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Desmond the poet Jul 2018
I've been ignored and sidelined.
Denied freedom of expression.
Due to poverty, I was laughed at.
I was hurt, broken, and fought against.
Like a bicycle, I kept my balance to keep moving.
Then I won.

I’M THE STONE THE BUILDER REFUSED who’s………..

Passion didn’t come without suffering.
I strived not to be noticed.
I strived for my absence to be felt.
My intention wasn’t waiting for the storm to pass.
The intention was to dance in the rain.
Kneeling before God gave him ability to stand before anyone.

I’M THE STONE THE BUILDER REFUSED whom against all odds:

Forge without questioning.
Loved without condition.
Cared for people without expectations.
Gave without any sparing.
Shared without pretending.

I'm the same stone that turned to be the corner stone.
It's a personal poem about how I was treated by my family when I grew up and today I'm successful.
sans screens Mar 2018
In school I was told that I was small,
I was portrayed as a gold fish who lived in a small tank,
Like a small fish who was scared to jump to a larger one,
They failed to notice, fish can’t breath while they jump.

In school I was told that I was lazy,
I was displayed as if I were taking the easier path,
They failed to notice I was an A straight student,
Only I couldn’t be happy in such a squared larger tank.

Two years have passed and I am not lazy, nor small,
The fish has grown, and it is indeed gold,
But it doesn’t jump, it swims and flies,
They failed to notice, we are not made out of a mould.
I have grown old,
My hairs are all white,
And my eye-sight is failing rapidly;
I no longer trust my body.
I am now left
With the strength of my mind
And the will-to-live
Which make me think and reflect
In my past experiences.
The intimacy with myself is rent
And I have never cared to inquire
About the kind of world hidden within me;
I have never thought
About my final moorings
And I have never been informed
About the sweet nectar of true happiness
Available everywhere.
I have tried to wander on my own
And refused miracles,
But where ever I go
I swiftly follow me
As if I exist yet do not exist,
To remind me that I am always alone.
King Panda Feb 2016
I was flying home from Denver
and the man next to me ordered 3 double vodkas
slipping the stewardess a hundred bucks
by the end of the flight he was asking me
to come home with him
he had a sheepskin bed throw
that would keep us perfectly warm
this chill winter night
I refused
called him a drunk freak
and giggled when he stumbled down the escalator
and split a **** in his forehead
that cracked like
like Easter
smothered in chocolate frosting
I am British,
But I don’t feel English.
I’ve lived in France for manny years,
But I don’t feel French.
I have traveled to different places,
I can’t seem to find my home.
The truth is,
I do know where it is.
It’s all around me,
Everywhere I go.
The world is my house.
We are all from the same place,
We are all worth the same.
Why does my nationality confines me?
Why does it define me?

To explore the rooms in my house,
I have to ask for permission to enter.
I can’t stay in my kitchen,
As I have be cooking for to long.
I can’t return to my garden,
As I have already been there twice.
I am waiting to see my living room,
But I am still being refused.
I am stuck in my bedroom,
But I want to change rooms.

Stop telling me to go back home.
This is my country,
This is your country,
This is our country.
We should all have the right,
Equally to explore our house,
Without being refused.

By
Coco 07
I am very new to witting but it has inspired me to express my feelings.
In which I would like to share as maybe it will inspire you to.
Who knows, when His Watch will tell you the Truth
And reveal the Sins he refused to Pour
Mostly when the Priest he tries to Conduce
When in Practice their Ripe Karma does Sour
How you Dive and Resist at the same time
Mostly on Cards you purse and refuse Face
Even if they show Numbers worth in-Line,
If not from the Isles are locked in Disgrace
Yet the Wheel-Friend still refuses this Fact
And tries to re-file this False Document
Even at-risk to be billed a Blackheart,
Booting that supposed Good Sentiment.
Daily, no pause, fold my hands for your Health
If you find Creepy, not my loss of Wealth.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
kevin hamilton Dec 2017
captive audience listening
to the hornets pouring out of me
i was running fingers
listlessly down your face
and dreaming of acid rain
—a picture in my head
that refused to die

ever mindful
of the bedroom door
hinging on your aches
and unborn eyes
the reanimated heart
chimed
and i saw distorted visions
of what awaits us all

a rising overture
from behind the veil
warm, wet handed
in a bath of blood
D Awanis Aug 2018
The worst thing about losing someone to death is that
you didn't actually get that chance to pay your farewell

