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you owe me nothing.
yes, nothing at all
your nothingness owns me
and I await your call

© Matthew Harlovic
*Response to Sara Teasdale’s poem “Debt”
Kalarav Oct 2018
Of what cost is a smile?
Of what cost is a 'hi, how are you?'?
Of what cost is an act of kindness?
Of what cost is selfless love?
Our ego seems like a good bargain.
Or simply a good gain.
Michael Marchese Jul 2018
Don’t tell me it can’t all be equally shared
Don’t tell me elections are fair
Anywhere
I know whose had the power
The weapons to prove it
The world in their hands
And the money to move it
Perpetual profit
New product to cell
Dwellin’ deep in the pocket
Of your lol

So don’t tell me with Twitter you’re not all Obsessed
When you buy every lie presidential address
Comin’ hot off the press
Not so free to inform
A pornhub tuggin’ ******
Publicity Storm
And another blackout
On my people uncovered
Like Firestone burnin’ through natives
Unrubbered

Don’t tell me you don’t have the cure
Or that war
Isn’t waged on the people
To sheeple the poor
To the industry slaughterhouse
Dream factory
Where success is a breath of fresh
Debt peony
I know slavery still puts
That food on the table
And big pharma’s FDA puppets, the label

So don’t tell me dope is what’s making us Dumb
Don’t tell me my God’s not the LSD sun
Or that guns aren’t hired
To desecrate my
Sanctified inner peace
Keepin’ graffiti sky
For my ties to this earth
Are invaluable worth
So don’t tell me my rights haven’t been mine Since birth
cope with all the greed  injustice and brutality
we learn about day in  day out

with some luck
these are not part of our own experience
but second hand  from news and media

this does not make it better  though
when trusted public figures fail

how to react
    to priests and teachers
          who abuse the young
    to presidents  dictators  populists
          leading astray their countries
    to our elected politicians
          unable to resist the lure
              and money
          of those special interest groups
    to ruthless powermongers  businesses
          that only work for profit
          not the common good
    
resistance is not easy
the choice of weapons in this conflict difficult

yet if we not resist
not make the global and the smaller perpetrators
accept responsibility for their misdeeds

our living years will soon grow fewer
and we shall hasten our journey
     to the end of all our needs
Violet Aug 2017
I love my parents so much:
my parents and siblings rock!
We always do stay in touch,
naturally together, we'd talk.

My Daddy is his company's boss.
He does prosper; he rocks in there!
Understanding any profit or loss,
he can clearly make any, being fair.

My Mommy is our housemother,
so she stays inside, to clean!
She flourishes like no other,
always praying, for some scene.

I love my younger siblings as well.
Probably, we shall never depart!
They both thrive, being super swell,
of course, both in my dear heart.

My whole family will cherish to me!
It is SUPER funny that when I had written this on here, I didn't know how many words were in it. When I c&p'ed it in Microsoft Word to check its status, it actually had EXACTLY 100 words, as my other poems do. This one is also in ABAB form as well (except for that nice, last free verse line).
Stephanie May 2018
Dont open my eyes
Dont move a muscle
Pretend to sleep
Hope with all my might
Just leave me alone
I dont want to be touched
I dont want to be for your profit
I am just a good little girl
I am not your slave
I am not your toy
I want more
I want my freedom
I can't take this pain inside
Are you done yet
The blood on the sheets
The blood on my legs
Remind me what a good little girl I was for you
I hate you
I hate myself more
I want to be strong
I want escape
I want to tell
I never will
These secrets
This pain
This fear
I will carry to my grave
Like a good little girl
Based on my experience in childhood prostitution
Perched upon a corporate throne,

We march into the great unknown

As wasted words of gossip drone

And steel replaces brick and stone.
Soon you find yourself alone

In crowded streets with a global phone,

Doing a random strangers bidding.



A means to an end they say,

As poor men die while rich men play,

When honest work brings modest pay,

And doesn't last 'em through the day

Though profiteers in moral grey 

Flood the airwaves to in turn say,

"Our wealth simply paves  the way,

Tomorrow is your salvation day,

You want peace? Then war is only fitting."



Look and you will see

Money buys democracy,

The Citizens United, see?

If we knew the truth, would we agree?

Those answers are not  going to be

Yes or no but more likely

Maybe, perhaps, or possibly,

Because in reality,

Right and wrong are just kidding.



To those who fret the plagues we face,
Yet believe we can change this place,
Who stifle doubts about the Human Race,
And yearn to be together in this chase,
With subdued pride and envy, in every case,

Seeking common goals to found the base,

May we lay the evil plots to waste,

For evils clients who once stood are now sitting.



The time is now, make a stand
,
Pull our heads out of the sand

Call their bluff with a hidden hand

Of virtue they don’t quite understand,
Defy procedure’s they have planned
,
Unite across the lines that brand,

Refuse all prejudice, none may be accepted.



