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East Wind Oct 2018
The old man said:
The key to contentment is to find yourself
deep within yourself until you can learn to drown out the voices of the world.
For so long, I was confused about what he was trying to say. Now I think I understand. It's all about believing in our own capability to handle life as it comes. Other people's validation may seem nice and sometimes it is but it is never to be our main source of motivation or strength. What other people think about us does not determine our ability to be sufficient. We have to understand who we are and be comfortable with ourselves; our hopes, dreams, strengths, and failures too. Because when we understand all of the beautiful, ugly, dark, and beautifully dark parts that live within us and learn to accept them, we can lovingly work to better ourselves. I read a quote today, "Wherever we're trying to go, we do not bully ourselves there. We believe ourselves there."-Leeana T. When we love our own self enough to stop listening to the chatters of world, we can finally let go of our self-loathing and take a step forward to being content.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
--- as a boy, I explored a hermit's lair
--- the hermit was not there, he'd left nothing but a tin box
--- of charcoal pills, a panacea for curiosity, I was told.

This old bearded fellow who lived at the foot o'thumb butte,
by the burro's water hole,
other side o'the hill from Doug McVicar's Jasper find

Tidal shorelines from my child hood
swirling through the softed rocks

Boulders on the bottom, roll on, crustal waves rise and fall

it all goes back to that 13,000 year mark
when Gobekli Tepi,
was in the building,
long long before
the Hopis were on the Pollen Way, leaving land marks on

Rocks risen above the desert floor

Some thing came from space, something very cold,
a snowball so big it tugged the ocean of magma
through the crust of the earth

nuclear glass, same time. nano diamonds

The younger dryas-

melt water pulse, fire from the sky, men could see that, with their own eyes.
and then they saw the clouds of witnesses

Rituals learned, the story heart seeps from mother to child,

at first touch some say.

Specialized touches were included in the 2.0s.
Holistic wuwu Randall Carlson laughs, why lie? Evidence, see.

What did you see when you passed through hell the first time?
Nothing, you kept your eyes shut.

Are you really
Experienced? That was the question. Ask the experts,
but some of them lie.
Never trust their clocks, that's wise. Time is too temporary to make
much difference
in the long run. Time, least of all powers in eternity. Chronos,
Chaos shattered him, and some story teller on a journey
saw the event
while his tongue was being tamed, a task no man can do.

Fire and Ice from heaven to earth,
whole peoples saw it,
with the eyes in their head

Hope is the key to the heart's lock on reality

The younger Dryad's oak burned,
Drought killed all the others, bugs killed the elms.

Ah spirit to spirit, compare. The heart of the world is weeping
for the ignorant eaters of poisoned poems and stagnant stories

speed kills when it comes to cosmic notes on rocks

patience, under stand the canopy of heaven can, filter
poison from those
stagnant stories's idle words, redemption draweth nigh,

count on it. Keep counting, patience finishes what she starts.

Sacred Geometry, scale invariance, I saw the Mississippi
Carve meandering ant canyons in the dirt
while watching the rain
Nothing's secret anymore, that's a reality that may be beyond

your thought. Textbook in stone. I know geometry Mr. P,

can I come in? She who builds, who destroys, who rebuilds, suggested
my bombs have a Nobel role,
in energizing

the ark
the earth is the ark, but you knew that already, right.

Acacia bush visions from a medium
of messaging the master builder,
who, you know, made this
happen, used to heal with ashes.

Healing war, study it no more, it is
possible man, alone, can imagine.

The Godhead? What's the big idea? You a heretic, Mr. P?

Come and see, leave the clock/phone.
---

This is big momma story, little clay doll with pointy feet
sticks in the dirt, stares at the fire,

the story mamma, shhh

Stands, and lifts her hands up high, pointing
all her fingers to the skies where ashes, glowing
rise,
like we can imagine the stars once scattered by God
and his sons's servants prepping

origins of human conflict taught
Tubalcain by fire light, while Jubal
Sang the very umph umph song from
Taj Mahal' 1970 with Jerry, Fillmore West,

A message to Garcia, from on high:
the imbecility of the average man—
the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it,
That, resist. It is evil.

Angels, imaginable, you know, mere messages, nothin more,

so great a cloud of witnesses
there was a times when  all
imaginations men were imagining heartily
were evil, altogether.

