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September Roses Sep 2018
Come see me
9 PM this Friday
In a park near you!

Come watch me eat ḋ̸̻̺̗͙̤͕̦͂̄̓̽̊̋͗i̴̡̛̙̯̗̠͇͉̼̲̻̅̊̃̍̆͞r̸͚̼̣͔̜̟̬̰͂̽̆̿̏͋̓̕͟͡͞t̄̍̈̃̆̕͘­͗ by the mouthful at the swing set.
Come see me scream till your ears b̨̩̫͕̘̊͊̉̾͛̍́̀͞l̤̺̫̰̘͎͉̓̅̌͐̀͜͢ͅe̡̙͚̟̯͙͕̖̾͌̽͐̀͊̓̌̒͜ḝ̰̙̱̯̻̘̈́͗̌̀͞͞­̬̥d̨̡̟̪̟̗̼͍͓̓́̈̍̊̇̿͋̅͢͞ as I slide down the biggest slides.
Enjoy my one man play reenacting the Silence of the Lambs!
(Your ķ͖̠͙̫̗̣͒̊͆̾̎̽̃̈͘ǐ̷̧̛͍̦̟̜͙̥͎̔̄̽̾͢d̡̡̮̗̜̻̱̮̼̊͒̈́̓̔̊̊͒͌͜s̤͉̈̆̓͗̾̓̅͢­̴̲̜̖̻ will love that one)

Stand and applaud as I attempt dangerouse ş̵͇̲̗͒͋͐̅̚͝ͅt̸̨͙̣̰̬̩̱̥̝͒̓̀̓̏̏̓͘͠ų̷̢̨̥͓͕̉́͑̿̕͢͝ņ̸͓̱͚͈̭̣̬̘̀͑͗͊̆ͅ­t̶̨͇̝̻͍͉̼̎̓͟͠͝͠s̴̡̧̗̹̰̩̘͇̤̈́̽͛̊͐͟ off the jungle gym that I have only seen In Hollywood movies!

Watch me .
p̝̞̖̳̪̮̫͙̅̋̉̄͐͆̔̆̔̿ę̺͔̘̭̺̲̫̐̅̀̿̓͢͟ẽ̷̗͔͍̬͔͗̇͊͛̽̓͘͜͜l̟̇̔̂͗̓́͠͡͝­̧̬͎̗͙̫͎͟ off my s̷̫̰̜̤̠̿̆̎͋̕͟͜͠k̴̢͔͔̳̬̻͗͑̀̌͂͐̔͑̊ͅi̷͓͖͉͚͚̠̝̙̝͌͊̄̀̏͊̑͝͡ͅṋ̻͙̇̽̈́͋̄̔͡­̧̩̜, and use my wet muscles as lubricant to make the roundabout go faster!

Watch me dunk your neighbors dogs s̴̢̨̘͎͉̪̪̦͚̄͋̃͛̊̆̀̓͘̕ȩ̧͎͈̀̀͒͋́̐͟͠v̸̦͚̠͕̏̂̎̔̀̊͆͢͝͞e̡̳̠̺̠̟͇͂͛͗͋̍͑͢­ŗ̢̦͎̮͉͕͍̊̐̓̂͛̽̒̄͒͗e̗̩͚͖̫͋̄͟͡͠͞ḍ̴̢̲͔͖̣̪̾͌͗̀̒̄̄͞ head in the basketball hoop!
For the f̫̺̰̜̘̺̩̳̝̖̒̊̃͒̀̇͐̓͡ṵ̸̩͙̼̮͓̦͋̓͆̈̕͟͠ǹ̻̰̣̼͙̰̀͐̎͛̀̈́͞ of it!                  

Have you ever seen a rat with no              
    f̵̢̣̘̦̱͚̟̟̱̀̏́͐́̍̄̚i̵̢̢͎̺̘͚̿͒̐̈́̀̓̌̚n̛͙̟̦̟͕̩͒̌̍͑g̢̰͕̤̝͑̏̅̆̕e͐­̸̡̢͈̥͓͉̊̋͑̀r̛̩͔̻̩̮̱͆̒̽͆͋̚ṡ̸̛̛͎͕̯̳̻͙̏͘͝?             
     
