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"It's your life.
Don't let anyone
make you feel guilty
for living your way."
Rosaline Moray May 2014
I feel privileged to know that you snore.
And that if
I nudge your cheek with my nose
You stop
And squeeze me close -
Crack my spine
And I love that feeling.
And the best thing is
That you don't even know you give me chills.
It takes a talented soul to thrill me when sleeping.
Jhilard Cruspero Jul 2013
Some say that fighting for your
country is a privilage
its Honorable they say
But I say its a phony
mistake.

Some fight for the money
Others for fame
others for redemption
some for pain.

They say that all men are treated Equal
But when power and control is Concerned
they treat nobody Equal.


You can't say your fighting
for something worth dying
When your leaders can't
say Nothin to the discriminate
killings of innocent civilians.

Your leaders may Lie
But your moral chices dont.
because the war you fight
is war on judgment and choices
you decide whose right or wrong.
That god forbid, that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand th’ account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure!
O, let me suffer, being at your beck,
Th’ imprisoned absence of your liberty,
And patience tame to sufferance, bide each check,
Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list, your charter is so strong
That you your self may privilage your time
To what you will; to you it doth belong
Your self to pardon of self-doing crime.
    I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,
    Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.
Ashley Barrios Jun 2012
Why will this not break?
Why will this not fade into
awry little women muttering apologies?
Why will this not heal,
soften, dampen like the eyes of an innocent
This vex, this folly, a mistake to be erased
Instead it's morphing into a wrinkled excuse,
an overplayed scar
Stubborn, unsatisfied with only bothering me in dreams,
it swims around my consience
But isn't it my privilage to awaken from nightmares?
Don't I have the right to forget?

