"ruthlessness" poems
November is the cruelest month
Reminiscence forced of things far gone and
Bitter foreshadowing of what is to come
The leaves have lived up to their name
The trees, a shell of what they once were
The grass clings to its last hope
The temperature makes its empty threats
The beauty of Autumn deteriorates
She is haughty and cruel
We were strung along for so long
But like all good things
Her presence is too fleeting
We try to rationalize her departure
We didn’t need her anyway
Her sister is far more beautiful
Autumn was never committed
We will look for someone else
What luck!
Her sister is coming
Her name is winter!
But alas, how could we love
Someone so bitter and cold?
November is the cruelest month
Joy is attacked in a dark alley
Melancholia does the mugging
Bitterness steals the Hope
November tears apart the heart
With a ruthlessness unseen
In any other month.
The days are soon so short and cold
The landscape is so barren
There is a hint of snow
But it is more like rain
It is so unfortunate to see
Nature’s beauty going all to waste
The thirtieth is here
Judgement Day has arrived
It is only possible to conclude
July was great if too hot indeed
January hard but nearer the end
September its usual lovely self
One month stands alone in its horror
November is the cruelest month
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
ah, enslave without compassion
bound ancestors you must impale
go seek and show no mercy
let those who escape carry the tale
all the sufferers bearing witness
to their ministers spilling their blood
staggered screeches from bleak recesses
regicide plotters bend to the dust
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
slimy enshrinement brings into question
what's divinely lamented for
scatter populations with ruthlessness
let them choose sycophancy or sword
reappoint difficult commanders
for instigation unbroken awaits
kept in frenzy, they whisper confusion
never quite sure of their fate
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
let the cowardly unlock the gates for you
to heroically claim what's inside
crowds you abhor kneeling in wonder
all the world is your ****** bride
punctuate the roads with tollgates
***** monuments to broadcast your name
all your banquet's guests are your enemies
entertain them with one another's shame
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
with unmitigated conquest and **********
trample them under your tyranny
under your tyranny
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
It is the 30th day of the months in Kenya
State and corporate capitalist have now paid their workers
Wages or salaries or stipends or emoluments all being remunerations
While the rural bourgeoisie and urban bourgeoisie have also paid ex-gratia
To relatives come over-aged workers who have declined retiring
For the fear of looming starvation if at all they go home, where they were born,
Nonetheless; proceed they receive will do nothing whatsoever
As it will be stifled by the monster of desperate consumerism;
So fat and gullible in this tiger of land in the region called Kenya;
The terror peddling rent, courtesy of ruthlessness of the landlord
Bills of electric power in their full monopolistic gear
Bills of water devoid of quality, indifferent dysentery monger
Wages for maid who keep on usurping the food of my child; milk
Bills for gas, all of it redolent of comprador bourgeoisie in fashion,
Hotel and bar bill - a surreptious one, as the bar girl only knows
Airtime and renewal, TV channels and other screen capitalistic ploys
Family trip to local resort in a feat of foolish consumerist venture,
Money to the old mother at home and, sometimes depraved but patient father
ARV’s money to my *** aids stricken sister at the village, my aunt also
Tuition fees for my son at the kindergarten, who goes to schools but learns nothing
fees balance which my wife has to pay at the tailor to ransom out her dress,
M-Pesa and M-Swari loan repayment, this only for Kenyan 30th dayers
They know the agony of dealing with Kenyan mega-capitalist safaricom ltd.
This consumerism and **** consumerism,
It is the menacing bane of the Kenyan poor
It is the avaricious tube which siphons back
The hard earned money from pockets of the poor
Back to despotic account of the pitiless world pigshotry.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
Emerging economies.
What they’re emerging from I don’t know.
My guess, the depths of hell.
From the frying pan, right into the fire, or worse; a well.
A deep hole stronger than gravity, the force.
To be forever under the thumb of remorse.
A modern era of endless acts, policies and bla bla bla.
Shut up with all your platitudes.
I see what’s really going on. Aha!
You speak of sustainable development.
Nice to know that you’ve led by example.
Carried the mantle for all these years.
Centuries of ruthlessness, now veiled in sheep’s clothing.
But you won’t shut up. Because you don’t speak.
You never have. You just do.
Each day that goes by, you carry on anew.
Behind all the talk of hope, equality and more progress,
it seems the wolves are lurking.
Cooking up the next tool to subdue countless.
This time, not behind closed doors. But in plain sight.
It’s scary to imagine such spite.
Each year that goes by it becomes clearer that you never cared.
You sold guns, drugs and all kinds of war.
