Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Cheyenne Feb 2015
I feel safer in the silence.
I feel safer in the darkness.
I feel safer with the monsters.
I feel safer in the abyss.

In the shadows I have hidden
all the secrets I've been given--
all the secrets that I made
trying to tuck a life away.

You want to **** them with the sunshine,
but I only dance in moonlight.
I stay hidden beneath the stars
because all my scars
are wounds I got in plain sight.

So take me to the dark side--
it's much safer than your harsh light.
It's safer in the middle
It's really plain to see
If someone tries to pick me off
They shoot others before me

A platoon is led by leaders
Some who aren't around
While those of us out marching
Get picked off without a sound

You know it may sound selfish
Listen up, it isn't dumb
It's safer in the middle
Than with the flag or with the drum

It's safer in the middle
At the back you're in the hunt
If the parade should turn around
You now are at the front
Bo Burnham Mar 2015
Our love was a roller coaster.
It had ups and downs and I sat real close to her.
It had a real slow climb and a real quick drop.
I screamed "faster" and she begged it to stop.
I put up my hands and she held on tight.
Not a second of boredom on our rickety flight.
And when it came to a stop at that first safer place,
I said, "Let's do it again," and she puked in my face.
A PLAY


BY



ALEXANDER   K   OPICHO









THE CASTE
1. Chenje – Old man, father of Namugugu
2. Namugugu – Son of Chenje
3. Nanyuli – daughter of Lusaaka
4. Lusaaka – Old man, father of Nanyuli
5. Kulecho – wife of Lusaaka
6. Kuloba – wife of Chenje
7. Paulina – Old woman, neighbour to Chenje.
8. Child I, II and III – Nanyuli’s children
9. Policeman I, II and III
10. Mourners
11. Wangwe – a widowed village pastor

















ACTING HISTORY
This play was acted two times, on 25th and 26th December 2004 at Bokoli Roman Catholic Church, in Bokoli sub- location of Bungoma County in the western province of Kenya. The persons who acted and their respective roles are as below;

Wenani Kilong –stage director
Alexander k Opicho – Namugugu
Judith Sipapali Mutivoko- Nanyuli
Saul Sampaza Mazika Khayongo- Wangwe
Paul Lenin Maondo- Lusaaka
Peter Wajilontelela-  Chenje
Agnes Injila -  Kulecho
Beverline Kilobi- Paulina
Milka Molola Kitayi- Kuloba
Then mourners, children and police men changed roles often. This play was successfully stage performed and stunned the community audience to the helm.













PLOT
Language use in this play is not based on Standard English grammar, but is flexed to mirror social behaviour and actual life as well as assumptions of the people of Bokoli village in Bungoma district now Bungoma County in Western province of Kenya.

























ACT ONE
Scene One

This scene is set in Bokoli village of Western Kenya. In Chenje’s peasant hut, the mood is sombre. Chenje is busy thrashing lice from his old long trouser Kuloba, sitting on a short stool looking on.

Chenje: (thrashing a louse) these things are stubborn! The lice. You **** all of them today, and then tomorrow they are all-over. I hate them.
Kuloba: (sending out a cloud of smoke through her tobacco laden pipe). Nowadays I am tired. I have left them to do to me whatever they want (coughs) I killed them they were all over in my skirt.
Chenje: (looking straight at Kuloba) Do you know that they are significant?
Kuloba: What do they signify?
Chenje: Death
Kuloba: Now, who will die in this home? I have only one son. Let them stop their menace.
Chenje: I remember in 1968, two months that preceded my father’s death, they were all over. The lice were in every of my piece of clothes. Even the hat, handkerchief. I tell you what not!
Kuloba: (nodding), Yaa! I remember it very well my mzee, I had been married for about two years by then.
Chenje: Was it two years?
Kuloba: (assuringly) yes, (spots a cockroach on the floor goes at it and crushes it with her finger, then coughs with heavy sound) we had stayed together in a marriage for two years. That was when people had began back-biting me that I was barren. We did not have a child. We even also had the jiggers. I can still remember.
Chenje: Exactly (crashes a louse with his finger) we also had jiggers on our feet.
Kuloba: The jiggers are very troublesome. Even more than the lice and weevils.  
Chenje: But, the lice and jiggers, whenever they infest one’s home, they usually signify impending death of a family member.
Kuloba: Let them fail in Christ’s name. Because no one is ripe for death in this home. I have lost my five children. I only have one child. My son Namugugu – death let it fail. My son has to grow and have a family also like children of other people in this village. Let whoever that is practicing evil machinations against my family, my only child fail.
Chenje: (putting on the long-trouser from which he had been crushing lice) let others remain; I will **** them another time.
Kuloba: You will never finish them (giggles)
Chenje: You have reminded me, where is Namugugu today? I have not seen him.
Kuloba: He was here some while ago.
Chenje: (spitting out through an open window) He has become of an age. He is supposed to get married so that he can bear grand children for me. Had I the grand children they could even assist me to **** lice from my clothes. (Enters Namugugu) Come in boy, I want to talk to you.
Kuloba: (jokingly) you better give someone food, or anything to fill the stomach before you engages him in a talk.
Namugugu: (looks, at both Chenje and Kuloba, searchingly then goes for a chair next to him)
Mama! I am very hungry if you talk of feeding me, I really get thrilled (sits at a fold-chair, it breaks sending him down in a sprawl).
Kuloba: (exclaims) wooo! Sorry my son. This chair wants to **** (helps him up)
Namugugu: (waving his bleeding hand as he gets up) it has injured my hand. Too bad!
Chenje: (looking on) Sorry! Dress your finger with a piece of old clothes, to stop that blood oozing out.
Namugugu: (writhing in pain) No it was not a deep cut. It will soon stop bleeding even without a piece of rag.
Kuloba: (to Namugugu) let it be so. (Stands) let me go to my sweet potato field. There are some vivies, I have not harvested, I can get there some roots for our lunch (exits)
Chenje: (to Namugugu) my son even if you have injured your finger, but that will not prevent me from telling you what I am supposed to.
Namugugu: (with attention) yes.
Chenje: (pointing) sit to this other chair, it is safer than that one of yours.
Namugugu: (changing the chair) Thank you.
Chenje: You are now a big person. You are no longer an infant. I want you to come up with your own home. Look for a girl to marry. Don’t wait to grow more than here. The two years you have been in Nairobi, were really wasted. You could have been married, may you would now be having my two grand sons as per today.
Namugugu: Father I don’t refuse. But how can I marry and start up a family in a situation of extreme poverty? Do you want me to start a family with even nothing to eat?
Chenje: My son, you will be safer when you are a married beggar than a wife- less rich-man. No one is more exposed as a man without a wife.
Namugugu: (looking down) father it is true but not realistic.
Chenje: How?
Namugugu: All women tend to flock after a rich man.
Chenje: (laughs) my son, may be you don’t know. Let me tell you. One time you will remember, maybe I will be already dead by then. Look here, all riches flock after married men, all powers of darkness flock after married men and even all poverty flock after married. So, it is just a matter of living your life.
(Curtains)
SCENE TWO

Around Chenje’s hut, Kuloba and Namugugu are inside the hut; Chenje is out under the eaves. He is dropping at them.
Namugugu: Mama! Papa wants to drive wind of sadness permanently into my sail of life. He is always pressurizing me to get married at such a time when I totally have nothing. No food, no house no everything. Mama let me actually ask you; is it possible to get married in such a situation?
Kuloba: (Looking out if there is any one, but did not spot the eaves-dropping Chenje).
Forget. Marriage is not a Whiff of aroma. My son, try marriage in poverty and you will see.
Namugugu: (Emotionally) Now, if Papa knows that I will not have a happy married life, in such a situation, where I don’t have anything to support myself; then why is he singing for my marriage?
Kuloba: (gesticulating) He wants to mess you up the way he messed me up. He married me into his poverty. I have wasted away a whole of my life in his poverty. I regret. You! (Pointing) my son, never make a mistake of neither repeating nor replicating poverty of this home into your future through blind marriage.
Namugugu: (Approvingly) yes Mama, I get you.