Enki left and went to the moon, or that's the story grandma's
sisters told me
when I was a little boy lost and found from time to time

The serpent on the staff, where's that story from?
Who says their mammy saw that happen.

Time, Hosts of Heaven, time is one of those.

Fan tasty taste, see, the truth is good.

Freedom, responsible freedom, take as granted,
intend good and go.
Seed of the Dream,
I planted that. It contained this fact,

we reap what we sow.

Ambi-Dios, ambit-ion with no hope for something just beyond
the best that I have ever done,
that'll make a child mean as hell, on the average,
according to the data Google smuggled into China
through those super phones,
unavailable in the USA, protected by the wielders
of destruction who eat the world up,
and drink its very blood.

the bread of shame, is fed to slaves to keep them in the queue,

BTW que-eee was the word I used for ****, when I was a child.
I took that word to school.
Nobody knew what it meant. I considered that cool
and kept my secret until just now.

I feel so free.

A builder sees a building and the builder in a single glance.
None may enter here lacking geometry, that's no secret now.
The cultivated Pythagorean mind, simple as pi.

'Cain't get to Romans eight, which is here, now, I think,
with out going beyond Hebrew six.

The measure of a man that is the angel. No comma,
just a jot, then this means that,
to the mind
listening for mystery in beauty found lying around.,
glistening in the sun.
The charcoal pills I found fifty three years ago, these wandering thoughts I found dancing the trail earlier this morning.
Pyrrha Feb 24
I'm a diamond, I don't need your permission to shine
...means,

             never having to

                                          ask

              ­ permission.
To those who protest you are Patriots: let your voice be heard.
Mystic Ink Plus Aug 2018
Riding through
A hallway
Lying in the bed

A Journey
Out of the body
Beyond the border
Beyond this space and time
Somewhere
In the unknown
With glory and honor

Permission asked,
Can I close my eyes?

All I can say is
Thanks
Good night
To the light
Genre: Experimental
Theme: Sleep till near-death, wake up in solace, happiness lies in your bed
ryn Mar 2015
I don't seek your permission...
To write about the what, why and how.
It could be a haiku or come in the shape of a cow.

I don't need your approval...
When I don't sound the least bit poetic...
In my mismatched metaphors or ill-rhymed acrostic.

I'm not asking for your blessing...
When I pen down and put up what I think...
Be it in cloying cliches or in tear drenched ink.

I don't crave for your understanding...
When my 10 word poems weren't filtered through your poetic lens,
Or if my contributions in collaborations lack in sense.

I don't hope for your likes...
If my content does not tickle your fancy,
Or if my words just rubs you silly.

I mean no disrespect...
But don't be too quick to click on the 'comment' button.
Private messaging has been put there for a reason.

I don't mean to cramp your style...*
You're entitled to your own opinions of course...
But if you've got nothing good to say, please save it and shove it up yours.
.
This is a peaceful community, almost sacred to many. All bearing a heart (hale or ailing) are welcome to spill their ink... Regardless of writing experience or poetic prowess.

Bear in mind that people write for various reasons. Some are really good at it, some are just barely starting. Some ask for feedback, some just want an outlet.

So... Be nice. Use the private messaging feature if you really need to offload your thoughts on another's text offering.

Respect and be respected.
.
multi sumus Aug 2018
Hand upon the
nape
   Sweetened
kisses are taken
  Derobing to reveal
thy beauty.

                        With throat grasped
                           Stealing the taste
                        from your lips
                           Stripping the
                        covering that hides
                        you
.

   Gentle your body
lain upon the pillow
silk and soft be
the binding.

   Marks of
rememberance
remain by subtle
suckings cascading
towards the basal.

                         By hands command
                          your form is cast
                          upon the floor
                         Bound that escape
                          be denied.

                         Nibbles
                        turn to bites leaving
                         soothing bruises as
                         descent is begun
                         unto the nethers
.

Whimpered whispers
echoe as your
suppleness
undulates in rythms
patterning the lappings

Quivering awaiting
such satiation.

                              Muffled screams
                              break the violent
                              silence as your
                               writhing body
                         calls to the lashings

                          In anticipation you
                             quake seeking a
                               reprieve
.

