"propagandas" poems - Hello Poetry

Division runs rampant through unity on the break Torches flare as rage flickers smoldering kindling to flame Erupting the perpetual boils that fester beyond infections wake Fearful that lives saved are endangered for propagandas sake Nay, the divisions that split rip to shreds the patriotic fabric Shorn to threads amiable friendships that broach enmity Between brothers bound by blood shared Bleeding red in concealed unison given to each at birth As mighty Gaia trembles under the weight of shrugging Atlas Beseeching the old gods to return to former glories Resting lonesome Olympus from its divine pantheon To quake and shake the shared foundations built Atop mountains of lies stacked one after another Before the heavens part and holy Elysium repels The hearts of both men and women who dared divide A house unified on sacrosanct liberties inherent Gifted to the corruptible souls of humanity On the premise that justice should be for all That hold the highest values inviolable By any that would rabble-rouse the masses to forgo The established law of the land on such flawed premises Where words hold greater authority than actions convey And peace is but a pipe dream puffed in perfect rings translucent Fading before the light has a chance to cast dark shadows Imperfect in their reflection yet somehow flawless in impression Oh, if only we were not like that famous allegory Confined to our own individual caves Then maybe our eyes could open wide and once again Let in the truth that we have for too long allowed to blind us in hate Perhaps the fates would halt their furies And end our shared torment avoidable Unifying a once noble people to again stand proud A beacon to a world begging for freedom Clearing the fog of war and lighting the path Back to the house we once called home By L.R.Thompson

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Aug 24, 2021

Aug 24, 2021 at 12:05 AM UTC

LRThompson

Home, Divided

Division runs rampant through unity on the break Torches flare as rage flickers smoldering kindling to flame Erupting the perpetual boils that fester beyond infections wake Fearful that lives saved are endangered for propagandas sake Nay, the divisions that split rip to shreds the patriotic fabric Shorn to threads amiable friendships that broach enmity Between brothers bound by blood shared Bleeding red in concealed unison given to each at birth As mighty Gaia trembles under the weight of shrugging Atlas Beseeching the old gods to return to former glories Resting lonesome Olympus from its divine pantheon To quake and shake the shared foundations built Atop mountains of lies stacked one after another Before the heavens part and holy Elysium repels The hearts of both men and women who dared divide A house unified on sacrosanct liberties inherent Gifted to the corruptible souls of humanity On the premise that justice should be for all That hold the highest values inviolable By any that would rabble-rouse the masses to forgo The established law of the land on such flawed premises Where words hold greater authority than actions convey And peace is but a pipe dream puffed in perfect rings translucent Fading before the light has a chance to cast dark shadows Imperfect in their reflection yet somehow flawless in impression Oh, if only we were not like that famous allegory Confined to our own individual caves Then maybe our eyes could open wide and once again Let in the truth that we have for too long allowed to blind us in hate Perhaps the fates would halt their furies And end our shared torment avoidable Unifying a once noble people to again stand proud A beacon to a world begging for freedom Clearing the fog of war and lighting the path Back to the house we once called home By L.R.Thompson

36

Amanecí con lápiz en la mano y el corazón en el otro lado. Escribí la vision de un sueño un sueño nocturno de plumas negras agitado por tantas propagandas desgarrado por el sistema quede atrapado en montes de paja vacíos y huecos sin dejar nada, ni a nadie. Aveces asqueado del poder de las palabras de un rey convencido de su propia desdicha busco al poeta de los sueños capaz de tomar riendas y hacer lo que todos saben y nadie hace lograr un despertar en las almas y corazones buscar justicia aplicar la ley tal y como es: ¡DESPERTAR!

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Apr 7, 2018

Apr 7, 2018 at 1:46 AM UTC

vjmc197

Despertar

Amanecí con lápiz en la mano y el corazón en el otro lado. Escribí la vision de un sueño un sueño nocturno de plumas negras agitado por tantas propagandas desgarrado por el sistema quede atrapado en montes de paja vacíos y huecos sin dejar nada, ni a nadie. Aveces asqueado del poder de las palabras de un rey convencido de su propia desdicha busco al poeta de los sueños capaz de tomar riendas y hacer lo que todos saben y nadie hace lograr un despertar en las almas y corazones buscar justicia aplicar la ley tal y como es: ¡DESPERTAR!