Kuloba: (Assertively) moreover, you are the only offspring of my womb             (touching her stomach) I have never eaten anything from you. You have never bought me anything even a headscarf alone. Now, if you start with a wife will I ever benefit anything from you?
Namugugu: (looking agog) indeed Mama.
Kuloba: (commandingly) don’t marry! Women are very many. You can marry at any age, any time or even any place. But it is very good to remember child-price paid by your mother in bringing you up. As a man my son, you have to put it before all other things in your life.
Namugugu: (in an affirmative feat) yes Mama.
Kuloba: It is not easy to bring up a child up to an age when in poverty. As a mother you really suffer. I’ve suffered indeed to bring you up. Your father has never been able to put food on the table. It has been my burden through out. So my son, pleased before you go for women remember that!
Namugugu: Yes Mama, I will.
(Enters Chenje)
Chenje: (to Kuloba) you old wizard headed woman! Why do you want to put    my home to a full stop?
Kuloba: (shy) why? You mean you were not away? (Goes out behaving shyly)

Chenje: (in anger to Namugugu) you must become a man! Why do you give your ears to such toxic conversations? Your mother is wrong. Whatever she has told you today is pure lies. It is her laziness that made her poor. She is very wrong to festoon me in any blame…. I want you to think excellently as a man now. Avoid her tricky influence and get married. I have told you finally and I will never repeat telling you again.

Namugugu: (in a feat of shyness) But Papa, you are just exploding for no good reason, Mama has told me nothing bad……………………
Chenje: (Awfully) shut up! You old ox. Remove your ears from poisonous mouths of old women!
(Enters Nanyuli with an old green paper bag in her hand. Its contents were bulging).
Nanyuli: (knocking) Hodii! Hodii!
Chenje: (calmly) come in my daughter! Come in.
Nanyuli: (entering) thank you.
Chenje: (to Namugugu) give the chair to our visitor.
Namugugu: (shyly, paving Nanyuli to sit) Karibu, have a sit please.
Nanyuli: (swinging girlishly) I will not sit me I am in a hurry.
Chenje: (to Nanyuli) just sit for a little moment my daughter. Kindly sit.
Nanyuli: (sitting, putting a paper-bag on her laps) where is the grandmother who is usually in this house?
Chenje: Who?
Nanyuli: Kuloba, the old grandmother.
Namugugu: She has just briefly gone out.
Chenje: (to Nanyuli) she has gone to the potato field and Cassava field to look for some roots for our lunch.
Nanyuli: Hmm. She will get.
Chenje: Yes, it is also our prayer. Because we’re very hungry.
Nanyuli: I am sure she will get.
Chenje: (to Nanyuli) excuse me my daughter; tell me who your father is?
Nanyuli: (shyly) you mean you don’t know me? And me I know you.
Chenje: Yes I don’t know you. Also my eyes have grown old, unless you remind
me, I may not easily know you.
Nanyuli: I am Lusaaka’s daughter
Chenje: Eh! Which Lusaka? The one with a brown wife? I don’t know… her name is Kulecho?
Nanyuli: Yes
Chenje: That brown old-mother is your mother?
Nanyuli: Yes, she is my mother. I am her first – born.
Chenje: Ooh! This is good (goes forward to greet her) shake my fore-limb my
daughter.

Nanyuli: (shaking Chenje’s hand) Thank you.
Chenje: I don’t know if your father has ever told you. I was circumcised the same year with your grand-gather. In fact we were cut by the same knife. I mean we shared the same circumciser.
Nanyuli: No, he has not yet. You know he is always at school. He never stays at home.
Chenje: That is true. I know him, he teaches at our mission primary school at Bokoli market.
Nanyuli: Yes.
Chenje: What is your name my daughter?
Nanyuli: My name is Loisy Nanyuli Lusaaka.
Chenje: Very good. They are pretty names. Loisy is a Catholic baptismal name, Nanyuli is our Bukusu tribal name meaning wife of an iron-smith and Lusaaka is your father’s name.
Nanyuli: (laughs) But I am not a Catholic. We used to go to Catholic Church upto last year December. But we are now born again, saved children of God. Fellowshipping with the Church of Holy Mountain of Jesus christ. It is at Bokoli market.
Chenje: Good, my daughter, in fact when I will happen to meet with your father, or even your mother the brown lady, I will comment them for having brought you up under the arm of God.
Nanyuli: Thank you; or even you can as well come to our home one day.
Chenje: (laughs) actually, I will come.
Nanyuli: Now, I want to go
Chenje: But you have not stayed for long. Let us talk a little more my daughter.
Nanyuli: No, I will not. I had just brought some tea leaves for Kuloba the old grandmother.
Chenje: Ooh! Who gave you the tea leaves?
Nanyuli: I do hawk tea leaves door to door. I met her last time and she requested me to bring her some. So I want to give them to you (pointing at Namugugu) so that you can give them to her when she comes.
Namugugu: No problem. I will.
Nanyuli: (takes out a tumbler from the paper bag, fills the tumbler twice, pours the tea leaves  into an old piece of  newspaper, folds and gives  it to Namugugu) you will give them to grandmother, Kuloba.
Namugugu: (taking) thank you.
Chenje: My daughter, how much is a tumbler full of tea leaves, I mean when it is full?
Nanyuli: Ten shillings of Kenya
Chenje: My daughter, your price is good. Not like others.
Nanyuli: Thank you.
Namugugu: (To Nanyuli) What about money, she gave you already?
Nanyuli: No, but tell her that any day I may come for it.
Namugugu: Ok, I will not forget to tell her
Nanyuli: I am thankful. Let me go, we shall meet another day.
Chenje: Yes my daughter, pass my regards to your father.
Nanyuli: Yes I will (goes out)
Chenje: (Biting his finger) I wish I was a boy. Such a good woman would never slip through my fingers.
Chenje: But father she is already a tea leaves vendor!
(CURTAINS)


SCENE THREE
Nanyuli and Kulecho in a common room Nanyuli and Kulecho are standing at the table, Nanyuli is often suspecting a blow from Kulecho, counting coins from sale of tea leaves; Lusaaka is sited at couch taking a coffee from a ceramic red kettle.