Pain is not weakness leaving the body,
but the slow dying of a will
Hannah Feb 2014
98
Morning light was harsh. A rough hand rubbed her profile with a swinging gesture as her legs swung similiarly over the edge of what was once her campsite. They touched the ground, alas, carpet instead of gravel- a disappointment she might never get over.
What would it be today, she wondered. What would the numbers tell her about how she was to feel? The heart in her "chest" had lost its privilage to decide what her feelings were to be, so the numbers delegated on their own these days. It wasn't that she wanted it, it wasn't that she'd chosen a path of depthless, formless feeling, but her body simply couldn't house the suggestions her brain had made lately. The numbers never lied to her.
With a step and a puff, she thought maybe the weight of the cigarette could sway the outcome, so she stared at its end, burning off of the side of the counter, waiting for it to ash on its own before she could work up the courge to crane her neck down to see. Patentiently, she waited. Brown and yellow tile lingered below her feet and grouped together in a heap that she swore she almost heard expell a collective screech when the black and white star hit.
Her eyes slid down. The numbers never lied to her.
Today it was an honesty with an ease of acceptance, as she knew it would be. Intake had been slim to none, if only due to the fact that it had slipped her mind to nourish. It could be said again that her mind had little control any longer, and she lived inwardly but was directed outwardly, and could not rely on much to tell her what to do when it needed to be done.
Her day was to be grateful to be apart from the days of discontent, in their huddled, blackened mass. The circles below her eyes had rested for a change, but emerged ever darker and all the more complete, as they always did after a night of difference.
A night of sleep, she realized with a small chuckle that caught her off guard. She'd slept while the sun was gone and awoke when it returned to her tiny home. It seemed to her that it had been decades since she'd last done that, and she'd barely been alive for two.
Sticky lives, she'd discovered, were terribly difficult to pry objects from. They were difficult to separate from habits and tendancies. Tendancy was a favorite word of hers, and it lived within her sticky life throughout every day of living it.
Intake abandoned slim to be in cahoots with none. Neither her eyes nor her common sense could tell her which dark, winter month it was or where she was to go at what time and with whom. So safely, she always decided it was away she was expected at, any time whatsoever, and alone. Safely, she always decided it was to be alone.
Oh ****, she's forgotten about the smoldering cigarette on the edge of her bathroom counter. And with a short dash, she lifted it to discover a spot of orangish permanence that would forever remind her of the morning she woke up alongside a number she thought she could co-exist with. She would be wrong, she was always wrong, she always knew she was wrong, so what the **** ever kept her from being right? And who are we kidding, those mornings were numerous and the only differing factor here was that on this morning it slipped her mind to bring her bedside ashtray into the bathroom.
Three digits wrapped themselves around her withered self, the withered thought that once was, "There is no God," and was suddenly, "What is letting me worship as if there is, what is allowing me loyalty like this when I hate all loyalty has ever brought, there is a God involved here but where the **** did she come from and why won't she loosen her fixed grip?"
This was a hazard, she woke up knowing all too well. There was poison in her every step, be they through the kitchen to the front door or from the front door straight to those brown and yellow tiles.
Today her cyanide stroll brought the sharpest points of her face into blistering cold without more than a slight bit of hydration and not even the slighest bit of energy. Exhaustion lifted her up and carried her on its back down a street she walked every day but housed no memories of, to a place where she sat in fervent distraction for hours.
She sunk into the chair she chose and felt pressure on parts of her body she knew shouldn't be accessible. Three digits, she recited like a trained professional, like a mindless scholar simply letting herself be taught as opposed to learning. Three digits, should be two. She was one away, just one, and she knew that by the time she let exhaustion carry her home in the night, the two she deserved would be hers.
How finally, she hoped. How momentous and breathtaking would it be to have my breath taken by a goal I have worked to achieve. How special to commit, (I mean, complete,) two goals at once. All day long, she was experiencing what other people called "day," but she felt it all with eery black fingers around her neck and hips. There, it seemed her bones congregated to show off. And those eery black fingers had had just about enough of the behavior of her bones, of her vision, of the laziness of her throat and overexertion of her dedication and self-control. It was just as well, she thought. The feathery touch of those black fingers felt dead-on. She herself, had had just about enough of self-control becoming totalitarian policies. Miscompliance brought severe, earthy punishment and she was simply too tired for it any longer. Those fingers seized and pushed, and when it was time to go she knew it would be those fingers directing her home tonight instead of her cathartic exhaustion.
In the door, to the tiles, on to judgement, true, true judgement, and there they are. There are the two numbers she wanted all along, validation for her behavior. But even in her relief, death could find no reason to let her survive. There was no note, nothing to explain to him that she loved him, nothing to explain to anyone that she'd loved at all.
She'd been consumed and she was found cold, with an eerily warm smile.
Hannah Feb 2014