And each time, you kept coming back for more.
You’ve built up antibodies that ensure your survival.
But sometimes I wonder if you’re alive at all.
But what do I know?
Maybe you’re more alive than ever.
Doing what you do best but always more clever.
That not even the most stable of geniuses can evade your pressure.
A strong enough foundation that each break makes you stronger,
So strong that not even the Gremlin can take you under.
Against this dreary background, foregrounded is nothing short of magical.
Beyond hope, prayers or a thoughtless radical.
Or maybe this is all just fake outrage.
An attempt to evade the boredom of this endless monotony and baggage.
Or maybe, the term is out of date.
Like every other, that makes me increasingly more irate.
In which case, this poem is at least ten years late.
Or maybe there are too many maybes’.
And I’m perfectly suited for this time of vague uneasiness and indifference.
In which case, my imagination probably needs more sociology and less a lesson in rhymes.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
an incredible incite (the ruthless volatility of words)
~for L.B.~
the only place of solitaire solitude in the city accompanies me
like a faithful country dog that doesn’t know better to be afraid,
of moving cars, sleepless night terrors and unscripted “dreams”
where image and words say come “follow me” with ruthlessness and no cloying come hither looks and
see and take and recall with perfect midnight blue sky clarity for
the incredible incite of credible insight
surfacing unexpectedly in a intemperate pool of slushy snow,
that will be an ice storm of painful confrontations with naked
inner truths standing outside in sunny sub zero playground
there is great risk. volatility gone wild. when the speed
governor is removed and you live at 100 mph on local streets,
when the merest slight of an accidental incidental touch
transforms into an incite incident and hell is the threat
that you will not die today and your own words will ruthless
pull from the nerve places where sensible and sensual cannot
coexist and this write this script is a poetical insight inside, an
incredible incite and what your spilling is spaghetti sauce blood
when you left your brain on broil, instead of the faking daily of
slow simmering ineffectual intellectual words that just don’t
cut the crap. your addiction complete, you cannot live without
the incredible incite, the ruthless volatility of words,
otherwise why rough write what you see
in the blind
beyond the blind
1/6/18 5:03am
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 5:17 AM UTC
Hate is a red pair of Jordan's
Jealous of what they can't have
Swollen with anger
Hate derives from jealousy
Alway wanting more
To fit in with the ballers
The 7 foot giants that they'll never be
To be cooler than an ice
To hit the game winner
Crowd roaring
Adrenaline pumping and coursing
Through aching veins
To have swag
To be like MJ
To be D1 bound
To make it to the league
To get buckets
The string music
Composed by the ball swishing though the net
But it just isn't as simple
As a shiny new pair of shoes
New shoe smell
Fresh out of the box
That cause all this violence
Hatred and ruthlessness
Blood dripping on the cold dark streets
A society where
Shoe game is more important than personality
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
they want me to be serious, to take it seriously. To look at sunrises calmly and seize coals and watch over red-blooded, man-fueled wars about bravado, integrity, and land. To look at money, a simple representation of labor, and see what it drives other to do, to do for me.
to crush cigarettes and testicles under my boots,
to crawl through mud and barbed wire, smiling
with grit in my grimace
salt rolling, sweaty brows
twisted locks of dark hair
tobacco-brown spit, ground
and filthy, caked in mud
teeth bared like an animal
white eyeteeth crunching
**Scorching earth where my feet touch down.
A cigarette put out on a tongue. No more talking.**
They want me to see and that, in the dark of the night, in the light of the day, when the sun rises and sets, there is pain, always, elsewhere and everywhere. So I will not tarry or joke or be frivolous with the battered souls of others and to think, to think about applying anything I know, to run along with the vigorous social constructs they ask me to dissect and then revolutionize, because I am young, and I will sprint faster, against accusations, and only briefly.
They want me to look at the world like a runner looks at the red track,
with their toes and sinews coiled as hard as steel, a pinnacle of human
at the height of athleticism and possess the ruthlessness of a rabid dog
drool rushed into foam and mad from dehydrating, my brain swelling
with my hormone driven
red, hazy, athletic rage,
gunning my ambition
for some organization.
No.
I will fight, yes, but I will not fight for a name on a card, shield, or building.
I will fight for the sake of fighting because I am contentious and I am wrong.
I side against hero and villain, because I am the ambiguity,
that languishes, resides in no-man's land, antagonizing both.