Some know for they already looked

And the flow of money keeps them booked,

Takes but once to have them hooked,

Setting the table with food uncooked

For others whose foundations shook

Are pitted against the small time crook

Hoping only that we be protected

.

Hark the sounds of rebellious cries

For those that call, they realize

All that lives sure enough dies
But when displeased we close our eyes

To the masters of disguise

Who think their profit justifies

The invisible hand growing in size

While their strings attached go uncorrected



They kept us quiet all the while

Waiting with numbers dialed

To put the innocent to trial

Lining up in single file

To be cast into the same old pile

None willing to lay down their tile,

Casting shadows upon their guile,

The double agent mercantile,

Lobbying candidates to endorse.



All I ask, is to what do we base belief?

Dying children get no relief

Oil poisons the coral reef

Prophecy of the fallen chief

Given a thought but a bit too brief
Together a tree, alone but a leaf
Although it is all who feel the grief

Of our actions consequential course



Corrupted elites discuss our goals

So we continue to dig our holes

To depths that darken souls

Rigging markets to decide our roles

Assumptions made so that greed controls

They draw their graphs till the pencil dulls

Then add a factor, see how that goes

Without even the slightest feeling of remorse



Growth is sacred, but is it moral?

Strengthen reason yet we quarrel

Over falsities of ***** oral

Arrangements like that of floral

Remedies but not doctoral

Blood of fallen lives pastoral

Remind that we’re all mortal

But all thereafter bear the force.



So please tell me at what cost?

In a moments past our objectives lost

Compassion was our hand now tossed

Lines we’ve drawn, lines we’ve crossed

How much dirt can be washed

From our conscience we exhaust

Before shattering glass of fate we sloshed?

Working from the scattered pieces back to the source



It is us who blindly lead the strut

We are the source and nothing but

Whose center point is one giant rut

Where false desires cracked and cut

And the selfish feed an endless gut,

When our culture begins to split and jut,

We might finally ask... It was all for what?
Inspired by the great Bob Dylan. I refer you to the song “It’s Alright Ma’”
Vi una columna de luz
Más brillante que el sol
Directamente arriba de mi cabeza

Y esta luz gradualmente
Descendió hasta descansar
Sobre mí.

Al reposar sobre mí la luz
Vi en el aire arriba de mí
A dos personajes

Cuyo fulgor y gloria
No admiten
Descripción

Uno de ellos me habló
Llamándome por mi nombre
Y dijo, señalando al otro:

Éste es mi Hijo
Amado:
¡Escúchalo!”

"I saw a pillar of light exactly over my head, above the brightness of the sun, which descended gradually until it fell upon me….

When the light rested upon me I saw two Personages, whose brightness and glory defy all description, standing above me in the air.

One of them spake unto me, calling me by name and said, pointing to the other—This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him!"

- Joseph Smith, The Prophet
The third and most poetic
Of his first vision
Account
...
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3298064/upe/
...
https://cesletter.org/debunking-fairmormon/first-vision.html
L B Dec 2016
“…Take your place on the Great Mandala as it moves through your brief moment of time…
Win or lose now
You must choose now
and if you lose, you’re only losing your life…”  Peter, Paul, and Mary
___________

Stitching the hem of a prom dress to the
Chicago Convention on TV
Pink brocade, white gloves to the elbow

Night sticks snap skulls

“...and a time on a 27 will always shine a light”

Seven Day War
but neither of us dance

Whispered under weeping willows
“What will become of us?”

“The New Left” scrawled in my yearbook
under Danny’s name
I stared at him puzzled, half-attracted

The New Left came
from Harvard, Radcliffe, Mars?
to the grimy streets of Lowell
to teach us “worker kids”
‘bout our sorry selves

Aloof
from our bad teeth, unplanned pregnancies
stuccoed bungalows
chrome kitchen sets circa ’53
So far beyond

Alienated
by our worn out dens
with proud TV’s
the evening’s beer proclivity

They, weren’t “Right on!”
with the smell of furniture polish and
lifetimes of motor oil on overalls

We were okay to be organized though
before they left—

Because they knew what mattered!
…and “How could WE  know so little!
‘bout Lenin, Marx?
the exploits of profit and endless war?"

How could THEY know so little—
  
about the death down the street
‘bout the conflict caused by *in-house “Pigs”

Husbands in Canada
Brothers in Nam

Dying small-town, piece-work kids
Labor's legacy
Lost bourgeois

Freezing on street corners
Telephone’s tapped
Handing out leaflets

to talk of guns...