When they leave,
they just left

Suddenly, their brain refused to consume the oxygen,
their heart refused to pump the blood to the veins
It was almost felt like all those organs and cells had conspired together and finally come to their final conclusion

There will be days when you feel like grieving
and mourning over them are as normal as breathing

And it's okay,
it's okay

No one will ever get over death of loved ones easily
mostly because the "what if"s and "if only"s that follows,
Because the most painful goodbye
is the ones that never got the chance to be said
i miss you Grandma. if i could only turn back the time, i'd love to hug you tighter that night. for one last time
Vicki Kralapp Dec 2014
I marvel at this broken child who lived inside of me,
who struggled for so many years just longing to be free.

To live a life unburdened by my dark and early years,
that made my youth a living hell wrapped in unspoken fears.

My haunted past and broken heart could never quite recall,
the missing piece tucked safely back behind a guarded wall.

So well my mind protected me from all those silent fears,
that n'er did I suspect what lie behind those childhood tears.

Like the ghost it was, it came to me to haunt me in the night,
and brought me to my knees when life refused to treat me right.

Then suddenly, though sent by God, you've given me the key,
To open up these long locked doors and set my spirit free.

Now each sweet day is filled with so much joy and hope I find,
that little girl, so happy now, is dancing in my mind!
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Kristo Frost Mar 2013
Eye
Fire suns out of canons of old and decay in daylight. There might not be blood under your fingernails if you'd refused to laugh. Don't doubt it though, you're being watched. It thinks about your thoughts in thoughtless ways. Dance, pony, humor it. Fail to see the source. Research more. Someone else already answered your stupid questions. Go home. Go broke. Go on as long as you go away. Get a job, you idiot, and make sure it's a good one. If it isn't, fire yourself out of a canon into the Sun. Morphing is addictive. So is heroism. Go, sally gently forth. Froth. Growl low in the gut. Yeah, breathe the fear; die ******* mad about it.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
October 2013

for Maria and Logan...

you need two hands, one foot.
count my years.
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, well, a century...

birthdays.

point of inflection,
point of opportunity,
presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
and ask,

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you taste grief?

have you not but
one pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake maden, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be taken,
attained?

do, does, did.

let me then
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores, not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les delicious treats,
keep theologians, logicians
on retainer, if need
explanations.

none know, can provide,
still and yet, a
priestly sacred chord,
grants relief,
absolution,
song of hallelujah
the ache of
perpetuity worry,
that ancient pain,
grows fresher daily,
the loss of one,
of my body,
my primal knot
unreasonable,
everything should be
permitted to be untied,
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse.

what if the poetry ceases?

Though the bones creak,
the body they carry. resurrect
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....

what if the poetry ceases?

but be assured, told
scientists hard at work,
on the
forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint
trap some words,
tap some words into
your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat that
provides aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived
the muse is feted, sated,

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?
mmmmm,
could it be
Morrow?

bath drains, rosemary and mint
odors dismissed, the  Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all gone,
didn't they have birthdays too?

didn't know
the Renaissance come
and go,
and nobody
tole ya?

please recall t'is the day
after my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
six or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

always one thought recycles:

what if the poetry ceases?