Being disliked in purgatory is sometimes more easy than chomping at the bit,
for blood and the power of cracking a black bull whip, so I can avoid this terrible avarice and corrupting beauty that comes with working hard, especially for the greatness
that I did not ask
to be ****** upon me, while I wished to remain enigmatic.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
If you become furious with every injustice!
He said once.
He fought till his last breathe..
he's still there,here and everywhere.
All the young men out there
He's more than that proud face on your tee & on the posters you see.
From Cuba to Kerala..His portrait hangs on every street
I say, it's not just about his proud face
it claims the tale of a man who won a race!
A race to raise humanity from vanity
Unlike the pastors who preach on peace with an ease
He was pragmatic not dramatic
Replaced fright with fight
Placed righteous over mightiest
And yes he won that race to raise humanity back to sanity
You can either respect him for his dedication or detest him for his ruthlessness
You can either accompany the haters who call him a terrorist
Or follow the fellows who hail him as a REVOLUTIONARY
Nonetheless, he was victorious and victory lies with righteous alone!
Che was a rebel but not without a cause..
Yes for the Cubans !
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 8:22 AM UTC
Sabungan Cockfight
Sa pula! For the red!
Sa puti! For the white!
Anopaman dumating However they come
piliin ang magiting choose the valiant
tumaya sa tindig gamble on their carriage
pagpaboran and consider
bawat katunggali. each competitor.
Sumiping sa dilim Make love with the dark
at sumigaw and cry
Kristo! Kristo! Christ! Christ!
Panoorin ang laban Watch closely the battle
sarsuelang mapanganib this dangerous sarsuela
kawatang sumasanib a thief takes over
sa aking piling inside.
Sa bawat kong hiyaw, Every shriek
ang kada tuka, laslas each peck, a slash
nagmula sa dahas of ruthlessness and
lumilipana ang daing cries all around
dumadaginding ang bagsik echo ferociousness
bawat laban pilit. of this stilted struggle
Kristo! Kristo! Christ! Christ!
sigaw ng sabungero screamed the sabungero
at ako'y tumigil. I stop.
Sa pagpanaw When all is gone
manalo win
matalo lose
walang pareho tumingin no one sees evenly
sa aking balahibong my feathers
pula at puti of red and white
sa alabok on the surface dust
kumalat they lay
lumipad they fly
lumahong taimtim. and vanish without a thought.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 11:36 PM UTC
my thoughts, so potent just before--
like fresh-pressed olive drops
that lingered, lipping from the fragrant spout--
now pass, diffuse atop an ocean vast.
i imagine willing it to be a pond,
not for its lesser size alone
but mostly for its calm,
reflective height; yet
these waves are
distort ruthlessness
of liquid dust
by slapping, tower-high
the central ocean rip-whirl tide:
and gone--
as Homer's heroes screaming as they drown,
deaf as oars but for their final gasps
of yearned-for clarity:
of nameless pride's Ithacan king
abrading lustful wrists
restrained to blind a god's son's single eye
by tentacles of twisting, tactful fate.
by threaded loom rethreaded
soon i see my salty self in suit
of sameness, tricking time
by indolence or theft--
from truth, from others' hearths--
the difference winks in bubbles on the cosmic shore...
foam so clean i grin to call it spume,
grin to brace the seabed to my algaed chest
in salinating crush of sand, of blood-sharp shell and rock,
in sungreen warmth of blue and life
in crashing sinus wince
i grit aegean nereids in my sneeze,
splay their formless sexing into pelvic scrapes
of quickened starbursts anciently reborn,
squeezed in pleasure tears and laughing drops--
as all pelagic ***** must
within the pressure of a world,
its breathing darkness spotted with transmuted sun,
expel itself in sensate gusts--
as octopodal spurting flings
in liquid ****** of purpose forth,
(or backwards, sideways, in and out)--
so too i think
and thinking, drown my ink
instead of drowning thinking in my ink
.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
The obnoxious wind whispers,
“There is no civility in liberation.”
Oppression is not of human nature,
But of human creation
The ache for passion, the lust for change
A lush forest, serene after the rain.
But the man in the sky needs your money
And the wars are lacking funds
Smothered by fresh air, life is at your throat.
Hominid ruthlessness
Debt and despair
Depletion
Extinction
The free conform
Wild mocks civilization
Brisk air, the branches dance
Vines climb walls like silent snakes
A cold hiss,
“Everything you know is wrong.”