“Our people blew up the Bank of America!
You know”

To talk of guns…

While Black Panthers were dying
No ******' around

Hell’s Angels—  graphite ghosts
hover in ****** shadows of shared back yard
Revolutionary panic as
mafia muscle makes an appearance
comes-on to me
sped-up and pulls a pistol!…
_____

Guts ran out the holes in my head

Lonely now
…and not so… ready?

Someone suggested “experience”
to explain for certain
the face on the clock
the of wince of Time
and all the reasons there were to die

Should ‘ave asked why— they called it “acid”

Connecting the dots of despair
I saw it all— for the first time

and lost— everything
*in-house pigs:   cops in the family

Definitely a GOOD LISTEN.
Another amazing song from Susan's dorm room: The Great Mandala--
Peter, Paul, and Mary-- probably their best and most important song!

6https://www.google.com/search?q=the+great+mandala+peter+paul+and+mary+you+tube&ie;=utf-8&oe;=utf-8

This was the height of the American Civil Rights and Anti War
Movements of the late 1960s.
I was trying to capture something of the American despair and drive for change of that time. Not all of us were drugged hippie flower children. Some of us actually saw the extent of the loss around us, and in my case, anyway, thought I was witnessing the last possibility for change-- the last throes of conscience of a once hopeful people.
I was also really young, facing what I am sure now, was the truth and was really afraid of dying. Thought acid (LSD) would reveal meaning-- sort of a religious search.  Only did it once-- You know what they say about "What never happens the first time..."  Happened.
Vox
People wanna turn a profit.
Use your skepticism, tell you
what's wrong:
That smile on his face,
Wrong.
The drama in this place,
Wrong.
She vanished without a trace,
Wrong.
You listen to what I say,
Wrong.
You decide.
Think it over
and take a side,
I don't care which one
as long as you know
what you've done.

Find what you got,
Love what you lost.
It bettered you
despite the cost.
jeanette korbel Mar 2015
Take me to the hospital
I think im overdosing
I couldn’t take it anymore
Good thing they diagnosed me.

He lied there and cried from those pills
Thought if he died he'd be something real
  
Scars are not always visible
Beaten with words, never felt so invincible
He’s quiet but, his mind is screaming
Tried to figure it out, life has no meaning
They all say its a phase he'll be better soon.
In reality he never was, now what do they do?
_
Chorus
  
Nobody takes him seriously
Some kind of conspiracy
When they find out
It will be too late
You cant stop
The constant beating
Of self hate
_
Give him a chance to speak
Give him a break from everything he’s seen.
If no one picks him up  
He will forever be in our dreams
No more reality
Life just isn't what it seems
  



Another pill popper, a maniac, a **** smoker, addicted to crack.
When they’re gone you can't bring them back  
The state he’s in its caring he lacks
No one gives him confidence so,  
He slacks and he slacks.
No job to pay the bills, just a drug dealing act
You can't make money when you ingest all the profit.
When its too late there's no way to stop it
_
chorus  
  


Nobody takes him seriously
Some kind of conspiracy
When they find out
It will be too late
You cant stop
The constant beating
Of self hate


_
  
He was too young, and it was too soon.
He can't fix what he already consumed.
Sitting all alone in his room.
He was satisfied.
For that one moment he felt alive.
He said he'd be happier if he died.
  
Yes we cried but, we all moved on
  
For people like him, I wrote this song
#overdose #sad #loss
[Why did you choose medicine?]

Once I asked myself
The same question
What I'm for?
Where I feel alive?

I could've been a different person
If I had not realized
I DON'T HAVE TIME
And it makes sense

I DON'T HAVE TIME
For arguments
For competition
For explanation
For profit counts

I am destined, here
To heal
To love
To liberate
To be free
To progress
For a newer balance
Of the humankind

Thus, I adopt
Genre: Autobiography
Theme: Wisdom in time
Terry O'Leary Jun 2015
Someday I'd like to wander free
like butterfly, like bumblebee,
perhaps to plant a willow tree
beside the silent solemn sea,

before these things exist no more,
from mountain top to shifting shore,
when, soon, bald eagles cease to soar
and build their aeries nevermore,

and fish forsake polluted streams
(where sulfur swims and typhoid teems
since no one really cares it seems)
to die inside our toxic dreams
while ice caps melt and winter steams,

and all the air surrounding reeks
as children choke, for no one speaks
of fracking wells or oily leaks
(Big Brother's silenced all critiques!),

and rancid rains acidify
so woods no longer multiply
(for God so wills, we can't deny,
which is, of course, our alibi).

And as the deepest ocean fills
with plastic bags, and garbage spills
upon the plains, across the hills
and turns to poison dust that kills
wild dingo dogs and daffodils
which sink in swamps’ forsaken swills,

the mocking bird makes light and trills
(midst waning wails of whippoorwills)
"Behold the surreal scene that chills
and greet the dread that death distills!
You've had your day with all the frills
that brought the flood and final ills
that can't be cured with bitter pills
nor yet undone with further thrills
of profit gained that grinds and fills
dead desert sands with dollar bills."