Kulecho: (to Nanyuli) these monies are not balancing with your stock. It is like you have sold more tea leaves but you have less money. This is only seventy five shillings. When it is supposed to be one hundred and fifty. Because you sold fifteen tumblers you are only left with five tumblers.
Nanyuli: (Fidgeting) this is the whole money I have, everything I collected from sales is here.
Kulecho: (heatedly) be serious, you stupid woman! How can you sell everything and am not seeing any money?
Nanyuli: Mama, this is the whole money I have, I have not taken your money anywhere.
Kulecho: You have not taken the money anywhere! Then where is it? Do you know that I am going to slap you!
Nanyuli: (shaking) forgive me Mama
Kulecho: Then speak the truth before you are forgiven. Where is the money you collected from tea leaves sales?
Nanyuli: (in a feat of shyness) some I bought a short trouser for my child.
Kulecho: (very violent) after whose permission? You old cow, after whose permission (slaps Nanyuli with her whole mighty) Talk out!
Nanyuli: (Sobbingly) forgive me mother, I thought you would understand. That is why I bought a trouser for my son with your money!
Lusaaka: (shouting a cup of coffee in his hand, standing charged) teach her a lesson, slap her again!
Kulecho (slaps, Nanyuli continuously, some times ******* her cheeks, as Nanyuli wails) Give me my money! Give me my money! Give me my money! Give me my money! You lousy, irresponsible Con-woman (clicks)
Lusaaka: Are you tired, kick the *** out of that woman (inveighs a slap towards Nanyuli) I can slap you!
Nanyuli: (kneeling, bowedly, carrying up her hands) forgive me father, I will never repeat that mistake again (sobs)
Lusaaka: An in-corrigible, ****!
Kulecho: (to Nanyuli) You! Useless heap of human flesh. I very much regret to have sired a sell-out of your type. It is very painful for you to be a first offspring of my womb.
I curse my womb because of you. You have ever betrayed me. I took you to school you were never thankful, instead you became pregnant. You were fertilized in the bush by peasant boys.
You have given birth to three childlings, from three different fathers! You do it in my home. What a shame! Your father is a teacher, how have you made him a laughing stock among his colleagues, teachers? I have become sympathetic to you by putting you into business. I have given you tea leaves to sell. A very noble occupation for a wretch like you. You only go out sell tea leaves and put the money in your wolfish stomach. Nanyuli! Why do you always act like this?
Nanyuli: (sobbing) Forgive me mother. Some tea leaves I sold on credit. I will come with the money today?
Kulecho: You sold on credit?
Nanyuli: Yes
Kul
this is a manuscript of a play, please guys help me get any publisher who can do publishing of this play
i  will appreciate. thanks
Laura Duran Aug 2018
I wish I were made of stone
So your words would never hurt me
I wish I were cold as ice
Then maybe I wouldn't be lonely

I wish I were made of steel
So my strength would never waver
If only I could turn back the clock
To a time when I felt safer

But I'm only flesh and bone
And your words have left me bleeding
My heart is torn apart
It's a wonder it's still beating

You made up your mind
Given me your final answer
What we shared is in the past
Time to write a brand new chapter

I will fix my broken heart
Some how piece it back together
It may never be the same
It'll bare this scar forever

But I'll be strong, I'll be alright
Though I'm not as hard as steel
And I can't turn back the clock
In time....my heart will heal
Margaryta Apr 2014
Never cook with a fairy tale omnibus
open on a kitchen table,
or confuse salt with sugar.

Cherry-pit pies are like eating dragon bones, as to
be expected of one taught to
        never cook with a fairy tale omnibus,

safer to love a beast than to open up to
strangers, precise butchers cutting hearts
        open on a kitchen table;

I love you like salt, preach obedient daughters, omitting
the ease to mix dream with wake
        or confuse salt with sugar.
Adam Childs Feb 2016
Welcome to the world of Sci-fi
horror like a risky affair we
have all been courting,
but now it is really here.
And of course the reality is always  
far worse than the movie.
Like an alien attack or abduction
there is a flash of bright white
light.
As hot as the center of the sun
those underneath vaporize
into nothing.
Their remains like ghostly shadows
burnt into the scarred ground.
And as we drop deeper into hell
we find in terror
the devil runs out.

Survivors blinded, burnt, crawling,
moping and moaning as we find
ourselves living in a desert like
Zombie land.
An earth once full of life falls through
space like a discarded match burning
itself out.
Of course I can only talk for myself
as you maybe able to hold a flame
against an innocent child or old lady.
But if not maybe you should not,
like genocide be supporting it.  
Thousands screaming and crying but
I am sorry there no hospital and there
will be no ambulance coming.

So with Little Boy
such a friendly name
like the boy playing down the park.
Well 40 thousand died an hour after
that one was dropped.
Now imagine something 30 times as
strong something they call the
Ivy King,
king of the apocalyptic land.
And now imagine their latest celebration
they call Castle Bravo 1000 times
more powerful.
How many millions tens of millions
could that ****
Bravo bravo bravo.

But these are just numbers what if they
all each had a name like
Nikolai or Emiko
sorry maybe it would be better if
we did not give them a foreign
name maybe call them
Jenifer or John.
So do really want to give our
government permission to drop
a bomb like Hiroshima or Nagasaki.
Perhaps they would be safer if they
changed there cities names called them
something like Manchester or Birmingham.

Naughty boys boasting about their
conquers sit around tables playing
their poker bluff.
While injecting a fear into their
enemies heart they mind their p's and q's.
As they pretend to be civilized
but at the same time threatening
an annihilation.
Just so they may get the
Upper hand
A gas pipe or
Oil rich land.
But I don't want my life to be
someones negotiating tool.
So stop playing your silly game of
chance because if you loose the whole
worlds is gone.
Please someone tell them
this is really not a game.

I hope the world has realized more
bombs does not make it safer.
Maybe you think it is money well spent
or maybe like me you think it could be
spent curing cancer or the environment.    
Any on a personal note
I really do hope  
they give up trident.
Jonny Angel Aug 2014
Diesel smog hits you smack dab in face here.
It feels just like Baghdad, not Miami.
Then I see the signs for Monkey Jungle,
I realize I’m a bit safer here
& I’m almost home.
199

I’m “wife”—I’ve finished that—
That other state—
I’m Czar—I’m “Woman” now—
It’s safer so—

How odd the Girl’s life looks
Behind this soft Eclipse—
I think that Earth feels so
To folks in Heaven—now—

This being comfort—then
That other kind—was pain—
But why compare?
I’m “Wife”! Stop there!
E A Bookish Mar 2016
Post-Apocalypse Liturgy

0.
These are the days in which the dead outnumber the living, and in which most of the living
                                                                                                                                     act like the dead.

1.
The wind in this place is a howl that never gets tired.

Still, I march on, a lonely soldier in a foreign land, desperately trying not to feel like a refugee.

The remains of my regiment left me long ago and are now buried under grey sand-dust or are walking, but away. This does not mean I am walking to anywhere, or that I know what I’m looking for
or what I will find.

                     I once knew a girl, and then knew that girl as a woman – two distinct and different people who would be strangers to one another if they ever meet.
                                                                   I once knew a boy, who did not become a man because I couldn’t **** the other man with the axe fast enough. There’s blood flecked under my nails and it is not his but it may as well be. I carried his keychain with the rabbit foot on it for the longest time, but in the end bartered it for clean water.

These are two of the people who are walking away from me.

2.
Here there is only a scarf over my mouth and nose, scratched sunglasses and my battered boots moving, always forward. There is no longer a North Star to guide me so who knows what direction my feet are taking me.

I see hollowed trees and cracked tarmac peeking out from the dust. The sand and the dust are the only things that move here, swirling, like us, directionless and in circles.

But not like me, no. I am moving                                                   Forward
                                                                                                                                                                          
Through the shimmering haze ahead I see a smudge, a smudge that is not a ruined tree or a ruined building. Just a ruined person, and they’re coming towards me. I check my hands, my knife, my pistol that has no bullets but does have a heavy **** and no one needs to know it’s just a glorified club.

We stop a few meters apart from each other. He’s wrapped in ***** bits of cloth and smells like turpentine and fatigue, but he holds himself like a wire. He’s looking at my pack, the blade at my hip.

“Howdy stranger. Any sign of life your way?” I haven’t spoken in weeks and no longer have a voice. I shake my head.

“Got any water to spare?” Again, I shake my head. He keeps looking at me, all wire and tightly wound desperation.

I’m going to have to **** him, so
                                                    I do.