Would you l̨̛̦̟͎͇̲̼̦̱̠̓̀́̇̏̀į̧͎̭̫͓̮̫̮̌͆̎̐̀̽̎͌̚k̴̭̼̥̱͖̃̽̎͒͋̅́͠e̹̟͆͑̅̅͌͗̀̀͟͠­͖̩̱̰̬̯ to?!

Come one come all,                                  
to something, entirely new!        

Enjoy something.... .
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R̴̛͕̺̝̜͔̈́͋͑͒̎͆̏̓̒͜Ā͙̻͚̗͌́̃͂̊̈͗̚͞ͅW̶̙̻̰͙̹̲̗̆͋̈̇̓͜
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.!
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I̵̖̬̘͔̻̹̜̫͊̂͌̓̽ a̴̧̢̱͇͚̭̹̞̅͂̄̌͒͝͠m̧̗̜͍̥͙̦͈͍̐̉̔͛̍͒̌ t̸̮̪̹̺̥͈͈̯͂̔͊̅͢͞ḩ̶̧̮̠̺͉̱͈̣͛̾̊̚̚̚ḙ̴̫̬͕͍͔̯̝̐̾͑͆͘ͅ ĉ̳̝̟̙̦̏́̈͆̊́͑̽͡i̜̮͔͕͓̐̑̇̂̎͑͑r̻̝̩͔̫̮̩̽͑̍̈́̈́͛͌̕c̶̰̱̥͚͕̻͗͊̂̊͗̑̏͌̚͜ļ̶̨̯̪̲̣̑̒͛̿̎̓̾͢͢͠ȩ̧̩͇̻̦̩͓̱̿̃̊̇̐̀͗̔̚ ą̨̦͔̼̘̘̔̉̓͒̃̐̎̍̕n͓͚͖̠̭͉̱̦̋̊́̋̀̅̕d̢̥̖̯͈̠̜̑̈̇͊̾̆̈͟͝ t̷̨̧̡̙̤̮̞̮͕̔͗́̾͒ḩ̵̙͇͈́̄͐̊̓̀̈́͒̌̎͢e̸̡̘̠͔̪͂̎̓̏͑̈́͘ c̶̨̧̟̱̜̘̊̌́̀͘͞ǐ̴̲̫̙̼̟̮̎̔̀̑̂̽͜͠͡ͅr̯̟͙̩̋̊͐͂̇͟c̵̬̫̲̰̱͔̯͓̘̀̃̅͊̀͋͘͜͡l̛̪̯̬̙̙̠̗̐̉͌̃̒̔̔͘͢ͅě̜̘̫̗̰̇̏̌̊̒́̕̕͟͝ͅ į̛̟͇̜̰͓̤͆̐̊̓͗͌̚ŝ̨̨̛̭̠̐̈̌̑̇̌͢͠͞ ṃ̶̯͎̲̝͎̥̽̿̔̈̀̚͞ẻ̛̻̙̪͚̣̘̺̮͛́̽͘͟
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might remove this soon
It's a little tame
Francie Lynch Sep 2018
I've used them on my windows
To see the clear outside,
If I read the Op-eds,
I shudder, shuttered and hide.

I've spread them 'neath my plates and cups,
My shelves all neat and tidy;
But the headlines made it clear to me
My glass is more half empty.

They had a place in the litter box
For **** to scratch and squat;
I laid them round my garden plants,
They made fine insect traps.
Rolled and twirled they'd start a fire,
I could fold them into hats.
They cleaned the grease from BBQs,
And they're safe to pick up glass.
Crumple them for packaging,
They work as school book covers;
Add water and some flour,
To shape papier mache lovers.
Fold seeds in them to germinate,
Then use them for compost;
There's many ways to employ
Your Times and local Post.

But I won't subscribe to Dailies
For the felling of our trees;
And yet I miss my papers,
And the ways they worked for me.
But when enthroned,
You'll hear me grouse,
There's no **** paper in this ****-house.