              EPILOGUE

Though swaddled still in infancy,
we feel we’ve reached our primacy
(aloof, though preaching piously,
disdaining deeds of decency)
and have no need of augury.

But in the pit of prophecy
the crucial questions seem to be:

“Is doom Earth’s fate, our destiny
to twist in tides of agony
destroying nature’s progeny
with no return a certainty
assured by death’s finality?”

and

        ”Should we plant a willow tree
to someday weep for you and me?”
Philip V Jul 2018
She handed me a red dice.

If you're gonna run
She said,
You better run from
yourself.

You'll chase bliss,
Win your life,
Strangle fear
And conquer
heights.

But don't roll the dice
For just anything
quite.

When you're out of profit
An empty wallet
Ready to make a promise,
You'll find it
in your deepest pocket.

It will let you start anew
Like a star in a barren sky
You'll fly again
Perhaps even soon.

Just remember that
By the millions of odds
You got here in time
To be yourself.

No more
No less.

And so you
Do what you must
But you better do it right
There aren't too many dice throws,
Given here in life.

And so
I rolled.
Terry O'Leary Jul 2015
The dawn unfolds beyond my fractured windowpane
and breezes tease while drapes, like serpents, slip aside
exposing worlds that race and run aground, insane,
displaying scenes obscene that savants strive to mask and hide.

Outside, the streets are stark (last night they seemed so cruel
when demons danced as lanterns 'lumed the lynching tree -
its shadow shuddered, lurking in my vestibule -
within the night, I sense these things I sometimes cannot see).

Perdu in darkened doorways (those which watch the ones that weep)
men hide their shame in crevices in search of cloaked relief.
The ladies of the evening leave (their time to sleep!)
the alleyways, retaining bitter tastes of untold grief.

Soon drifters (distraught dregs that stray from street to street)
abandon benches, squat on curbstones some call home,
appeal to strangers for a coin or simple bite to eat -
refused… gaze down… left empty-handed in the morning gloam.

Observe with me, beyond my fractured windowpane,
the boy with crooked smile - the one who's seen the  beast -
with tears, he stoops and clasps the cross while wiping off the stain -
the abbey door along the lane conceals a pious priest.

While at the mall, Mike sees some cigs, and stealth'ly steals a pack;
the Man, observing, thinks ‘Hey Boy, this caper calls for blood’,
takes aim, then shoots the fated stripling eight times in the back.
Come, mourn for Mike and brother Justice, facedown in the mud.

Fatigued and bored, some kids harass the alley now -
to pass the time, Joe smokes a joint and Lizzy snorts a line;
computer games (which quake with doom) can help somehow,
so Eric plays with Dylan on the road to Columbine.

The shanty towns have hunkered down as if in mortal sport
while broken bodies' shattered bones repose supine,
and mamas (now bereft of child) in anguished pain contort,
their eyes drip drops of wrath which wither on a twisted vine.

Now Mr Baxter, private bankster (cruising down the road,
pursuing profit pushers, waving magic mushroom wands),
adores addiction to the bailout (coffers overflowed)
and jests with all the junkies, while he's dealing with the bonds.

Marauders man the marketplace (with billions guaranteed)  
while kids with swollen bellies beg neath hollow sunken eyes,
and (cut to naught) the down-and-out (like trodden beet roots) bleed.
Life's carousel invites us all, though few can ring the prize.

A washerwoman, timeworn, totters from the tram -
she shuffles to her hovel on a lonesome distant hill,
despondent, shuts the shutters, downs her final dram -
a magpie quickly picks at crumbs forsaken on the sill.

Jihadist and Crusader warders faithfully guard the gates,
behead impious infidels, else burn them at the stake
(yes, God incites each side for good, the other side He hates),
with saintly satisfaction gained provoking pagan ache.

The watchers pry behind our fractured windowpanes
inspect us all, tear down the walls of privacy
controlling every point of view opinion entertains,
forbidding thoughts one mustn't think, with which they don’t agree.

Come, cast a furtive glance… there's something in the far…
from towns to dunes in deserts dry, the welkin belches sudden death
by dint of soulless drones that stalk beneath a straying star
erasing life in random ways in freedom’s final breath.

But closer lies an island, where the keepers keep the wards.
No sense, no charges nor defense - a verdict? Yes! … grotesque -
the guiltless gush confessions, born and bred on waterboards.
Impartial trials? A travesty instead, indeed quite Kafkaesque.

Now dusk draws near beyond my fractured windowpane
while mankind drowns like burnt-out suns in fading lurid light;
and scarlet clots of grim deceit and ebon beads of bane
flow, deified, within the rotting corpse of human night.
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