(how will I breathe?)
Notes: my birthday was a few weeks ago. One of a number poems I've written about birthdays.  This one was modified, but only slightly for Maria and Logan.
Tim Benjamin Apr 2014
To the girl sitting next to me in summer school
I want to tell you that you look beautiful,
Beautiful like in the way the summer sun bends around the north pole because it refuses to set its constant and lasting
Just like the way my heart jumped the moment i saw you for the first time and it has refused to come down
Everytime since, when i see you, although i have never been much of a dreamer, i daydream about all the things i want to do to you like...
Make you smile... or blush
So that my daydreams will have the perfect backdrop of love to memorize your every freckle, and then i want to drink the smile i put on your face beause i know it is the only thing that can quench my thirst
I want to tell you that I want to learn ballet, just so i can catch you everytime you jump and make sure that ill never let you fall... unless it's for me...
I want to learn to draw
Because I want to draw my way into your life, van gogh my way into your past present and future, i want to spend my whole life with you, and on your dying day i want to roundhouse kick death for even thinking of taking you away from me
But most of all i want to make you... happy
Happy in a way that is unexplainable
Like why do birds suddenly appear everytime you are near
It would be to easy to say that just like me they long to be close to you
And i want it to be unexpected like when you fall asleep after a long day
Slowely at first and then it engulfs you completely
I want to tell you that I want you to be able to feel the sunlights warm caress even on the darkest of days
And on days when you can't see the stars in the night sky
I will cut stars out of my paper heart
Even though they always seem to rip when held in hands that aren't careful enough
and then I want to hang them from your ceiling
So you will always have something beautiful to look at
And if you would just notice me I promise that I can love you like that...
But instead when I finally noticed that you caught me staring at you about 15 minutes ago... I opened my mouth and instead of all the soliloquies that dance through my head whenever you saunter into a room all that came out was hi...... did you do the homework?
I think it was a good start.
s y k Oct 2018
I was 20 years old,
Walking down the road.
You stopped me in my tracks
To say hello.
I said it back because what's the harm?
From that moment on,
I was a victim to your charm.
You called me pretty
And reached out to hold me,
That alone should have sent me running.
You refused to let me leave,
Until you had a way of contacting me.
Gripping on to my sleeve,
I did what you asked of me.
I wasn't scared
When I should've been.
I was taught to think
That was romantic of him.
If I could turn back,
I would untell myself that.
Shed light on my naivety,
perhaps protect my virginity,
From a 35 year old man
With an abominable plan.
Yes I was of legal age
But here's the common sense,
It still gave you no right
To rob me of my innocence.
Convinced we were friends
And I would always be safe
I let my guard down
Oh god, what a mistake.
You kept wanting to meet late at night.
In your car, in a park,
Anywhere out of sight.
I always felt compelled
During those meetings of ours.
Never like my own self
In those early morning hours.
The first time you laid hands on me
Was when I called and needed company.
Vulnerable and upset,
I needed a friend.
A shoulder to cry on,
A possible distraction,
A devil-sent ravisher
Was not what I asked for.
I was not in control.
I kept coming back for more.
The night you finally ****** me
Is my reoccurring nightmare.
A force and ****** feature,
The end of an affair.
I can't leave it in the past.
You left me aghast.
I want to tear off my skin
And rid myself of your sin.
It's been a couple of months,
Still I can't bear to be clutched,
Until now, I've kept my mouth shut
About the night I was touched.
I'm trying to heal.
Ken Pepiton Aug 2018
A pocket of thought, ideas.
Impulses, has beens

epi-phenom-enal-con-currencies-synchron-icity
sorting places, thens and nows vying for attention

you see
we till stories in search of true tomorrows
not true
yesterdays (till, I said, not tell)
we **** the hard rows no one else will ***
so seed lies sown are never lies told, if the lies are never taught
or if the liars are caught before convincing the
intended crop to lie and swear a common liege Lord,
or die
for lack of knowing. Non-nascence, simplest
symptom to not see.
Whose death is yours to respond responsibly
to? My child's, or yourn?
In the early days, we knew less than we know now
about how knowing and growing were all
intended
to cost time. Ticks, ono motto whatever, the sound
gears and spiral springs pushing cogs
tick, one tooth tick at atime make

this rough, un polished, un glossed, is it wrong or

as I imagine a diamond in the rough must seem to a share cropper
experienced in diamond hunting, diamond prospecting,

prospecting expecting inspection to permit
seeing a 3.2 specific gravity,
specific
specify

species or spectacles,
spectators or special-if-eye-cation
value-en-abled. Weigh your mind in balance
with mine. I claim the mind of Christ.
What are the odds?

A wandering path, injoyable enable if-i-abble,
pacing is

everything, timing is everything, time is the test.

Time is the metagame.
Take your time. One word formed sylabble at a time.
Babble on, your confusion makes you mortal, to my mind.
Tick.
A quanta of time. Does time come in bits and pieces cernible,
but undiscernible from reality?

Babble.

Of course, time will tell. We learned that in our sleep, did we not?

Aesop taught us more than Moses, no,
Aesop taught us less than Moses.

But, we could learn to walk bearing the weight of knowing what
Aesop taught,
while we could not stand under the weight
Moses was said
to have taught.

Caught you, Jewboy. Whatchewknow?
The moral of the story.

THE IDEA is to win.
Beware the concision decision.
incisive devices, witty inventions.