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
And 2Morrow
Today is filled with anger
fueled with hidden hate
scared of being outcast
afraid of common fate
Today is built on tragedies
which no one wants 2 face
nightmares 2 humanities
and morally disgraced
Tonight is filled with rage
violence in the air
children bred with ruthlessness
because no one at home cares
Tonight I lay my head down
but the pressure never stops
knawing at my sanity
content when I am dropped
But 2morrow I c change
a chance 2 build a new
Built on spirit intent of Heart
and ideals
based on truth
and tomorrow I wake with second wind
and strong because of pride
2 know I fought with all my heart 2 keep my
dream alive
Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 8:30 AM UTC
Can a zero be a hero?
Yes,
Only with strong will and determination
No,
with sheer laziness and much
negativity...
Can a hero be a zero?
Yes,
Only with ego and ruthlessness
No,
with dignity and being down to earth...
To be a hero or a zero...
Only you decide...
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 2:36 AM UTC
All of my life has been a search
For things I could not see
For matters founding in my heart
For things that I could be
I sold my home and life
For principiality
But everything was worth the price
And Im remorselessly
Yet I wonder now and then
Whenever I am asked again
What I have answered once
Though I walked freely down that path
And there is no regret
and yet
I wonder what I felt inside
What caused my mind to set
This way along the past
What craving caused my vast
Amount of ruthlessness
I lost my time, with no remorse,
And all of my appeal
The breaking clocks may have been worse
But still, I could'nt feel
Nor understand
what Ive been searching for
And when I carried on my way
I lost myself in forlorn days
Where I found something new
I never had been searching for
And yet I felt that something grew
Inside of me
That let me fear
The things about to come
For I got lost,
found by someone,
Something that changed my mind
I didnt want to lose that fast
Nor leave it all behind
And for the first time I did fight
I changed the clockwork of my mind
I chose a place, a time a side
And wonder about all my life
About decisions, thoughts and creeds
I owned in future pasts
For any deed
I would regret
And yet
I wonder
What have happened
to my heart
Sep 15, 2019
Sep 15, 2019 at 11:17 AM UTC
It’s like crying in the rain
Being drowned out by the rest of the world’s woes.
A voice yearning to be heard
But can’t utter a single word . . . it’s too young.
Too young for a world so old.
Facing the brunt beginning of our future
We’re just the runts of the pack.
Aware of the all the deluded foolishness
Amidst this crazy circus
Trying to put a stop to the ruthlessness
And erase the selfishness
We only have a “futile” esophagus.
Old beliefs, but new fashion
Knowledge is dangerous to those who have it,
And all the youth who have it
Are shunned . . . because youthful thoughts are unformed views.
“Useful” thoughts come from a view
That is so high up and extremely corrupt
It makes the change seem distant.
And discouragement from the encouragement
Is the exact thing that’s sought.
Take a stand and make all the old beliefs rot
It’s time for the new fashion:
A youthful mind and fruitful esophagus.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 2:02 PM UTC
I know why I love horror films
I just never say it.
I love them
Because I am tortured by feelings
By empathy
By kindness
And I'm looking to learn
The kind of safety that comes with ruthlessness.
I'm looking to glance up just for one second into my own eyes in a mirror
And see nothing at all behind them.
Just once.
I think people who love as hard as I do always long to feel nothing.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Has it been a year already,
Have I clean out the office in my mind already,
Have I seen the ruthlessness of my ways,
Or maybe I just didn't see better days,
I wish I had the moments that I craved,
Back,
In time,
So frequent , I lay awake,
Has it been a year already,
Am I turning 18 in couple of months,
Seems like only yesterday I grew ****** hair,
Maybe i'm obsessed about my memories,
Even the good people in it plus my enemies,
Remenise about the moments that I craved,
Back,
In time,
I'm potent , make no mistakes,
I just want more in life.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 1:13 PM UTC
I search this ocean of emotional wrath,
Rage building up from below the core,
I study the textbook acts of feeling hopeless,
In a world of halfwitted fools,
Whom I claim superiority over.
Behold! This artifact of false pride,
I discovered it as I meandered the ocean on my love boat,
Fighting constant rouge waves of selfishness,
It calmly floated through the white foams.
I defected on the **** deck,
Holding no desire for consideration of my mates,
Mates who could care less for me,
And my prejudice towards sailing on this body of water,
They then made me walk the plank.
My heart rate reaches a point of vulnerability,
As I struggle to hold my breath below the surf,
I lasted unusually longer than a month's worth of travel,
Floating on nothing but my buoyancy,
I reached shore,
Suffocating with no use of my hands and feet.
Ironically,
A lady fisherman retrieved me from the waves,
Reciting a prayer, then proceeding CPR,
I regain consciousness, gasping for air,
Forgetting what was to become of me,
I grab her by the torso of her slicker,
And kiss her passionately,
With no ***** given.