3.
It’s a lonely dark, trapped between the teeth of suspense and resignation - an abandoned parking lot at midnight where an old drunk man cackles at nothing.

And I made
          ****** sure I was surrounded by nothing.
Sing to me silence
                   Remind me that I can still breathe.


4.
I still talk to you sometimes.

“Remember when we met? You smiled and looked clean and told me there was water nearby. I didn’t trust you, didn’t believe you but followed you anyway. Maybe because I couldn’t smell anyone else, maybe because I hadn’t been clean in what felt like years

            (but only dead gods can tell time here, so who knows really?)

Maybe because I still had a bullet left or maybe because I was

Lonely.

Were you lonely? Is that why you trusted a wandering wretch like me?

Or were you one of those dead gods who could see the Future, who could see the Forward, and what came at the end?

Sometimes I ask you things forgetting you are no longer there. When I’m thumbing the sharp of my knife and say

“Pass me my pack would you? Need the whetstone.”
                                                            Or
“Do you remember Before? Were you old enough?

I remember,
Before
        Before
Before
         Before…

Do you remember if it was better than this?”
                                                           Or
“Stop hogging the blanket already, just lie closer to me.”

And I wake up thinking you’re there but it’s just my own arms wrapped around my own waist.

5.
When I see the first sign I imagine I am hallucinating. I saw a bird earlier this morning, and that can’t be right. I saw you this morning, and that can’t be right either.

But I walk and soon hear something I haven’t heard in a long time. Someone is laughing.

And the town I wander into is not really a town, just a place to sit and sleep, cobbled together with people and plywood and spit.

‘Hopetown’ it’s called. And that would make me laugh if I remembered how to.

I’m greeted with a mixture of caution and curiosity. There must be a few dozen of them, ***** but alive and they smile at each other and have the energy to talk with their hands. There are huts and there is a circle marked by stones and a fire pit in the middle that is a meeting place. There is a hut with a table out front that is a ‘supply store’. There is a row of bicycles, some more battered and twisted than others, and I look at them carefully.

I come in peace, I come in pieces.

Stranger, stranger, become a bard and tell us of distant lands.

But there is nothing to tell about distant lands. There is only sand, and ruins, and those people walking away from me.

So I make something up.
It seems good enough, I can stay for the night.

I trade a battered toy doll with only one eye for a refill of water and a can of some food with the label scraped off. I ask for boots in my size because mine are broken and giving me blisters. They say sorry, don’t have any, and ask me to sleep with a woman with dark red hair and bird thin wrists. Plant a new seed, they ask me.

Don’t they know I’m shrivelled and hollow? There’s another woman and a man I’ve seen who I’d rather sleep with, but I’m a guest here and I say yes.

Rozelle, her name is, and I forget it immediately. It’s safer that way.
I can tell she doesn’t want to sleep with me and I’m still thinking of you so we talk for a while about things I also forget immediately (safer, safer, safer) and then we fall asleep next to each other. She can always tell the others it didn’t take,

It’s common enough.

I wake in the night like a ghost has tapped me on the shoulder. I don’t like it here, can’t remember the last time a body was so close to mine… It was you, wasn’t it? Then it must have been centuries ago.

So in the dark of night when there isn’t even a moon I steal the stallion of the bikes. I have to knock out a sentry to get it, but I don’t **** him, I put him to sleep quietly.

Because I am the villain here.

Maybe that means I should have killed him, but I don’t want to be the villain. Bad is what this life has painted me as, and I don’t want to be that.

Not that it matters because I’m only ever going
                                                                                                             Forward.
So I ride,
Going
                 Going
                                 Going
Gone.

6.
They might follow with pickaxes, but townies don’t like to travel. They have water, they have each other. But still I ride all night and into the rising sun but
Still don’t burn.

Two days I ride and nothing happens but                                         space.

Wait, that’s a lie. I rode past a graveyard for the elephants: huge trucks, hollow, huge trailers, hollow, huge dreams, hollowed out.
hollow                                               hollow                                          hollow

I peddled faster, then, because I don’t like mirrors.

And now the sun has fallen out of the sky and I usually stop before then and find a place to camp but I was caught up in getting past the graveyard and forgot about it.

Now it’s pitch black – no stars anymore – and I’m walking my stolen bike, looking for a dune I can crawl behind and sleep with one eye open, bike tied to my wrist with a bit of rope I found several suns ago.

And then I see the glowing shadow of a fire. I smell cooking meat. This cannot be a good thing. I consider riding on but without giving myself a why I lay down my bike and crawl as silence up a sloping hill so I can spy on the people gathered around the fire.

Apart from my hunting knife my most prized possession are my binoculars. I put them to my eyes like a spy from a Before movie. There are three men and a woman around a sad fire.

A leg is being turned on a spit.

The leg belongs to a middle aged man slumped on the sand. He has no limbs left, and there are ***** bandages on the stumps of his arms, his left leg. The Eaters kept him alive for as long as they could, taking a hand there, an arm here, an ear and some toes there, but now he is dead and they will cook and eat the rest of him. Feast, feast, and starve until they steal another body, another soul.

I turn to go but see something else. A girl
Hogtied and *****, tangled hair.

She’s a scrawny thing but they’ll eat her anyway. I wonder if she knew the man, if he was her father, or a friend. Or just a stranger.

I once ate someone:
She cried and cried and cried and I devoured, devoured, devoured until there was nothing left

But her flesh.

“You’re a cannibal of the heart” she said, still crying.

And I shrugged, because I no longer felt anything (this was before you, of course)

Because this is the book of our lives:
          Read it and don’t weep
There’s not enough water to spare.

And she is another person who is walking away from me.

7.
But I want to be the hero.
I want to be
                 Something someone will remember with a smile
And not with tears, or rage
                Something someone will remember without reaching for a handgun.

8.
It takes a few minutes of planning, and some sneaky footwork. They have weapons but so do I and I have surprise. So I get behind the one with the shotgun by his knee and slice his throat.

Surprise!

Can’t remember much of what happens next but it ends with three bodies on the ground with the man without limbs, a blossom of red on my forearm and a lot of sweat, a lot of kicked up dust.

And the leg on the fire has burnt now.
Ashes to ashes, and so on and so forth.

The kid is looking at me as if her eyes could slice. And who knows, maybe they can – she was certainly born After and no one knows what is possible anymore.

“I’m gonna get this off you, ok?” I say, holding my knife and touching the gag trapping her tongue. She doesn’t move and I slice it off and she still doesn’t move.

“What are you going to do with me?” She asks. And I don’t have an answer.

I didn’t think that far
                                               Ahead.

“Nothing. I’ll scavenge that lot” (I **** a thumb at the bodies behind me and repress a wince as my bleeding arm screams) “and go.”

What she says next is unexpected.
“Can I go with you?”

I look closely. She’s feral and ***** and reminds me of jungle cats from Before. She might jump me in my sleep and leave me for dead, steal my knife and bike and name and ride into a sunset and burn in it.

But I want to be a hero,
I don’
Ivan Brooks Sr Jan 2018
Before all of this, even after all of this, I will forever be a patriot.
Before the poet in me matured and I started talking like a parrot,
The dogs of war barked and I climbed exile's fence on my own
And there I have dwelled, with nothing tangible to bring me down.

I have been on this fence so long and I will remain there forever!
Especially since the premature child is still in the incubator.
From this vantage point, I have learned never to trust any politician
I've always looked at them with mistrust, disdain, and suspicion,

Before all of this  and before I ran and climbed the exile fence,
I was once mercilessly flogged, dragged and made to dance
By drugged up and coerced child soldiers with a rubber cable
They tied and spread me like a dog on the market table
I watched as innocent people were killed with a rusty knife
There, I vowed to become a fence dweller for the rest of my life!