Flip the shell, roll the bones, cast the runes and,
as luck might have it, die before your time.

Why factors are lies more oft than how factors.
Benefactors rule malefactors or
how or why would we invest our time in seeking reasons
to believe?

Is this the polished piece, the gemstone of specific gravity
(which currently means nothing to you. Here, you find too light
or too heavy, too weighty on the scale of specific value.)

Hard. Value hard, diamond hard, on Mr. Moore's scaled model of
Knowing exploding for reason's sake, raison d'etre, eh?
Too hard?
Not Mohr,
don't get me wrong.
We been Moore's law breaker all along.
We be manifested destinatory stories of heroes gone wrong.

Outlawed
knowing exploding to be reasoned with, by kind
children destined to become
written in stone, scarred by lies

Diamonds cutting diamonds, iron whetting iron
on eternity's edge.

Babylon, was it Bel's gate or fusion from below rising?

Magma fountains with diamond claws tearing the lands asunder
Is asunder still a word?, let me, allow me to define...
"into a position apart, separate,
into separate parts,"
mid-12c., contraction of Old English on sundran 
Middle English used to know asunder for
"distinguish, tell apart."
From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/asunder>
----

mumbler's humbler PIE, bowing before the knowers who
know nothing of my work.
Set apart, art thou holy aware?

Hermit me, meet the rest of me. The true rest that remained.
We live, you and I. Trust me, next is worth the wait.

Suffer needs no pain to make its point. Waiting is.

Grokk. WHO would believe that idea could live
through telegraphese to be tweet meets for the
Cosplay clans. How never grokked a rock,  why even less.

Strange, not be long in this
place. if
place this be. Odd
set aside
torn asunder
blown away.
Awake, little birdie, tell me true,
what's a man like me to do?

Did you meet the famous Mr. Blake?
I cleaned his chimney, way back when, chimbly's whut
we called em. Smoke stacks belchin' black
makin' black moths invisible to voracious
gulls.
Now the peppered moths are free
to be white-ish, for better or worse.

----

right, now, do right or

miss the mark,
the specific mark you made, maybe,
imagining, abstract obstructions missed
by the skin on Job's teeth as you run past

right now to more. You know?

----=

Story telling was the same as lying when I was a child, to me.

Telling stories was my gift I never took. Or am I lying? or mad,
in the old way.
Chailot's rag picker was my best friend.

No noble thought ever found it's home in my head, once
I thunk it, it stunk to high heaven, for me stinkin' thinkin' it.

Po' ems sang sour to fiddles wit' one strang and drums with no
cymbals
Screamin' he owed m' soul the comp'ny sto' bang bang thud.

I died, he lied, and lived to tell this story, ****** if I know,
****** if I don't.

True as true can be. I am lost, but once was found,
lyin' rough, uncut in acres of unseen gems.
----
* Voltaire refused to teach me any thing I could not define:
late 14c., deffinen, diffinen, "to specify; to fix or establish authoritatively;" of words, phrases, etc., "state the signification of, explain what is meant by, describe in detail," from Old French defenir, definir "to finish, conclude, come to an end; bring to an end; define, determine with precision," and directly from Medieval Latin diffinire, definire, from Latin definire "to limit, determine, explain," from de "completely" (see de-) + finire "to bound, limit," from finis "boundary, end" (see finish (v.)). From c. 1400 as "determine, declare, or mark the limit of." Related: Defined; defining.

So, imagine facets unseen, I am at least a meme, a bubble rising on the tide. Think, as you will. Amen?
Incorporating radical (root-related) definitions via cut and paste is my way of acknowledging that I have no ex-uses left for using words in a wrong, thus lying, way.
Finally this Movie he must Concede
And honour Tradition of Two Hearts meant
But kindly understand with this Precede
The Fire-Actor once refused to bend
He was once the Hearter; For a Year or so
Wherewithin his Invitation took Form
Now he is the Elder; In Months to go
Wherewithout his Uncondition took Soul
May I suggest those Two Stunning Horses
Once you and the Diver visit your Range
Ride Mighty, you Two! Pour out your Senses
Let your Parents know how much you two Gauge.
Now after the Ride, each share each own Sweet
A-Top Mum's Basket where once you both meet.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
In my self deception
I had refused to see
That which I hate in you
Is what I can't stand in me
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