She did of course kiss me back,
Confused but delighted,
Once she realized what was occurring,
She pulled away smiling,
I gave her a glance projecting my ruthlessness,
Because I am in fact,
Superior to the king himself.
The sun looked innocent,
As the clouds rolled in viciously,
This storm seemed like an old friend,
I recall it's grubby warfare,
Kicking me around as I swayed to and fro,
On the mahogany of my dear rig,
A rig that has been stolen from me,
On the lost sea of emotional wrath.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 7:14 AM UTC
Puffed his prayer filterless and snorted higher forces
bloodstream is filled with chemical collision courses,
tied to his past which was tied to a gun
el Cucuy smiled with ******* traced in his gums.
He talked to God while a devil manifested within'
tried to **** it with the poison he'd inject in his skin
his best friend a pipe, his wife’s a syringe
head back, eyes close, let the chemicals in
I once had a friend named Ashley,
Guys went into her life, she turned nasty
She dropped,
She cut,
She loved,
She fought,
and ended up with a baby girl named Nancy,
Nestor was always smarter, but he never looked up colleges
He had a ****** up life, and understanding of what knowledge is
Now he lives inside a cell,
which must be hell
Amigo, should of listen to that bell.
Angel was the champion when you gave him a soccer ball,
instead he got drugs in school, and never went to class at all.
Chantelle got ***** a lot, but no one ever seemed to care
She met the church, and made it seemed that God was there,
She was thankful that she found a reason to keep living
A year later killed herself,
I guess she was trying to meet him.
I fight against momentum, but the pendulum wins
Accept your faith, and destiny, your acceptable sins
Don’t ever believe that you're better than him,
The Devil has manifested from within
Those that don't believe the lies and realize that demons lie
Inside these so called angels are the one that angels demonize
But those that don't desalt the word and realize who jesus is and judas is
Are usually the people nailing someone to a crucifix
The root of ruthlessness with evils use of foolishness
Someone tell the doctor there’s a virus in the nucleus
The window to the broken soul resembles that of shattered glass
Some live by the ****** axe, some live by the lonely ranch,
They spent a lot of lives in opposition but their caskets match.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
There's a sensation of
floating
here,
diamonds
rushing past
the corners of our faces.
Space is only
the distance
between
two orbiting
bodies,
two objects who
obsessively
tug and pull
on each other
because no one else is around.
I see
gemstones around me,
fortunes
in
mineral materiality
wasting beside us.
We
do not waste
in this space,
we may
only grow,
age,
harden
but gleam
due to the
molten hot
pressure of
countless hands
touching
pushing
grabbing
stroking
pinching
prodding us,
stealing and
plotting
though they pet us
nicely, now.
We
haven't slept,
the diamonds
shine like
miniature suns,
being pulled towards the
immense contraction
of our
tentative
super
massive
black holes.
White blocks
emit light
from below,
the source of the
glow.
Night sets in,
the stars would be out
but
there are stars within.
After the glow
comes the afterglow,
permeating
all and
floating through
everything,
lifting the
pearls and
diamonds
from our necks and
our bodies,
stringing them
back into
space.
No one
cares
about what will become
of them,
as space is
the true richness,
the attraction between bodies,
the tug and pull
of heavenly objects.
Let the hands
invade you,
ravage your riches
and your minerals;
regardless of them
or their
ruthlessness
you will still glow,
you will still glow.
Aug 14, 2010
Aug 14, 2010 at 12:07 PM UTC
Bohemian dichotomies are like winding garden paths, where foxgloves and lupins stand proudly with a rich array of botanical flamboyance.
What is the structure of this pervasive uncertainty, where conspiracy is a perpetual construct which is designed to interfere with anthropological cohesion?
Consider the presence of a mature apple tree, where doves abide in ornithological matrimony.
Let us humbly acknowledge that nature is a powerful beautician, who expels her adversities with gentle ruthlessness.
Let us kiss together amidst this romantic pasture of nostalgic permission.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 11:03 PM UTC
No one trusts a child
But don't children speak the most truth?
Children aren't liars
Aren't fuled by ambition with ruthlessness
If anyone should be trusted
Why not a child?
They're so simpleminded
And forthcoming in time
No one listens to children
As they beg for help and care
Lost in a world of thieving men
Where life is never fair
At night hear their screams
While we turn away
We're killing their dreams
Tomorrow's problems from today
We promise them the world
And give them the scraps of our troubles
So truth be told
We don't hear simply because
We don't give a **** about them
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC