'm ready to accept
my nights are numbered
to call you my
soul-mate.◇

I can see the battle
brewing like wildfire
in those lycanthrope, eyes.

A willow cannot compete
with the frost
and an autumn kiss.


¥ Her words felt like
lightning stabbed
a hole through my neck,---¥

When I grasped his intentions.


I have been so
unbelievably *******
Selfish.


To quote an old
memory that I have no remedy for~~
《》《》《》
How do I feel about losing you?

"I don't know."
.
Lycan....

© Copywrite
Impzz Jul 2018
We all have a little tick
a little something that always sticks
and your mouth it moves like clockwork
...since birth
so
countdown days on each finger
our days they are numbered and
outside the mirror ages you
but the face inside it still portrays you now

lose yourself and find it again

if you listen to the wind
you will find yourself within it
and as the night approaches dawn
your mind is here but your bodies gone
so
countdown days on each finger
our days they are numbered and
outside the mirror ages you
but the face inside it still portrays you now
lyrics
Perhaps by then, should you find us Insane
Which you consider Loony in your Bin
For you, Shy Heart, Compassion do you Feign
And Ignore these Squares they have Worked so since
Mindfully, Tears do their Hands become
And strained the Sweat asking for your Favour
At least, bend your Fast-Numbered Face for once
And see on your own you Missed to Savour
Now Common, yet Elegant in their Theme
Reminding you what really does Matter
Faces! Faces! And Messages post-seam
Holidays bid Cheer; Wee bit of Flatter.
Their Spirits engraved; At their Time's Expense
To sort your Clouds out; And make full of Sense.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
SS Jan 2014
Everyone leaves.
I didn't want to believe it,
But now I do.
I believe it with every fiber
Of my being.
No matter the words exchanged
Or the moments spent together
Somehow, they go.

2. There's no forever.
Everythings numbered
Even you and I.
And no matter how hard I hold your hand
You'll still slip from my grasp.
Just as I will slip from your memory.

3. Love yourself.
You won't accept anyone else's love
Until you feel it yourself
Love your stomach, thighs,
thoughts and mind.
It's hard, but try.

4. Never beg.
If they want to leave
Let them go.
Hold the door open.
And once they're gone,
Lock that door
Gather the pieces of your heart
and leave out the back.

5. Learn Constantly.
Make your mistakes lessons
And learn from them.
Then make a list.
All the things you've done wrong
And all you've learned thanks to them.
And read it,
Add to it,
Use it.
Jack Jenkins Apr 15
a year
in its entirety
since my heart
turned to glass
burned
like a silver comet
plummeting
to drown in the sea
sunk to the depths
lost
as if it were a message
placed in a bottle
it's gone
just a shadow of what was
a single vein
a string
nothing more
just numbered days
that i should have let go of
a long time ago...
//On ex girlfriend//
I found this buried in my drafts from over a year ago. Figured might as well post it even though it is old.
Morgan Mercury Jun 2018
I used to crave the feeling of solitude
but now it's eating me alive.
I understand change
I understand life isn't always going to be a supercut
but now I can look back,
and see just oh how fast these nights have truly passed.

I once dreamed out our future but it's no longer looking sweet.
We are all so far from home,
I should have known that summer doesn't last forever.
I should have known our days were numbered for something greater.
I'm proud of all the times we outshined the stars.
I'm proud of our roots,
for they run so deep
held together by galaxies.
I've forgotten just how beautiful we were
when we would chase the parking lot lights.
I've forgotten just how beautiful we were
when we meet up with the sun once again.

We were untouchable, we were on fire.  
What a rush we were.
No one could touch our flames,
but what will we do when our light goes out?
I hope to never see the dark in our days.
In my head, we were always perfect.
In my head, I never fear solitude
because I know we were rooted generations ago,
long before we rose with the sun.
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