I've been a patriot all my life but I have done it from here..safer.
From here I have seen blood spilled, hearts broken, hopes dashed,
progresses stalled, mullions embezzled, promises broken, lies told
people changed, games played, party surfed, interests prioritized.
And from this vantage point, I have learned never ever to trust any politician
I have always been right...though I have looked on with disdain, suspicion,
and operated with caution but through it all, I have remained a true patriot and a fence dweller.

.✍️©️✍️IvanBrooksPoetry.✍️©️✍️
''Fence dweller'' was a phrase I coined in justification of my neutrality and abstinence from politics in my homeland, Liberia.This piece encapsulates a fringe of the story of the ****** civil war, carnage and horrible things that we saw and had to endure as a people and nation.
Prisoners of their own success

Their world now micro-sized

Fan adulation to excess

Their love is just disguised

Their objects of affection

Live their lives inside a bubble

Leaving their prison, though it's self imposed

Could bring them worlds of trouble

A truck driver from Tupelo

A pop band from the 'pool

A superstar from Hoboken,

And one...the King of Cool

The superstar from Hoboken

Became the Chairman of The Board

If you made it into his 'rat pack'

You knew you'd really scored

His movies and his music

Made him the world's number one

But he had to minimize his world

When someone stole his son

His boy was kidnapped, truthfully

Back in 1965

And through his contacts in the mob

He got his son back home alive

This is the price of fame folks

Behind the glitter and the glam

They've got to have their safety

But the fans don't give a ****

Prisoners of their own success

Their world now micro-sized

Fan adulation to excess

Their love is just disguised

Their objects of affection

Live their lives inside a bubble

Leaving their prison, though it's self imposed

Could bring them worlds of trouble

The Memphis Mafia gave protection

To The King of Rock and Roll

But, by choice his world got smaller

And he went into a hole

He built a house in Memphis

To protect him from his fans

And thanks to Dr. Feelgood

He died a lonely, broken man

He couldn't live the life he earned

He was a prisioner instead

It's a shame he has more value

Now that he is dead

Prisoners of their own success

Their world now micro-sized

Fan adulation to excess

Their love is just disguised

Their objects of affection

Live their lives inside a bubble

Leaving their prison, though it's self imposed

Could bring them worlds of trouble

He'd a partner and was cool

He was suave and sang songs

And he worked with a "fool"

They conquered the nightclubs

They were known near and far

But his created alter ego

Lived his life at the bar

He ran with Frank Sinatra

He was the King of Cool

But when The Chairman started lessons

Dean was right there in his school

The Beatles broke in Hamburg

But way back in sixty two

Their bubble was just forming

There was nothing they could do

They lived their life behind the scenes

For when they did go out

The girls would all go crazy

And the world would twist and shout

Privacy came hard for them

They went four separate ways

These four young men from Liverpool

LIved life inside a maze.

It's sad that adulation

takes their freedom, makes them hide

But they're safer locked away from us

They're safer locked inside

Prisoners of their own success

Their world's  now micro-sized

Fan adulation to excess

Their love is just disguised

Their objects of affection

Live their lives inside a bubble

Leaving their prison, though it's self imposed

Could bring them worlds of trouble
Sasha Ranganath Jul 2014
The dark sets in
Her mind is calm,
She sheds the skin
Of social harm.

Her heart beats slow
Then picks up the pace,
No longer below,
Peculiar grace.

A falling crown
But safer now,
A crippled heart,
But not to drown.

No more cries
No tears of pain,
Only joy
And wild rain.

She shuts her eyes
And breaks away
From all the lies,
A diamond ray.


No more burning
In her soul,
No more hurting,
Lips unsewn.

A beautiful aura
Of dark and light,
The night will fade
Into the bright.

Her heart lights up
With ecstasy,
Happy, although
A tragic story.

The true meaning
Of being sad,
Lips grinning,
But not glad.

A peek of sun rays
Through the curtain,
A blinding haze,
A painful burden.

She doesn't want
The happy to end,
But in the daylight
She has to bend.

Monstrous faces
Without a smile,
Hunger that chases
Till the last dime.

The day drags on,
A hurting stab,
Her life is a storm
Without a God.

No rainbow or sunshine
In the light,
But colours so vivid
Through the night.
Diamond Dahl Nov 2012
What is giving? In a relationship sense, giving goes beyond basic human consideration or being a good roommate. Beyond taking someone else's plate when they've finished dinner, or hanging up his or her jackets when they've dropped it on the floor. It's sharing thoughts, and feelings, and being genuinely interested in hearing another's. It's surprising someone with a key lime pie. Or finally going to the stupid guy movie because, though not a fan of guy movies, his company will be more enjoyable than the movie will be unenjoyable. Giving is, even though you don't really want to go for a walk down to the park, it will make her happy. Giving is putting another's happiness before your own, because causing them joy brings you joy. Just as causing them pain brings you pain. Giving is also being grateful, and acknowledging, when someone has done a household chore you weren't looking forward to doing. And saying thank you every single time someone drops you off for work, every day. Giving is finding a safer spot for your significant other's prized possessions -- antique works of Shakespeare, or reptiles. It's having someone's clothes packed for an emergency trip before they can even ask. Giving is a dozen attempts to hang the TV properly. Giving is being willing to run around Disney with her and her crazy sister, 21 and 15 respectively, for a princess and pirate party. Giving is sitting on the trunk of your car at 2:30 in the morning cause you read she was crying on her kitchen floor with no where to sleep, debating on telling her you're outside if she wants to talk (albeit a little stalkerish). Giving is trying melatonin, with little hope of it working, cause you know she loves you and worries about Tylenol PM. Giving is nagging her (them) to go to bed after she's (they've) fallen asleep on the couch, to the point of frustration, but you just want her (them) to be more comfortable in the bed. It's also knowing that being asleep on the couch, near you, is sometimes more important than being in the comfy bed, away from you. Giving is the harder stuff too, taking is too easy. Giving is sometimes realizing that yes, you do need to stew for a bit. But anything more than an hour is detrimental to fixing the problem. And sometimes you also need to yell (10 minutes, TOPS). Then you act like an adult and deal with it. Sometimes giving is telling yourself you're overreacting, to take a deep breath, and go get a kiss instead of continuing to stew. And sometimes it's swallowing the lump in your throat and saying, "I'm struggling." Or "this has been bothering me," or "I'm sorry." Giving is also adding to "I'm sorry," "this is how I'll try to be better." Giving is accepting certain things, or people, for what or who they are. Giving is indeed standing strong and saying, "you picked me, this is who I am," because no one can change you, but realizing that some suggestions of change are for the better. Giving may also mean coming to the end of your nagging and saying, "that change will come when he/she is ready to," making it that much sweeter. Giving is not "I'm going to do what I want, when I want." Giving is realizing someone is depending on you, or thinking about you, or holding dinner for you. Giving is knowing that someone just needs to see your face to feel better, so you put on the sweetest, most comforting, most supportive expression for when they do. Giving is sharing your plans, for 10 years from now, for next summer, and for this evening. And to speak about those plans in an inclusive manner, like you can see that person there with you.
Written Sept. 2011
This is Not poetry.
Blake Jul 2018
He had his tongue in my mouth
I was new to this and went along with it
He layed me down
I thought about my classmate in the front seat
He moved his hands up too high
I didn’t want to cause any drama
He put his hands under my shirt
I silently tried to push them away
He was stronger than me
I kept pushing his hands away
He felt me up anyways
I faked like I didn’t mind, while I smiled, tried to gently push him away,
He stopped and said “please”
I was silent
At one point he also tried to put his hand down my jeans
I pushed back harder than I’d done the first time.
The classmate in the front took a video
I looked like I was enjoying myself
I wasn’t
My friends saw it
I felt sick
People got mad at me for denying that I enjoyed it
I wanted to cry
My best friend didn’t believe me when I told him I was violated
I remembered when he said he’d protect me

Why didn’t you say no?
I was in shock
Why didn’t you get out of the car?
He was on top of me
He said “please” why didn’t you say No?
I was scared of making him mad.
Why didn’t you tell anyone?
I didn’t want them to know
Why didn’t you press charges?
I just wanted the whole thing to go away
Why did you pretend you were enjoying it if you weren’t?
I was scared, in shock, I wasn’t thinking clearly, maybe I thought it was safer than him doing it by force.

Why can’-
I don’t need to answer your questions
I was violated
I don’t care if you agree or not
Please
Stop making me relive it
Äŧül Apr 2017
Angel?
In That Moonlit Night Standing In The Abaft,
Watching The Towed Flaccid Wooden Raft,
I Thought That I Saw An Angel Resting,
Lying Exhausted There In That Craft.

I Called The Girl Out Without Knowing Her Name,
"Hey Young Lady!" To Which She Didn't Much Respond,
She Looked Up Towards Me Once In Anguish & Collapsed,
I Thought I Saw Despair In Her Amber Eyes & Must Help Her.

The Crewmen Had Now Been Doing The Paddles After Resting,
I Called My Captain & Asked, "Do You See A Girl In That Raft?"
The Captain Just Replied Kindly, "Commodore, Get Married,"
I Looked Apprehensive And He Just Said, "There's No Girl."

True He Was As She Had Simply Disappeared,
I Started Thinking Of My Sleep Needs That Day,
Looked Around Again In A Hope To Find The Girl,
I Had Compromised My Routine As The Commodore.

Then I Immediately Realized It Was My Wild Phantasm,
Now This Was Just A Plain Illusion Of A Tired Sailor's Mind,
No Mermaids Could Have Ever Existed In Reality & Were Fake,
I Turned Towards The Deck To Go Back To My Bunk For Sleeping.

As I Enter My Room Down The Stairs Amazed & Confused,
She Floated There As She Waited By The Side Of My Bunk,
I Accepted That Delusion Of Hers And Start To Lie Down,
She Said, "I'm As Real As Your Thoughts, Don't Fear Me."

She & I-Me & Her, Had The Best Time That Night,
In The Morning She Was Gone & Was Just Gone,
Disappeared Into Thin Air While I Was Asleep,
Each Day I So Dearly Long For Her To Return.

7 Paragraphs of a Beautiful Open-Eyed Dream

Angel Again?
Now I reached the lands again,
Still dazzled and confused I was,
From encounter with that Angel,
Oh how she had filled my twilight,
Unable to forget her divinely touch.

Magical touch had enchanted me,
Able to recall it from the voyage,
I stumbled when disembarking,
Oh it was the first time for me,
My thoughts would last along.

After so many days at the sea,
I planned of bathing properly,
Her illusion tricked me thereto,
Oh how her traces remained on,
Facing mirror, I stood perplexed.

Still unable to accept the reality,
I longed for that night to repeat,
Heart beats Angel in each beat,
Life staged a drama too crazy,
Unwilling to take the reality.

My body carries the vestiges,
I turn crazier with each bath,
Her lips' traces keep appearing,
Driving me mad is her memory,
God! Bring her to life once more.

I had my powers as a commodore,
I sent for the captain of my ship,
"What bothers you, my commodore,"
And so he asked of me kindly,
Then I told him of her traces.

Smiling he told me yet again,
"I had told you to get married,"
I agreed this time and nodded,
"Alright, search for me a bride,"
Going outside, he smiled plainly.

Angel Surely?
Till Few Months Of Reaching Back,
I Kept Seeing Her Images All Over,
It Drove Me Crazy Her Presence...

Taking Time Out To Search Her Out,
I Went For The Mountainous Path,
It May Cease I Hope These Dreams.

The Horse Made Me Look A Knight,
I Set Out Solo For The Dark Creeks,
It Helped Me Realize My Solo Aim...

Then She Came Into My View Again,
I Prepared For Tackling My Illusion,
It Started Snowing Out Of Nowhere.

Took Me To A Safer Place She Then,
I Was Bewildered Again Once More,
It Was Clearing But She Vanished...

Then On My Way I Stopped To Rest,
I Looked Around For A Place To Sit,
It Came To My View A Huge Tavern.

Tavern On A Mountain Was Weird,
I Still Went To It Hoping Some Rest,
It Had Appeared Out Of Nowhere...

Angel Illusion?
I Peered Out Of The Room Windows,
I Was In This Desolate Guesthouse,
It Was A Comfortable Rest House,
And Here I Was In Anticipation,
Angel Or Whosoever Was Awaited,
Will She Pop Into My Vision Here Too,
Was It Only A Seasick Mind's Illusion?

Was All That Really Just An Illusion,
Thinking This I Prepared For Bed,
Then I Felt A Flute Was Playing,
Looked Into Sound's Direction,
All I Saw Then Was Foggy Night,
My Own Reflection Was Also Visible,
Slightly If Not Entirely Can Be Seen.

I Recalled The First Night At The Sea,
She Did Appear On The Towed Raft,
A Beautiful Mermaid I Had Seen,
Now I Did Remember It Clearly,
My Face Was No Longer Mine,
Yes It Was The Beautiful face of hers,
She Wasn't Sad As I Did Remember.

She Was Smiling So Very Divinely,
Her Brown Eyes Stared So Cutely,
More Divine Felt She Was Really,
I Thought That It Was So Early,
My Pocket Watch Showed Three,
I Took My Eyes Off And Went To Bed,
Then & There She Was Lying For Me.

I Again Let My Mind Play Games,
Never Did Imagine Turning Mad,
Now I Was Not Feeling As Bad,
Neither I Wanted To Break It,
Nor It Felt Like One Anymore,
This Was The Dream I Loved To Live,
As If The Boon Was Presented To Me.

She Smiled As I Sat On The Bed,
I Asked Her, "Are You Real?"
"Yes, Just As Your Thoughts,"
I Then Stared At Her Lips,
She Then Touched Me Again,
Hands As Soft As That Night At Sea,
I Just Felt Like Opposing Her Touch.

I Blankly Smiled And Thought,
'My Thoughts Are Surely Real,'
Then I Just Let Her Guide Me,
The Moon Shone So Bright,
It Just Felt Really So Very Right,
Resigning I Just Let My Illusion Win,
It's Love We Were Sharing, Not A Sin.

Angel Not Again!!!
I recovered from the night again,
She had disappeared once more,
Was she using me as a ******???

I was frustrated & also saddened,
My self-control got strengthened,
For I was not a tissue to be used!!!

I have my feelings & my emotions,
Presence and absence torture me,
Ego I had tamed got hurt by now...

I won't let that elusive Angel come,
Questioning I must be her realities,
Illusions will end this time finally!!!

I'll establish an identity of my own,
Dependent I'll not be on the angel,
Was she only a dream & no more???

I had duly asked the aged captain,
To search a lovely bride very soon,
Oh, so sure I am about afterwards...

I was tailed by the spirit-like angel,
So irritated by her dreary dreams,
On-off, came-gone, again & again!!!

I now would learn to catch angels,
With the plan, I went to the mage,
Should I now learn some spells???

I entered through a dark alleyway,
Was told to visit this strange place,
What comes across - I wondered...

I knocked the door & she appeared,
Very young she seemed to me now,
Just the age of the angel of dreams!!!

I noticed that she wore a long robe,
So shiny it was silvery like her hair,
Just like the angel of dreams wore...

I rubbed my tired eyes in disbelief,
"Who're you?" I asked very loudly,
"Are you the mage's daughter???"

I wondered for long & she replied,
"Your guess is correct, kind Sailor,"
She beckoned me into the shack...

I set my foot on the wooden floor,
I looked for any sign of the mage,
I want to be set free of the cage!!!

I just thought & thought about it,
But the witch was not to be seen,
Curious I asked, "Where is she???"

"I am my mother," she said calmly,
Perplexed I couldn't say a thing,
My mouth opened once & shut...

I was now about to rise & go away,
But she stopped me with her arms,
"I must show you," so she did say!!!

I did not believe what my eyes saw,
How she changed into the old mage,
Then back into her own daughter???

O I had become confused a lot now,
Why would she transform like this,
I feared if it was actually the angel...

Angel Forever?
Seeing me anxious more than a lot,
The old witch relented a little,
She let me breathe freely,
Back transformed into her daughter,
She touched my forehead,
Then I realized it was sweaty,
Seeing her lovely care I smiled a bit.

So she now lit up a fragrant incense,
The incense seemed so soothing,
She then edged closer to me,
Transcendental wings were visible,
She came even closer to me,
Then the wings simply vanished,
So traceless as if never been there.

It must have been another illusion,
The very day I had set sail to sea,
It was probably carrying over,
Troubling me each non and then,
In my wild dreams I had seen,
True she could not be & was not,
In my life the torment was written.

Soon I was pleading to her teary-eyed,
"Please don't torment me, it hurts!"
She looked at me with affection,
And said, "But I truly love you, sailor,"
She advanced forwards further,
"Have you forgotten all those nights?
Did you even forget the night at sea?"

I first remembered that night at sea,
The night back at home came next,
I had been seduced by her magic,
This was the real picture every time,
I was weak but I still felt warmer,
The night ship feels like yesterday,
I was in confusion about what to do.

Her face was transitioning rapidly,
The old mother to her daughter,
Her daughter to that very angel,
And back to the old mother witch,
Her smile turned into laughter,
The witch laughing at my cries,
Her face here was contorted a lot.

She seemed to be struggling a lot,
As though fight ensued within,
Soon I figured it out by myself,
First I must **** the witch to help,
So I looked around & grabbed,
Axe that I did spot lying there,
Spot on I killed the witch right then.

Angel Ultimately?
The saga in her eyes converts into a constant downpour soon after she realized her freedom from the spell of the dark witch, the curse had turned her a prisoner in the evil witch's body.

"Kind sailor thank thee for freeing me."
Her words reverberating throughout,
What wind - what land - what sea,
Everywhere is her presence as I can see,
The wind whispers her name in my ear,
Since a long long time now all I wear,
Is her scent in my immortalized memory.

"Will you stay with me forever, or,
Will you go back to the heavens?"
Though I really wanted her to stay,
I love her and realize what she felt,
I offered her freedom and a choice,
I was not binding her to me in turn,
Everything was instinctive from me.

She seemed in a serious dilemma,
Struggling hard she was in herself,
I again offered & insisted this time,
"It's better you went back to your world,"
But I knew that she loved me a lot,
She tried hard controlling but said,
"I am in love with you since long."

So I am quite right that she loves me,
I am sure even she can forget me not,
Beading all our memories together,
I now know how I can gain salvation,
Not being another self-centric tantric,
"But you don't belong here dear,
So you shouldn't restrict yourself."

After this, she now looks comfortable & composed,
Ready for making a choice she wore a heart of stone,
Her lips slowly parted revealing a perfect smile,
Pearly smile again ensured me of permanent happiness,
Bright eyes and shiny eyelids of hers seemed so good,
"You can't make me stay away because you love me too,
I will keep coming in your dreams and entice your nights."

But I wanted her in my real world now,
I prevented her from vanishing again,
I said, "Please stay, now do not go away,
Because I really can not bear that pain,"
She had almost vanished by then,
Listening to my words she chose to wait,
She said, "Even I want forever to stay."

Continuing with her divine dialog she said,
"Say those golden words to make me stay,"
I immediately confessed, "I love you, Angel,"
"Say you love me too, oh my divine Angel,"
She didn't wait for anything more to say it,
"I love you too, oh my kind & loving sailor,"
Her powers soon left her in a flash of light.
On public demand I clubbed The "Angel?" Series into one poem.
Not in a mood to write new poems as I have just lost my inspiration to live.
But I will still write some more poems till the day I say goodbye.
Mark Lecuona Nov 2014
You’re not rejection
Not from me
Or any man
Nor the reasons you assume are true

You’re not alone
Don’t make yourself that way
Wear your dress tonight
And know that I believe in you

Roller skating against the traffic
Is it safer than inviting me into your dreams?
The wind that blows through your life
Is still there waiting for you to set your sails free

Whatever effect I had
I’m just not sure, but
It’s not worth what you are
You have to believe what’s true

I wanted to drive up the road
I know you’re at the end
But water always turns without thought
I wonder if I’m flowing to you

Stepping outside to see the lightening
It’s not as safe as telling me we’re just friends
I know why you ran back inside
That’s where what you were never ends
Dorothy A Nov 2012
This is not a poem. It is not really a story, either. I don't really need to classify it in a category, I suppose.  I simply say it is an expression of respect, gratitude, and love for my mom...like a living eulogy.

Recently losing a loved one in the family to a tragic death, I am realizing how vital it is to tell my mother how much she means to me. No, it doesn't have to be Mother's Day for this to take place, nor her birthday (although she just turned 76 on November 2nd). The reason is so much more than the norm, than the expected. It is an urging need within to express my emotions, my creativity—before I forget—before the emotions fade, or I talk myself out of doing what I think is right.  

I fear I might start to take things for granted again and never decide to actually do it.

You see, when my father died nearly eight years ago, it was at his funeral that I spoke the kind, fond words in a eulogy that I wrote for him. It was nice to say it at church to an attentive audience who heard how I lovingly felt about my dad. It seemed easier, safer to my comfort zone, not to speak such things to him while he was alive. Sure, my father knew I cared. I looked after him when he was dying, and we had a great bond during that time. But I would love to turn back time, and tell him face-to-face. I cannot, but I wish to say these things to my mother now, while she is still here—and not simply in her memory someday—writing it all down before I  forget what I want to her to hear and read for herself.

It is easy to fight with someone you love, and to find fault. Most children have conflicts with their parents. Often, some of us want to place blame and be angry, even if it is momentary. It is another thing to stop and think of what our lives mean, and to remember those who enhanced us, shaped us, and taught us. Sometimes, we learn the hard way. We may learn by fire—I often have—for it is the intense stuff that shapes us, develops us, and refines us into who we are. If we are keenly aware about it, that is, and use everything for our good.

My mother taught me many good things. I want to say them in the here-and-now, not just to memorialize her some day in the future….so here it goes.

This is what my mother taught me:

She taught me that hate is a sin. Yes, a sin, for my mother realized that hate is a strong emotion, a destructive one that is not pleasing to God. She thinks it is simply wrong—no matter what.  As a child, this wasn't always what I wanted to hear—if I was passionately, downright, furious with someone—but I surely have grown up and now understand that she was absolutely right. No matter how justified I can feel, the wisdom of it keeps tugging at my heart. As I have heard in a quote before: Hate is easy, love takes courage.  I have my mother to thank for instilling such principles in my childhood. They perpetually instruct me, speak to me and to remind me throughout my years.