   And with each passing moment your taste grows sweeter still
   Enticing me with every stroke

                   Pace quickens!
                    Air thickens!
                   Flesh stiffens!
           A last gasp and then
!...

                  INTERRUPTION

Tongue swirls and
tender kiss upon
the thigh, Soon my love
soon you will find
content and deep are
the sighs from within.

                              Skin swells from
                       the sting, Permission
                      has not been granted
                        for your release and
                         heavy is the breath
                          that escapes
.

And gazing upon
such a vision as the
candlelight refracts
within the salted beads
formed upon the skin.

Hand found nestled
enveloped by the
succulence, Softly
caressing now wetted
and warm.

                         And while savoring
                          your slavery sweat
                           pools beneath
                       reflecting the flames
                          throughout.

                   ­          Quick slip fingers
                            within, Beckoning
                             come hither as
                             thumb rubs firm
                             upon the shroud
                      while palm drips full
                            and overflows
.

The time is near
that your freedom
be found for now
loosened be your
desire.

                       It is now the offering
                              is demanded!
                        Present to me your
                          gift upon this altar
!

   Hands hastened as tips tickle bringing closer the moment
   Moans escalate to howls announcing your forthcoming
   And upon the pinnacle i sit awaiting your arrival

   Unable to contain with body bowed and exhaustive breath, A last cry and...

   Explosions unseen before as flesh trembles in ecstacy


               And i, i am found

Collecting your
essence that my
thirst be quenched.

                         Receiving the sweet
                              amrita as my
                                   libation
.

     And leaning to kiss the tears from your cheek i whisper
                "Once more?"
With a silent nod you agree...


Ahh My Dear, The night is still young, And this is merely the beginning of your pleasures
.
False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
No poet asked any poet before writing; the point; individual
Englishman said; Baljit looks good while talking
Why wish him becoming stone

Those who love him shall be saddened
Keep raising your family but be out of slavery.

There must remain two pilots in the cockpit, Englishman said.
The public hospital hired the private to charge a handsome fee, health inequity prevails.

The world is going to be like that
I ask you, do your writing

Dr Baljit Singh
Saturday, 20th April 2019
Permission to disappear... for a few years?
I ask to be pardoned, while I become a stranger
as I'm so uncomfortable being so ******* familiar.
Let me go, leave me to become a nobody to everyone
In order to become
SOMEONE
to myself.
Pyrrha Jul 2018
I want
To fall in love with someones smile
To swoon under their gaze
To become dizzy with their touch

I want
To crave someone like an addiction
To nestle up to their warmth
To get an adrenaline rush from their scent

I want
To hold them and never let go
To tell them how much I love them everyday
To keep discovering them like it's my personal quest

I want
To give them my heart
To love them for all that they are
To keep them from the tainted world

I want
But what can I do with these contaminated hands?
How dare I try to hold them close with these hands of mine flowing thick with lies?
To tell them sweet nothings with my corrupted tongue?

My love
Is like a wildfire
Sudden, quick, and innocent
Without my permission my little spark turned into a flame
And consumed everything that contained a letter in your name

My love
Is like a wildfire
Untamed, ephemeral, and dangerous
It destroys all it touches,
Breaking barriers, burning bridges
It envelopes everyone in its warmth leaving no option but to run or turn to ash

Beware of my wildfire love
You cannot leave unscathed
I leave a scar

Beware of my wildfire, love
Because I'll burn enough for us both
I'll keep you warm on cold nights and dry on rainy days
I will set your heart ablaze and love you with all the force of my wildfire

Beware of my love,
It can't be forgotten nor replaced
This is the first time posting a poem on here as I am a new member, I hope whoever stumbles upon my work enjoys and relates!
Still Crazy Sep 2014
I don't ask your permission
to make a fool of myself,
tell you publicly
what my near, dear ones
have almost no clue

my mental torment,
headache-constant,
imperial and impervious
poetry, pills, therapy,
caring words
don't pay my kind of bills

a man has a job.
Feed you family.
Protect and serve.

do  it well,
there is no acceptable excuse.
none.

was supposed to be easing on down,
slipping under.

come so far, my soul is old.
my tired is w/o definition.
the legs, knotted shoulders,
body aging faster than I can write.
the doctors only give me
if's and unless's,
contingencies in order
to die a little slower

warped, reversal of causality,
the older I get,
the more mouths to feed.
tough, this unexpected situation,
a nine lives time survivor,
do it again?

defraud myself,
living like I can afford
to write,
with courageous reckless abandon,
when earnest is deadly
and Lady Luck gave me the finger.

simply amazing.
eyes, constantly tearing,
nobody notices.