My cell works well to scroll and swipe,
But it's only good for a virtual wipe.
laura Oct 2017
three's up
i'm throwing my life away
throwing my three's up

three **** summers in a row
three nights in the slammer
three days getting drunk

been thinking about all my exes a lot
been thinking about you a lot
and how we'd spend the night doing homework

and then sleeping together
used to get me chicken nuggets afterwards
and now you know what goes on in my brain
***, programming and chicken nuggets
from mcdonalds
haha
the thought of death is an uneasy thought
in my case it's a ****** nightmare

on the 16th day of May, 1967, Mr Youngblood took his 6th grade class to the playground as he always did, every Tuesday after lunch. The kids spread out to their usual positions. Some played catch with Mr Youngblood. A few, like Roger and me went to the basketball net and several played on the monkey bars, both of which were part of the big asphalt square. Just opposite this area was the soccer field and then some good distance between that and the Middle School. Lots of open space for a bunch of suburban kids to have fun. The Sun was bright and the wind was light and the temperature was right around perfect. We had been playing for 10 minutes or so when the wind picked up and clouds seemed to move in out of nowhere. We all thought it must be a storm coming...and it was. A distant laugh froze everyone. At first no-one saw him, but then we all saw him at once. He was walking across the soccer field towards us, long deliberate strides. Where he came from is a mystery as there was nothing but open land behind him for several hundred yards. He was tall and lanky and as he approached us, I noticed that his face was contorted and discolored...a pale, almost painted white and he had jet black hair combed back, long and greasy. His lips were thin and black and his eyes bloodshot and almond shaped. He wore a black suit, a black shirt and candy apple red tie. He looked like a mosh-up of Curry's Pennywise and Ledger's Joker, only I would have traded for either one of those ******* right now over this guy, ten to one. He came to the edge of the concrete square. Johnny ****** his pants and Charlene fell from the monkey bars, landing awkwardly on her left side and causing a compound fracture, her radius protruding from her skin leaving her hand dangling like a dead fish. She did not scream either because she was scared it might draw his attention or she was going into shock...or maybe both. He took two more steps forward and then began laughing as if he'd just heard the funniest joke he'd ever been told. His teeth looked as if they'd been replaced with shark's teeth. I swear there were rows of them and his mouth stretched inhumanly wide. His laugh slowly winded down to a snarl, and he gave a long look to each one of us, as if he was burning the faces to memory. And then he spoke..."You children just go on having lots of fun! Well, except for you Johnny...didn't your Mom just rip you a new *** for ******* your pants at Grandma's? shame, shame!" And Johnny was off...tripping twice before he got his feet under him. "You run home and ...Ha Ha Ha...oh my...change your pants, you pathetic little ****!" Mr Youngblood picked up Charlene and started to carry her inside. By this time her pretty pink dress was soaked in blood. The freak addressed him. "Nice man...but you can't save them. In a few days they will all be mine." He laughed again and every kid ran for their lives back to the school. I was the only one who stayed. To this day I'm not sure why. He turned and walked towards me slowly. "What have we here? The little man isn't running with the others. Are you not afraid Billy boy? Afraid for your life?"...and he leaned in close...close enough that I smelled a foulness that cannot be described. "Because that is what I'm here for...your life!" "Who are you?", I asked... and with that his dark black and pointed eyebrows raised and he straightened up. "Who am I...Who am I? My, my the boy has a backbone. The nerve to question while others lose control of their bladders. Well, I'll tell you who I am, child. I am God's worst nightmare. I am every ***** little secret thought you've ever had. I am evil in all it's forms wrapped up in one little package and sent to collect the souls of the innocent. All of you here today will be mine tomorrow. Roger will fall down the stairs off of his front porch and break his neck. Charlene will die from infection due to that nasty little accident and Becky will be hit by the school bus Thursday morning. That will be most nasty! Almost a decapitation. I won't bore you with the rest, but they will all die. Hmmm...you know what Billy... I like you, so I'm thinking, perhaps...yes, I'm going to make a special offer to my new special friend. I won't take your soul until you die from natural causes. What do you think of that idea? At that moment, when your family is gathered round your bedside after suffering that...well, maybe you don't want to know the details... you will see a bright light...but you won't be going towards the light Billy...at that moment I will place my hand on your shoulder and that light will slowly fade into darkness and we will meet again, and you will become my apprentice. So, what do you think of that, Billy? Do you want to be my apprentice, or do I **** you now? Come, come...I haven't much time!" I tried to answer, but my mouth was as dry as cardboard and I could only manage a weak gasp. That laugh again and he turned and walked away in the same direction..."I'll take that as a yes. Remember, you are mine upon your death, Billy boy!" The wind died and the Sun appeared again.
By the end of the week, every child on the playground that day had died...exactly as he stated they would.