21

I am born in a poor country, in a poor society, with a poor soul, In a poor family, with diminished hopes of seeing the world. But I am Icarus, and by 28 I would be rich, so ******* rich, that I would hardly be able to count all the money. I do not know how, or why, but- I would be rich and young and beautiful as Nixon or Reagan, or Trump, And, I would dream on. I would be here and over there, and everywhere, For whatever it takes, to triumph over the world! And thus the body decides to give flashes to these fleshy thoughts, He reads newspapers and books and propagandas, which are hot, He believes to make a difference in this world of men, He hopes to try beyond the screen of hopelessness again. But, These are just rantings of a beautiful mind, Trapped in the vestibule of wriggling nets of upbeat thoughts, And if he succeeds, he would be Icarus, someday, Or if he doesn't he would be a candle to be burnt and charred away. And you read and judge all poems and points, For, The world moves between just these two paradoxes of choice. Of virtues and vice, and to limit oneself within the membranes of such an obsessive noise. For, The world but moves between these two points. But I would love to die young and rich, Before I sleep like an use less snitch.

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Sep 6, 2017

Sep 6, 2017 at 10:46 AM UTC

Angshuman_Chakravarty

Justice, at ease.

I am born in a poor country, in a poor society, with a poor soul, In a poor family, with diminished hopes of seeing the world. But I am Icarus, and by 28 I would be rich, so ******* rich, that I would hardly be able to count all the money. I do not know how, or why, but- I would be rich and young and beautiful as Nixon or Reagan, or Trump, And, I would dream on. I would be here and over there, and everywhere, For whatever it takes, to triumph over the world! And thus the body decides to give flashes to these fleshy thoughts, He reads newspapers and books and propagandas, which are hot, He believes to make a difference in this world of men, He hopes to try beyond the screen of hopelessness again. But, These are just rantings of a beautiful mind, Trapped in the vestibule of wriggling nets of upbeat thoughts, And if he succeeds, he would be Icarus, someday, Or if he doesn't he would be a candle to be burnt and charred away. And you read and judge all poems and points, For, The world moves between just these two paradoxes of choice. Of virtues and vice, and to limit oneself within the membranes of such an obsessive noise. For, The world but moves between these two points. But I would love to die young and rich, Before I sleep like an use less snitch.

24

This is another day Just make it count Be about your business And show everyone what its all about Take advantage of a good opportunity Broaden your horizons Open your mind to new propagandas And sharpen your visions

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Apr 21, 2017

Apr 21, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC

brooklyn6timesplus

This Is Another Day

This is another day Just make it count Be about your business And show everyone what its all about Take advantage of a good opportunity Broaden your horizons Open your mind to new propagandas And sharpen your visions

8

"What do you write? Poetry?" asked the teacher, Impatiently. And he continued-"Why ain't you trying anything else?" Well, I was baffled, and I thought-" I write, Poetry, Yes it doesn't sell." "I know that"-That's what I said. For a moment he glared at my hands and looked around for something more, He was staring at the broken walls and the memories, of vicissitudes, which were scattered all over the floor. He resumed again with an essence of pride, acquired in taste- "what else do you do? Don't you like playing games? Boys of your age, go the field and takes up a batter, with bowling techniques..." I was baffled again, thinking to myself- "More Poetry? Please?" But I was silent on my lips, as my thoughts were shy, I told to the teacher-"Yeah Cricket, I might try." He lost the art of conversing in a rhyme- And he exclaimed, dolefully-"Try Poetry, maybe another time." And all I was but thinking was about this thought, I know I don't sell propagandas which might seem to be hot. And, he left the chair, the class was but over, I thought "to make an attempt to creativity, Which is both acceptable and sober?" And Like all other days, the birds were all chirping, The engines were roaring, and the sky as casting the bluest shade, But, you see, I write poetry which kisses the butter with a blessed blade. I write poetry, I try to do so, Scripts of screaming tales which you might not even know.