Do not ! Like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
been strong so long.
this well, just got dregs left,
drudgery ain't potable, or even
worth drinking.

need nothing,
for myself, need nothing.
not one object on this planet
want to posses or be possessed by.

Monday wrestle with strife,
star in my reality show once again.
now, deny reality.

Do not!
Like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
been strong so long.

my voice is stilled,
it's poverty exposed,
ashamed of every word I ever wrote.

hush me not, for tis true,
write on for an audience of one,
on but one subject,
a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered,
after decades of trying.

poverty exposed,
a life unmasked
for what it is worth,
or not.
Lizzy Jun 2016
My hands have betrayed me.
Once the means to write pages,
Now my hands are only dead weight.

My hands won't pick up a pen.
Or even type short,
Choppy sentences.

They dangle at my sides
And find refuge in my hair,
Leaving me bleeding.

Like my hands,
My mouth has declared itself
My enemy.

Once the passageway for words
To explain myself,
My mouth is now as useful as a broken bridge.

With nothing of value to say,
It talks  
And sings anyway.

It opens without my permission
But stays closed whenever I try
To scream meaning.

The inability to illustrate
Or translate my mind
And my soul
Is not an unfamiliar ordeal.

But it's lonely on the outside
And frustrating looking in.
It seems I'll always feel like an alien.
She came to the farm a shy stray,
hid in the woodshed for days.
Food and water left for her
keeping her alive. In time though
very nervous, little by little
keeping some distance, upon
the porch she climbed.

After a month she ascended
a chair next to mine, where
in the spring sunshine we two
set side by side. Not touching
or speaking just biding our time.

One day she reached out a paw
placing it on my knee, politely
asking permission to step onto
my lap.  Her fear overridden
by the need for companionship.

She prefers to remain mostly
outside, but everyday she comes
to my door and with outreached
front paws she frantically scratches
up and down on the glass.
I feed her then feeling safe she sleeps
awhile on the back of the couch,
eventually seeking gentle
permission to sit upon my lap,
on a soft blanket kept just for her.

She purrs with contentment while,
taking cat naps now and then, as I
stroke and caress her head and chin,
occasionally opening her sparkling grey
eyes to study my face, as if to be reassured
it's me touching her and that I'm still there.

In her eyes if that is not devoted love  
and gratitude I see looking back at me,
I don't know what else it could possibly be.
Even my dog is under her spell, If I do not let
her right in when she comes to the glass door
he will pace and annoy me until I let "his" cat
friend in. Our animal companions own us
we do not own them. She also leaves a fresh
dispatched rodent of some kind or other on
my welcome mat, paining her dues I guess.


Whenever the dog and I go for a walk in the
orchard or even out to the road to get the mail
she always appears to accompany us. When in
the house, she follows me from room to room
as if to make sure I don't disappear. Lucky are
we all to have found one another.
rosecoloredpoet Mar 2018
You are beautiful
No matter your size, skin color, religion or sexuality
Don't ever let anyone doubt that
Life would be boring without diversity

You are beautiful
and the lenght of your dress tonight doesn't justify anyone calling you a **** nor gives them permission to grab your tight
Only you can give them consent
And remember to say no is your right

You are beautiful
wear those strechmarks with pride
They are perfectly normal and natural
Don't look at them as flaws
Your body is a miracle that you don't need to hide

You are beautiful
Don't forget to love yourself
Deb Jones Jan 2018
Living in the moment
Being mindful
Taking each minute at a time
Being present
Putting down whatever I am doing
When someone is talking to me
Or needs me.
Especially a child
I am making memories
They will remember later on
Especially that they were loved
The sweet sound of a child’s laugher
The music of my life
Closing my eyes and soaking it in
Pretend to be shopping
As a child laughs in another aisle
It seems rare nowadays
The hurried frazzling hustle and bustle
Laugh with your babies
Give them your time
They will return it 10 fold to you someday
Talk about your dreams
Ask them about theirs
Tell them stories
Read them a book
Love them freely
Don’t feel constrained
If they want to go shopping with you in a princess dress and clacking in princess shoes...
Let them
Don’t answer “No” because it’s easier
Listen to their reasons and give them permission
Don’t ever let them forget
You love them
Not for a minute
Not even for a minute
Adilson Smith Aug 2016
Boy meets girl.
Boy is hooked.
Boy neglects his sports and books.