And now you know why, even in my darkest days, I never, ever contemplate suicide.
this story was prompted by a Joker bobblehead I found in a collectibles store that is creepy as hell - I think I will make it my annual Halloween post!
Lazhar Bouazzi Feb 2017
As the shape-all-sun
tore up the curtain
of blood and ululation,
everything in Tunisia,
as stricken by a wand,
came to a standstill,
and slipped away
from the senses -
Even rivers stopped.

Medjerda* froze
halfway
through his descent
to his destination,
as he realized
he’d been making a fatal error:
pouring forth all his passion
into the ocean.

So he stopped,
retracted his course,
re-collected himself,
and started flowing backward,
toward
the source
in the Atlas
that had bidden him
farewell.

In his spear head
there was a design:
start a new chaos
in the valley,
in which there would be
a sweet-water lake
and sailors drunk
with sunbeams, sweat
and pleasure.
Butterflies would flutter
around the scent of mint
and bluegreen rosemary.
Through the flutter
of the midnight hour
Sweet Moon to Sweet Lake
would come, unannounced,
to watch her self shooting
the act of representation.

Now swimming
in his own water,
th river
carried the sky on his shoulder,
while an ant and a grasshopper,
holding a basket together,
watched the new scene.

As the figure-all-sun appeared ,
reason melted;
imagination
her hazel eyes opened.

© LazharBouazzi

*Medjerda is the most important river in Tunisia. Length, 460 km; basin area, 22,000 sq km. It flows out of the Atlas mountains into the Gulf of Tunis.
She walks at night likes passion's grace
Through nebulous fields of dream landscapes
Wild Morpheus her footsteps guides

She’s lust’s impassioned wile incarnate
Her will like swirling ocean currents
Endows the night with wanton purpose

Sent from heaven's pearly gates
To make men ponder mortal fortune
Tempting spirits will to sate

Demanding accolades of prowess
To satisfy her primal needs
Traverse her treacherous terrain

Her visage of immortal love
Like honey dripping from the comb
Inspires reckless heart's abandon

Dawn comes like coitus interruptus  
Narcotic wisps of contention fade
A thrall with no earthly recourse
Infatuated with the feminine mystique in general can leave you unrequited.
Lazhar Bouazzi Mar 2017
A rugged sidewalk cried hard by the way-side;
Its fissures could not hold their tears anymore.
A puny man pushed a red cart in the tide
Down a darkling, narrow street in Salammbô.*
He mumbled to the waves on his way to the market
As he gasped behind his laden chariot.

His merkabah bore many a lost things
Which he had found buried in the quicksand.
Among them a fountain pen and a helmet,
A pair of eyeglasses, and a trumpet.
I wondered, gazing at the old man’s washed face:
"Will this worn-out scene ever reach the marketplace?"
© LazharBouazzi
*Salammbô is a neighborhood in Carthage, TUN.
zebra Jun 2017
as a child i had a sense of before
i only a tenant in this world

i dreamt, i remembered
a place of light and freedom
of flying weightless
without a care
recurring reveries
of changeless drifting

but as i got older
my astral excursions
turned to thin air
much to hearts despair
i fell weighted to this terrestrial sphere
by thickened accumulations
of hard niches and obscurations
a delicate spark burdened
by sheaths of gnawing reason
engulfed in brutish struggle

at times
i obsessed
aching to go
back from where i came
maybe stepping in front of a speeding car
desperate to get home
where the dead
live it up

cadaverous child
a strewn tangle of little limbs
broken
on a country highway
who made a hard sacrifice
for a bigger life
where the very sensation of existence
was a floating ecstasy
like an atomized cloud puff

where the dead
are not dead at all
but enchanted children
living
with faces like suns
on the other-side of the looking glass
feet to the stars
in the arms of heaven
Nassif Younes Mar 2016
It wasn’t a date,
We were just hanging out.
Texting a bit, but taking it easy
As nobody wants to come across needy.
I left the phone ringing
To keep you in doubt.
It wasn’t a date,
We were just hanging out.