Morning light was harsh. A rough hand rubbed her profile with a swinging gesture as her legs swung similiarly over the edge of what was once her campsite. They touched the ground, alas, carpet instead of gravel- a disappointment she might never get over.
What would it be today, she wondered. What would the numbers tell her about how she was to feel? The heart in her "chest" had lost its privilage to decide what her feelings were to be, so the numbers delegated on their own these days. It wasn't that she wanted it, it wasn't that she'd chosen a path of depthless, formless feeling, but her body simply couldn't house the suggestions her brain had made lately. The numbers never lied to her.
With a step and a puff, she thought maybe the weight of the cigarette could sway the outcome, so she stared at its end, burning off of the side of the counter, waiting for it to ash on its own before she could work up the courge to crane her neck down to see. Patentiently, she waited. Brown and yellow tile lingered below her feet and grouped together in a heap that she swore she almost heard expell a collective screech when the black and white star hit.
Her eyes slid down. The numbers never lied to her.
Today it was an honesty with an ease of acceptance, as she knew it would be. Intake had been slim to none, if only due to the fact that it had slipped her mind to nourish. It could be said again that her mind had little control any longer, and she lived inwardly but was directed outwardly, and could not rely on much to tell her what to do when it needed to be done.
Her day was to be grateful to be apart from the days of discontent, in their huddled, blackened mass. The circles below her eyes had rested for a change, but emerged ever darker and all the more complete, as they always did after a night of difference.
A night of sleep, she realized with a small chuckle that caught her off guard. She'd slept while the sun was gone and awoke when it returned to her tiny home. It seemed to her that it had been decades since she'd last done that, and she'd barely been alive for two.
Sticky lives, she'd discovered, were terribly difficult to pry objects from. They were difficult to separate from habits and tendancies. Tendancy was a favorite word of hers, and it lived within her sticky life throughout every day of living it.
Intake abandoned slim to be in cahoots with none. Neither her eyes nor her common sense could tell her which dark, winter month it was or where she was to go at what time and with whom. So safely, she always decided it was away she was expected at, any time whatsoever, and alone. Safely, she always decided it was to be alone.
Oh ****, she's forgotten about the smoldering cigarette on the edge of her bathroom counter. And with a short dash, she lifted it to discover a spot of orangish permanence that would forever remind her of the morning she woke up alongside a number she thought she could co-exist with. She would be wrong, she was always wrong, she always knew she was wrong, so what the **** ever kept her from being right? And who are we kidding, those mornings were numerous and the only differing factor here was that on this morning it slipped her mind to bring her bedside ashtray into the bathroom.
Three digits wrapped themselves around her withered self, the withered thought that once was, "There is no God," and was suddenly, "What is letting me worship as if there is, what is allowing me loyalty like this when I hate all loyalty has ever brought, there is a God involved here but where the **** did she come from and why won't she loosen her fixed grip?"
This was a hazard, she woke up knowing all too well. There was poison in her every step, be they through the kitchen to the front door or from the front door straight to those brown and yellow tiles.
Today her cyanide stroll brought the sharpest points of her face into blistering cold without more than a slight bit of hydration and not even the slighest bit of energy. Exhaustion lifted her up and carried her on its back down a street she walked every day but housed no memories of, to a place where she sat in fervent distraction for hours.
She sunk into the chair she chose and felt pressure on parts of her body she knew shouldn't be accessible. Three digits, she recited like a trained professional, like a mindless scholar simply letting herself be taught as opposed to learning. Three digits, should be two. She was one away, just one, and she knew that by the time she let exhaustion carry her home in the night, the two she deserved would be hers.
How finally, she hoped. How momentous and breathtaking would it be to have my breath taken by a goal I have worked to achieve. How special to commit, (I mean, complete,) two goals at once. All day long, she was experiencing what other people called "day," but she felt it all with eery black fingers around her neck and hips. There, it seemed her bones congregated to show off. And those eery black fingers had had just about enough of the behavior of her bones, of her vision, of the laziness of her throat and overexertion of her dedication and self-control. It was just as well, she thought. The feathery touch of those black fingers felt dead-on. She herself, had had just about enough of self-control becoming totalitarian policies. Miscompliance brought severe, earthy punishment and she was simply too tired for it any longer. Those fingers seized and pushed, and when it was time to go she knew it would be those fingers directing her home tonight instead of her cathartic exhaustion.
In the door, to the tiles, on to judgement, true, true judgement, and there they are. There are the two numbers she wanted all along, validation for her behavior. But even in her relief, death could find no reason to let her survive. There was no note, nothing to explain to him that she loved him, nothing to explain to anyone that she'd loved at all.
She'd been consumed and she was found cold, with an eerily warm smile.
Timothy Stout Dec 2014
We sit together, in the quiet
You turn to me and apologize
Apologize for your depression
Your sadness
I turn to you and tell you to not give up
That I love you.

You apologize for me dealing with you
For going through it with you
The way I look at it; this is a journey
for two
And I have the privilage of doing it
with you
Lo there are crooked trails and deep ravines;
You have my help,
You have my love.
Kari May 2017
We are living in a dictatorship, a tyrant is at large.
The Aristocrats are clawing on to their wealth and privilage
Ebenezer Scrooge pales in all spectrum
The Peasants awakened in anguish, brews a tempestous whirlwind.
Torches brought to life,
roaring ******* flames of justice
Torture’s a friendly foe,
the time for lamenting has been extinguished.
 
Directing their stubby fingers, master of guile,
stroking their overgrown stomach
“Leech the Swines!
Bury their bodies, all but their sham crown
Garlands of heads, draped on my wall.”
A source of warmth for the winter’s plight, A trophy
triumphing the seeds of abeyance
Desolating fate is sealed by this stern decree.
 
Free hand-reading; not requiring an oracle.
“Am I not a benevolent King?”
**** out the roots.
One by one,
**** out the roots of evil.
For the root of all evil is good.


The peasants thin and scrawny.
Hunger, their morning advocate and evening lover-
Lusting to sink their teeth in to Pride.
 
The Nobel robed in mulberry silk
making love to a ******* pastry, birthed by a coinless *******.
Ascended into the abyssal inner circle of Hell
 
Those armoured with royal blood adorned in leather costumes
-vagrants cannot discriminate-
slaughtered while Mercy slumbers.
**** the aristocrats, for they are selfish!
The abolishment of poverty, the bane of the Monarchical eradication
 
A diabolical scheme!
Says the soulless estranged with peace.
inspired by Charles Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities"
m May 2018
when asked to introduce myself,
the response is protocol:
my name, my age, or where i'm from,
friends and family know it all.

when asked to talk about myself,
some things don't come to mind.
sure, you'll know my favorite foods,
but i'll leave my country behind.

i have friends from around the world,
who take pride in their homeland.
but one thing you won't hear me say-
"i'm proud to be american".

what comes to mind when one hears "america"?
mcdonald's and walmart and guns?
what about slavery, racism, genocide?
i guess that's how history runs.

i'm lucky to have my freedoms,
i'm lucky to have my rights.
but with this "american privilage",
set the stage for continual fights.

we fight against one another,
which breaks down our unity.
as americans, it is our job to think:
"what does 'american' mean to me?".
as a person living with numerous privileges, we are obligated to help those without privilege. if that means redefining what it means to be "american", it's at least a start.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
let's just get it over and done
with...
   i'm becoming more
and more fatigued
by the argument
   & the counter-argument...
the style of dialectics
where everyone slides
back into their cubicle
                 of solipsism none
the wiser,
no more convinced...
       ******* riddled with shackles...
for whatever these are
worth...
  the mind is less
a labyrinth of confusion
and more a charge of being barred...
i could have once concerned
myself with a "freedom"
of speech...
           i write,
because talking has become
                something to the privelege
of a school bully...
  (privilage...  ****...
   i already said something
about the french language....
no distinct syllables...
  pri-vi-lege:
   privy-6-ledge)

could have simply sentenced
akin....
like metaphors:
i walked into a dark alley,
****** on a wall,
left a bottle,
expecting the police
to corner me
in the act of not
******* in a bottle,
telling myself
that the question
    'what are you doing?!'
would result with an answer:
'please don't ask me for
a metaphor'
and then stating then blatant
obvious:

'the **** does it look like?!
playing miles davis
through a cut-off
trunk of an elephant?!'

yes, happy person,
part of the dodo project...
antithesis
of the current tabloid
culture of fame...

             fatalism
is no nihilism....
     i drink, i drink to excess...
i am obliged
to the parasite of ego...
          i forgot:
is this the time i take
to responsibility?
          imagine, like nietzsche said,
heaving up the entire
human "project"...
in a pose best ascribed to Atlas...
thank **** i will not have
raise some mongrel
quasi-Greek *******...

         oh look:
(me) waving bye-bye...
            stealth suicide
and a waiting game...
       what am i supposed
to do? laugh? cry?
              i'll do what i did just
last night:
punch myself and giggle...
  
  there's a room?!
there's a pink elephant?!
there's a pink elephant in
the room?

             philosophers
ascribed all words,
to be in status of metaphor...
via the " " exclusions...
    if they would have
so otherwise?
   the simple italics
          would have sufficed.

yes, nuance, counter-focus
of metaphor...
ambiguity...
    
               the comic realism
of a no-taboo comedy of
the anglo-saxon "ethnicity"...
some, jokes...
are just too exhausting to
laugh at;

don't you think?

  by that i imply:
                           concensus...
     no, not all jokes
are funny...
  some jokes have
plenty of Loki's lethargy
to be ascribed to them...
then?
face-like-a-punching-bag...
plums... bruises...

or simply: over-stating
one's freedoms...
    let me enjoy the last
days of this dodo project
and a proverb arriving
from Kierkegaard...

      the freedom to think
can never overshadow
the freedom to speak...

                          Ι ∴ Σ...
what other function
of the body prompts
the same immediacy of having
to react to "it" / self?

              bothersome....
this very modern
counter the primitive
seance of the existence of
thought...

other synonyms
to thought?
     an ought...
          morality...
narrative...
        fiction...
fact...

     basic feud:
       when journalism forgot
to distinguish fact from
fiction...
right about in the book review
section of its magazine
come either Saturday
or Sunday...

out from the shackles
of Communist Russia
and into the shackles
of the mob rule West...
                       pollack's luck.
NiTSUDD Oct 2016
She allowed the sun to kiss her ankles
But her face remained a privilage of the air
As her features illuminated in the sunlight
And the opulent gold shown through her hair

In the aftermath it was clear that her calculations had been correct
The forgiving wind massaged her skin and gave her the peace to reflect

— The End —