0

Sep 29, 2017

Sep 29, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC

Angshuman_Chakravarty

I try.

"What do you write? Poetry?" asked the teacher, Impatiently. And he continued-"Why ain't you trying anything else?" Well, I was baffled, and I thought-" I write, Poetry, Yes it doesn't sell." "I know that"-That's what I said. For a moment he glared at my hands and looked around for something more, He was staring at the broken walls and the memories, of vicissitudes, which were scattered all over the floor. He resumed again with an essence of pride, acquired in taste- "what else do you do? Don't you like playing games? Boys of your age, go the field and takes up a batter, with bowling techniques..." I was baffled again, thinking to myself- "More Poetry? Please?" But I was silent on my lips, as my thoughts were shy, I told to the teacher-"Yeah Cricket, I might try." He lost the art of conversing in a rhyme- And he exclaimed, dolefully-"Try Poetry, maybe another time." And all I was but thinking was about this thought, I know I don't sell propagandas which might seem to be hot. And, he left the chair, the class was but over, I thought "to make an attempt to creativity, Which is both acceptable and sober?" And Like all other days, the birds were all chirping, The engines were roaring, and the sky as casting the bluest shade, But, you see, I write poetry which kisses the butter with a blessed blade. I write poetry, I try to do so, Scripts of screaming tales which you might not even know.

32

Our woodland was filled with beggars, maniacs and perverts But we never had to seek help or find protection Haven’t known any god or demon to blame So I embraced their congenital malfunctions, And mine too We were surrounded by piles of innocent propagandas Assorted with some grossly exaggerated honesty Fortunately enough – Cleanliness would be the beggars’ top criterion And mine too A tiny venomous needle was always the maniac’s favourite weapon He whispered in the ear, “Run! Run!! Run!!! Through the narrowest alleys of your dumb mind!” The perverts took pauses, often and peculiarly From the run, from the salacious dances, from their thirst We’d know we were in the wrong time again I’d know I had to close my eyes to feel the pain, again Unfortunately enough – They liberate your soul Only to suffocate it with their bare hands

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Mar 27, 2019

Mar 27, 2019 at 2:38 AM UTC

saccharinesoliloquy

HYPERPHAGIC DELUSIONARIES

Our woodland was filled with beggars, maniacs and perverts But we never had to seek help or find protection Haven’t known any god or demon to blame So I embraced their congenital malfunctions, And mine too We were surrounded by piles of innocent propagandas Assorted with some grossly exaggerated honesty Fortunately enough – Cleanliness would be the beggars’ top criterion And mine too A tiny venomous needle was always the maniac’s favourite weapon He whispered in the ear, “Run! Run!! Run!!! Through the narrowest alleys of your dumb mind!” The perverts took pauses, often and peculiarly From the run, from the salacious dances, from their thirst We’d know we were in the wrong time again I’d know I had to close my eyes to feel the pain, again Unfortunately enough – They liberate your soul Only to suffocate it with their bare hands

21

We are soldiers of TV Benevolent, hardy, loyal And ready to die and live a life For actors, singers For slogans, propagandas For the rich who preach For the poor who shame For faces, make-ups For a modified image We are soldiers of a box A box hiding Up in the sky Deep in the ocean Further in the forest Maybe captivating god in his rawest form But we don’t know We are just watching To see where this life goes

0

Dec 10, 2016

Dec 10, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC

fan-zhong

We are soldiers of TV

We are soldiers of TV Benevolent, hardy, loyal And ready to die and live a life For actors, singers For slogans, propagandas For the rich who preach For the poor who shame For faces, make-ups For a modified image We are soldiers of a box A box hiding Up in the sky Deep in the ocean Further in the forest Maybe captivating god in his rawest form But we don’t know We are just watching To see where this life goes

18