Be cool
Or I’ll break you.
I mean it.
If you go soft on me,
I’ll smash open your stupid little
Mix cassette
And strangle you with the tape.
I’ll set fire to your unopened love letter
And won’t even try
To read the smoke.

We were better than that.
I was blank
And you were blank
And together
We filled each other’s blanks
With what we wanted to see.
I invented you
And you invented me.

I was a bit of a **** to you
Because I knew it was a turn-on,
I was also a good listener
Because I knew
That was also
A turn-on.
I stared deep into your eyes
Like the internet says you should
And eight hours later
You were still wide awake,
Numb between the sheets
In dry sweat
As the morning sun stared
With disapproval
Through my window.

We were always told about how good we looked together
By people who are always saying real beauty
Is on the inside.

They were right about the first thing
Because in not too long
You stopped being
The you in my head.
It happened at that party
When you wanted to to go home early
And I didn’t;
When your madness I felt attracted to
Became the madness that wore me out;
When I caught you watching a programme
About celebrities cooking things
And enjoying it.

I can tell you feel the same.
Yes, you do.
Are you calling me paranoid?
I could swear you just did.
Anyway, don’t think I haven’t seen you with him
You’re giving him the look you used to give me
Before you turned off the lights.
No,
Not him…
Him –
With his muddy footprints round the back door
And him –
Hiding in the closet when I’ve come home early
And him -
Living in the walls behind my favourite poster.

How can you be so selfish?
Has it not occurred to you
That there are other people
Who are selfish too?
Like...
ME
For example?
Why are you thinking about yourself
When you should be thinking about me?
Is it because I’m just as far
From what I said I’d achieve
As I was when we met?
Because, if I am
That’s all your fault.

And here we are again
Tip-toeing barefoot
On a field of broken glass
Trying to salvage what we once had -
What we think
We once had.

We look happy in these pictures,
Happier than we are now,
Happier than we were
When they were taken.

Nostalgia is easy
If it’s for a time
That never existed.
Now that you’re gone
I can make you again
All inside my head.

Because there are no pictures of the time
You chose to break your nineteenth glass
Against my face

Or the time our television froze
And my whispers into your ear
Were as useless as spits of rain
On dry grass
As I pressed desperately
On the on-button
Of a remote control with dead batteries.

And I’m almost sure there are no pictures
Of the time you were having doubts
But chose to hide them
In someone else’s bed.

I don’t want you –
Just the you
That I’ve made in my head.

I know you feel the same.
You’ve been lonely
For days now.
So here we are again.
Staying late in the nearest bar
Sipping along to the serenade
Of a performer we both remember
From the last time -
Average on the guitar
But adept
On the belligeridoo.
He didn’t write those songs
But he plays them like he did.
Thank God
He’s given us something
To talk about.

I’m already lying again
Just to hold conversation -
Lying about where I’ve been since we last spoke.
You can’t know
That I’m still digesting
Pieces of my own pillow.
You tell me that’s what you’re still doing
And I know that’s half a lie.
Just don’t tell me
Whose pillow.

Never mind,
It was a bad idea.
This isn’t going to work
Because I know you too well.
If I want to dream,
Then you are nothing
But a splash of cold water.
Besides,
I’ve met someone new -
Someone I know
Absolutely nothing about.
It’s not a date,
We’re just hanging out.
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2017
A cabin that had once been white
Stood, peeled, on the shore of Carthage.
Looking like a tipsy scarfaced knight-
Eyes shut to Dionysian carnage.
A pack of lost dogs roamed around it,
Their pangs of want they sought to manage.

The lone cabin stood on the wrinkled sand,
Like a young tree on Shott el Jerid's* white pale
Whom the white monster forced to speak with the hand:
“Basta, no stubborn resistance from me will avail.”

The fuming sun displayed his festival of fear
Over dogs who could handle their thirst no more;
While the salt has now made its white task clear:
Gnawing the sapling and gnawing evermore
Till the sole mark on the Shott shall disappear.

Now the poet who has only half-chosen the vision
Half not knowing what to do, tried to listen
To the trickle of his one obstinate cheer
Oozing through the new orange laptop,
He had purchased from a japanese peer.

(c) LazharBouazzi
“*Shott el Jerid” is the largest salt lake in Tunisia and the Sahara desert, with a surface area of 7OOO km2. As far as the poem is concerned it would perhaps be helpful to say that the gigantic dry salt pan has the shape of a wolf.
Corey Apr 2016
Minutes after - complete despair,shaking body and lack of functionality, decision making at its worst
The morning after - headache, weak muscles, and no tears left to shed after last night
Day 2 - more tears brought when telling people the news
Day 5 - regret, anxiety, and wondering if I've made the right choice
Day 10 - loneliness, after talking to someone day after day to no one
Day 15 - first contact and I've found out you moved on
Day 20 - “I have needs” ****** ones that you only just recently discovered with me?
Day 25- regret, and confiding in people I shouldn't be talking to
Day 35 - wanting to confide in you again, but giving you space
Day 40 - flirtatious with others
Day 50 - love at first sight, falling in love with nearly every attractive woman I see
Day 60 - it makes me smile when you think I am tweeting about you, don't try and start ****
Day 80 - regret and depression, worse depression than directly after the breakup

Day 100 - talking to others is tough, finding that I am quickly wanting to fall in love with them and leading them on. The sorrow aches at night, but is forgotten in the daylight
Day 110 - I cut ties with the people I've wrongly confided in, I am alone again
Day 125 - insecurity as I feel I should go out on dates as friends have told me to
Day 150 - skipping school, poor attitude, and hard hitting sarcasm
Day 175 - you are on your third or fourth new “boyfriend.” I've lost count

Day 200 - the connection with my friends are becoming weaker and weaker. My will to do anything is diminishing. My life is crumbling
Day 220 - I feel both distain and joy of your love life since we broke up. You can't seem to keep anyone around you
Day 240 - trying to rebuild my self esteem and a bond with my closest friends
Day 260 - once again confiding in the wrong people and leading others on
Day 270 - found my anthem, my song that will get me through this pain and will show me that I won't be tortured by this anymore, not today

Day 300 - slowly rebuilding my life, each day reminding myself that this too shall pass
Day 330 - the thought of you is one of distain and regret
Day 365 - a whole year, and still the nights torture me with regret, sorrow, and loneliness. I have only a song to get me through and it is becoming not enough.
Day 380 - happy birthday wishes were not sent
Day 390 - the cold nights make me miss you more than I should. December is a hard time for a break up

Day 400 - I thought I'd found love but it was too selfish and not selfless
Day 420 - feeling good, my friends are close and scarves are wrapped tightly around my neck for warmth
Day 430 - I finally feel free
Day 440 - my freedom has been revoked as the mind torments my soul with unrequited love for another
Day 460 - Most of my time is spent without you anywhere on my mind. I seem to have virtually forgotten you until I am reminded. Though when I am reminded, it is a flood.
Day 480 - the thought of you is one of nostalgia

Day 500 - today someone I went to high school with asked me if I was still dating 'that girl'. I said no, and they asked what her name was, as they seem to have forgotten.
I say, “Allison…..”
Silence for about fifteen seconds
They ask, “which one?”
“I… I'm… Drawing a blank,” stunned, I say, “I can't believe I can't think of her last name!”
When it finally comes to me, I feel embarrassed. I quickly end the conversation and leave.
I get in my car and then I realize what just happened.

Me forgetting her name, that was me getting over her. That was me finally being okay with my decision. Finally being secure with myself, and finally moving on.

Day 530 - even today, writing this I feel nothing more than nostalgia for our time together. It was wonderful but ended poorly, unfortunately.
I have no intentions of contacting you, and apparently neither you to me. Though, I hope you are well.
This has been one month of true freedom, the longest since we broke up. So I wrote this to celebrate. I hope you see how much you meant to me, and realize both how little, you make it seem, you cared about me and how much pain this has caused me over the past 500 days.
I apologize for the length, though if you did stick through it I both commend and thank you. Stay strong.
What you are feeling is not love
Love is not this envy coursing through your veins turning your skin green.
No,
Love is the skeletons that climbed out your closet, content with being seen
It’s A Still of the best moments  
Still alive when she’s dead
Still, in a hurricane of emotions, that reside in your head

Love is not her hair, her *******, soft lips or strawberry scent
Not the contour of her body;
It's porcelain touch
Nor the way her voice fades at the end of a sentence
Instead, it’s in the absence
In the things you can’t sense, but still feel
In The parts of her that are least physical but most real

Love is not the way fears became a blindfold
That hid you from the Truth
Torn from a blanket of jealousy
Covering you up,
Keeping you bitter

Rather,
Love is the tear-stains on your jacket shoulder
The warm embrace
The eye of the storm.
She kept that jacket
And Maybe
Just Maybe
She’s wrapped herself in it
And realized that:
Love is the only reason you didn’t want to leave her
And the exact reason
Why you did
Written in July of 2017
nat Mar 12
so is it true
everybody tries to **** you
break your *****
or take your heart
and ******* ****** your love
ive been throwing up all day
thelemonpolice Jul 2018
What a pretty holiday
I wish that I had gone
But did you know that all they did
was post it on their phones?

What amazing friends they have
I wish that I had more
but actually these people have just met
and are a bore

What a funny club night
I feel left out again
Well maybe its another way
to drown out all the pain

What a lovely boyfriend
He bought her lovely gifts
but do you know that hes repaying
her for all his sins?

Pretty pretty wedding pictures
for everyone to see
did you know he sometimes
"accidentally" makes her bleed

happy shopping family
filling up a cart
did you know the parents
can't grow love in their hearts?

Happy, smiling faces
I wonder what they've seen
and why they have to force a smile
on pictures on this screen

Lovely posing woman
why do you hold your breath?
How many pictures did it take
to make you look your best?

Is it worth it? Is it needed?
to get approval from your 'friends'?
Are we worthy? Are we needed?
does it matter end?
Wow thank you so much for all the attention of this poem. It really means a lot. If you liked this, check out my YouTube channel too https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=pjcwyTocBqI ❤️
Steve Page Mar 4
Sorry
we missed
you
Pease see other side for details

Where is your parcel now?
We left it in your safe place
We left it with your neighbour
We still have your parcel
We'll try again tomorrow
Poetry Found on my doorstep.  Prompted by https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3021694/when-i-see-you/
S Bharat Apr 10
The Post

I went to picnic spot and had a lot of fun
With cousin and di
I took some selfies and later on posted
Them on WhatsApp to see
I checked in the morning I got two views,
Thirty two at noon and in the evening added few,
Seventy five by eight and eighty four by nine.
But they were not seen by the best friend of mine.
Why he didn't see? Why he didn't see?
Wasn't he angry with me?
Was he angry? He was angry? Was he?
With me! With me!

S. Bharat
bekka walker May 2018
If I let my eyes glaze over just right, I get a nice film quality picture.
I hover out of my body- like a mad director, evaluating what we've got, I snip the film strips from my memory, franticaly re-piecing together the story.
I didn't get the shots I wanted.
I feel hollow and sick.
Playing and re-playing the scenes where it all went to the dregs.
Maybe if I were paying closer attention- I could have gotten it right.
I could've rearranged the shot list- so "major life accident" was at the end of the movie- not the beginning.  

Sorting through what we're left with,
I hear no mellow music scoring my mothers choked sobs.
No soft glow to hide the harsh lines of grief described on her face.
The bottles of liquor weren't props.
And when the sound of silence rendered her breathless-
no one was there to yell "CUT"!
I grit my teeth and hold back my seething anger at such a **** writer.

This is not a sci-fi film.
No alien plummets to earth eager to turn back the sands of time because there was a fluke in the configubobulator.

Not a romantic comedy,
where his smashed body miraculously recovers and my mother, him, and all the kids pursue their dreams as a family of comics on the road- The jackson 5 of stand up!

No inspiring action film where the government tests a bionic exoskeleton, connects it to his brains nervous system, and after wild success he dedicates his life to intergalactic vigilante work, as well as a remaining a reliable family man.

There's no sending it back for re-writes.

There is no 1 hero to lean on.
No villain to hate.
Only us.
I hope one day, it's enough.

I hope one day we have a film we can be proud of.
5 years ago my step father, my hero, suffered a severe traumatic brain injury at the hands of a motorcycle accident. Today, he's bed ridden- and can't even **** himself. Leaving my mother, and 6 kids.
Yenson Aug 2018
But why do they do all this, I asked, shaking my head pitifully.
Its unimaginable  the amount of time and efforts they expend,
over nothing. Not to mention having the inclinations for such
absurdities!.

She leaned in closer and whispered conspiratorially as she puts
down her glass, while she waved at me to lean in closer too.

Her cute lips barely moved as she whispered theatrically,
" this is a secret, don't quote me."
I nodded.

" POST TRUTH" she uttered, " It's all post truth, they have put
all their people in a post truth world and they all live in post truth now"

"Do you know what Post truth means?" she asked, her eyes glaring inquiringly in a straight gaze at mine.

"Yes I do I replied, basically its, ‘relating to or denoting circumstances in which objective facts are less influential in shaping public opinion than appeals to emotion and personal belief’", I trotted out. Leaning back in my seat, I considered this, and what she had just shared.

My plight has been Orwellian, from the very start, but I honestly wouldn't have believed people would be so gullible in this day and age. But then who was it that said " No man ever went broke overestimating the ignorance of the public".

Internally I processed things again, Welfare spounging Crooks burgled me, I gave them a piece of my mind, crooks call on their Socialist mates, who then launched an unjustified campaign of
slander, vilification, harassment, hounding, intimidation, ruining
my marriage, career, reputation and my health. I, the victim of a fowl crime becomes the villain and the criminals gentrified working class heroes.

It all seem implausible in Modern Britain, this day and age, yet it's all true.

My silence prompted her, " I don't like it myself and you already know how I feel about them, but..... and she shrugged her slim
shoulders and the look of sadness and resignation in her eyes says
it all. I felt sorry for her, only God knows the leverage, inducement,
threats or dirt at play for her cooperation, given the nature of the ***** politicking that's been playing all these while
and the  results of former experiences. Poor thing, I mused,
knowing her private life was at stake now..

In Post truth terms, you are a rich arrogant privileged and greedy chauvinistic parasite who deserve all you're getting and more. 
Their propaganda machine is devious and slick. 

I couldn't help acknowledging the disingenuous politicking at
play here by our Red comrades, the nasty racial undertones of my
plight had been white-washed, the theft of my hard earned possessions is bye the bye, the bullying and intimidation by the
neighbouring criminals and their subsequent gangstalking covered up. now, what remains is hapless me, alone, unsupported and just the heinous distortions, the misinformation, exaggerations, slander and disinformation exists, and all these are falling into receptive ears by the bucketloads. The general public's moral compass has been twisted and befuddled if not totally obliterated.  

I sat in silence and for a short while, we both avoided eye contact,
finally we looked at each other. She knew I had got the picture and
for a second I saw sorrow in her eyes. Then it was gone, you could
almost glimpse this was a sentiment she wasn't allowed.

I had seen that look before from quite a number of others, nobody dares act against the wave, nobody wants to be considered a traitor
or a sympathiser.

I tried lifting the mood and changed the topic, we made chit-chat
and found laughter in some places, we finished our drinks and left.

On the street walking I once again felt sorry for her and made a
conscious decision not to see her again. I was a persona non gratia
now, and it's not healthy being my friend. Friends are compromised, debriefed and used as baits or informers. I have become a dangerous person to know and the truth has been murdered, cut into little pieces and then incinerated into ashes.

They had perhaps forgotten that TRUTH lives forever, the truth
is the TRUTH and remains the TRUTH, no matter what you do to it.

FOR NOW HOWEVER WE HAVE POST TRUTH, HOW LONG THAT WILL LIVE FOR?
Your guess is as good as mine!

Goodbye dear friend, I watched her walk away, there was an unusual slowness in her steps and she looked back at me just as I was turning away, I did not turn to look back at her again,

I knew I will not be seeing her again................
Post-truth politics (also called post-factual politics and post-reality politics) is a political culture in which debate is framed largely by appeals to emotion disconnected from the details of policy, and by the repeated assertion of talking points to which factual rebuttals are ignored.
‎History · ‎Summary of the truth is contained in the poem - WHERE IS JUSTICE on this site..·
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