Girl meets boy.
Girl is smitten.
Girl leaves the house without permission.  

Boy likes girl!
Girl likes boy!
Both beget untinctured joy.

Then girl annoys boy,
And boy ignores girl,
And slowly their love begins to unfurl.

Boy grates girl,
Girl leaves boy.
One finds the other too hard to enjoy.

Girl gets better,
Boy stays lesser.
Boy thought girl would stay forever.
karin naude Mar 2013
i can Imagen the endless potential of my world
free of knowing "my place"
no boring old broken time machines
just open white space
hungry for fresh ideas and experiments
this is my dream, my desire, my hope
me rid of this stupid wrong labelled box
just me, Karin, just Karin

i don't like this world i was born into
it praised cowards and anoint liars
crucify truth speakers and freedom fighters
real leaders are played down and ridiculed
they promote brainless followers, zombies
all for love of money and power
" see i can squash you"
just try and breath without permission

my box is labeled ******, gull-able  joke, incapable, stupid, unteachable, bad writer and much much more

i want to be free of this box
it's killing me slowly, ******* my bones dry
i peek out
  - blue swollen eyes
  - broken bones
  - crushed soul

someday. . . .
kevin hamilton Oct 2017
northern window
breaks from the inside
there will always be others
for you to skin
and starve and overflow
with tacit permission

the ground
parts for me this time
i would rather stay awake
but my eyes are heavy
and dimming fast
dearest, let me lay
in this tidal pool of blood

i am always left alone
after last insipid words
whispered thinly
from a ring of stones
Débijonne Oct 2018
but when i said
‘living on the edge,’
this was never
what i meant.

what i meant was real party all night
without parents’ permission;
not a pity party at night
with my self-destructing notions.

what i meant was real rollercoasters,
or go on life adventures;
not roller coasters
of all my life’s emotions.

what i meant was swim in the ocean,
or face my darkest fear.
not an ocean of my
darkest fears face me.

but i when i said
put ‘happy’ and ‘die’ together,
i meant to actually ‘die happy’
not to be ‘happy dying.’
wrote this piece for National Mental Health Week.
You're in the safest place

No one can see
No one can guess
Without your permission

Inside my head
You're beautiful
Genre: Experimental
Theme: Safe Zone
Styles Sep 2018
Recalling your name;
as each letter of your name
slips and slides off my tongue
the seductive visuals of
getting you off have begun
touching your venus fly trap
with my taste bud
making your goosebumps bud
until your river runs
and your floodgates flood.
Won’t even say your name
just sound it out -- until you are overcome.
Submit to my strength;  of my passion
with my permission.
applying pressure;
until you are well-***.
karin naude Jul 2013
Mommy wrote me a letter, a personal letter
To read on her passing, something special just for me
A last us, reminder of her last thoughts about me
Dad stole it and copied it, from my room
Without permission, how dare he!
Now when he wants to control me, he uses mommies last words
And asks did she raise you wrong?, something wring in the sentence
Should it not be did we raise you wrong?
This is how he choose to love me, with guilt filled words he stole
The letter no longer special, it was meant to be
I don’t even have mommies ashes, her sister took care of that
In the end everyone fights over pieces of her
It was not enough when she lived
They have to tare her memory to pieces
Greed the master of my family
Lord help us
Traveler Apr 2016
Two years ago a teacher here on HP messaged and informed me
that she used my poem in her classroom for a class assignment.
I've never felt so honored, I pictured twenty kids
With copies of my poem in hand analyzing it 
When I inquired where on earth this school was?!
She must have been here in the states
Because she quickly disappeared
She just signed off
I never heard from her again
To tell her Thank You!
Thank you for sharing my worthless words
And giving them value..

Some of my poems/songs
Have registered copyrights
So please ask permission before plagiarizing
Although I won't be flying across the sea to sue anybody
Because face it, having my words circulate
Even further
Is very appealing.
Just lately
I heard it explained on youtube
How copyright and Register copyrights work.

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