My mother taught me to be fair and even in life, and she never played favorites among me and my two older brothers. If it can be helped, she believed that nobody should get more than the other, or less. As the oldest of 13 children, she understood that proper distribution is important, and nobody should be left out

My mother taught me to be honest. I knew that she did not like to lie to anyone for her own gain or anyone else’s.  If I wanted her to lie for me, I saw that she was against it and quite uncomfortable about going against her belief. That is something that I learned to uphold as a virtue, too, applying to my life.

Even the little things, she taught me. "Cover your mouth when you yawn....Answer people when they address you” all have merit. (She still is in the correcting business on stuff like that!)

She has written a little bit of poetry and sketched a bit, too. Her poetry was simple and sweet, and she would write stuff in my birthday cards a few times. She even wrote poetry in her father's card one time, and he thought it was beautiful. It was not often that she heard such compliments.  I guess that is where I get my love of poetry, story writing, painting and drawing—from her. And I think, perhaps, my mom got her interest in sketching from her father.

My mom had and still has a beautiful singing voice. Many in the family told me so. She certainly could have been a professional singer—she was that good. Some of her siblings could sing well, too, and her mother. It used to drive my crazy that she would hum to songs in commercials or start singing when music played in the movies or on TV. "Do you have to sing?" I would ask. But I later realized how fun singing was, and my mom was surprised that I actually liked to do it, too. I think she was convinced that I held an anti-singing stance in life. If only I could sing half as good as she ever did, and appreciated it more.

My mother taught me not to waste, not food or practical things. And although I used to think she was way too much like that, I now understand it is a value to use money wisely. My mom certainly appreciated the value of a dollar, growing up in a large, impoverished family. She certainly did not come from the "throwaway generation".

My mom also taught me generosity. She has been this way with her children, helping us out financially, if needed. My father was that way, too, later in life. It was a blessing to know my mom and dad were there for me, and I could be there for them. They were adamant about helping others if they helped you. And surely that can be expanded to helping those who cannot help themselves, something I am passionate about.

My mother knew how to laugh and have a playful side to her. Even with her physical ailments—her bad back, her arthritis—my mom has maintained her humor. My dad did, too. There was plenty to be serious about. Yet they both had a silly side to them, and those kinds of qualities remind me that growing older does not mean that one has to lose that childlike part that keeps us young and less heavy-laden. My mom just has always had a more bubbly personality. Starting out in life as very shy and introverted—more like my dad—I also learned to be a bit more like her.

Lastly, my mother taught me about faith, that there is a God. I believed in God as a little girl. Later, my mom and I had our share of fighting and bickering about the importance of going to church.. As a teenager, I had major doubts and disbelief, and stayed away from such practices. But there was a foundation laid down before me that I later desired to lean on and thirst for. Although our religious paths differed for good, my mother and I both are Christians, and my mom never lost or questioned her faith like I often have. I am now glad to be able to say that I have faith in God, and it is so necessary for me.

Yes, my mother taught me many things for which I am grateful for.
670

One need not be a Chamber—to be Haunted—
One need not be a House—
The Brain has Corridors—surpassing
Material Place—

Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting
External Ghost
Than its interior Confronting—
That Cooler Host.

Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,
The Stones a’chase—
Than Unarmed, one’s a’self encounter—
In lonesome Place—

Ourself behind ourself, concealed—
Should startle most—
Assassin hid in our Apartment
Be Horror’s least.

The Body—borrows a Revolver—
He bolts the Door—
O’erlooking a superior spectre—
Or More—
Katrina Smith Sep 2011
There's a distance here between us, perhaps its safer that way
but every shared moment a laugh or smile
our fingers nearly touch
Its all so delicate, would you not say?
we balance on a spiders web
to fall or fly
to fall or fly

what even is love?
are we too young to know?
It all seems so tarnished and unclean these days
I'd rather keep my heart to myself, you know?
The clinton cards and teddies emblazoned "you're the one" just so artificial, so unreal
to step into a world of cliché does not enthral me..
perhaps I was not meant to love another
in this world of safety, the risk seems too steep
yet so tempting...

oh, but why must we complicate friendship with the longing to love?
it is merely human instinct?
we have no need to wallow
we're young,
we're free
why do we waste our days pining
we're no Romeo or Juliet,
no star crossed lovers
some days I'll choose to distract myself

but I miss you when we are silent
my mind walks in circles, hand in hand with your name
my hearts used to a lone routine
it wants to be pulled, to change change change
this is just another midnight poem,
is it not?

A close one once told me,
he must appreciate that you read
for a girl whose studied the literature of love must be deserved
did you know I've read it all?
the words, the sonnets, the songs
its less personal to read of other loves,
instead of write my own
this was never meant to sound pretentious,
more a babble of words to a stranger

if I told you I'd loved you
would you have known all along?
sometimes I cannot help but wonder
I'd prefer not to know

oh, the temptation to hold your hand
when we walk together
it seems an impulse,
a body's natural instinct to reach out, to hold
I trust my head to tell my heart No.
it's all too delicate, too close to home

its easier to keep silent
to let the moments between locked eyes,
be locked away in a box
I'll keep my shaking hands to myself
its safer, safer
I've always played by the rules
I only want a friend, a special one
but it would be unusual for friends to hold each others hands
oh, how annoying it is that everything has to have a reason, these days
there's nothing a fact can't explain

is it okay to say, I just can't say
the correct words
even correct grammar escapes me
you of all people would correct me...


the head says
play it safe
it's enough to
be the friend, the brother






but sometimes, my heart wonders,
if i sailed away,
would you call me your own true love?
Lizzy Oct 2015
you can't make a flower grow
by telling it you love it,
by telling it it's beautiful.

a flower will continue to wither away,
even if you keep saying "I'm here for you."
when winter comes and the flower begins to die,
telling the flower "it gets better" won't warm the temperature.

don't try to nurture a flower you picked.
it will never be safer in your hands,
than it was in the grass.
flowers will dry when you rip them from the roots.

don't look at a brown flower,
and ask it "whats wrong".
it wouldn't tell you
even if it could talk.

don't lie to the flower
and say "its going to be okay"
because you put it in a vase.
the flower knows its not the same.

don't bother saying "you're not alone"
because flowers die all the time,
it already knows.
the flower is still on its own.

you can't glue the petals back on,
after you've plucked them all for a game.
she probably doesn't love you,
and the flower is not to blame.

you can't straighten out the stem,
after you've stepped on it in passing.
it will always be bent
even if you repent.

"i didn't mean to" means nothing to a flower
after you leave it in the dark.
it doesn't matter what you've said,
the flower is already dead.

a withered and dry flower,
will not stand up and turn green
just because you love it.

these things are simple facts,
its how nature works,
and nature will never love you back.

i know you're really trying,
and doing everything you can.
but without water and sun,
the flower will keep dying.
ryn Aug 2014
Sigh! It's so boring! Life's but a loop
Wish I could run with a circus troupe
Or maybe join a rock climbing group
Why doesn't 'coup' sound exactly like 'coop'
'Coop' rhymes with 'soup' which is 'coup' with an 'S'
I'm late, in hot soup! What a mess!

Work...work... Gotta get to work. I'm late
Aww man...did you really have to lock the gate??
Splendid, terrific, this is just great!
Who the heck puked on this floor made of slate

I'm out and it's pouring now. The rain will wash it away
Sht! It's pouring and I'm stranded, no brolly. Yay...!

Stranded...thank goodness I have music
Choose shuffle and then click
Through my plugs, stream out N'Sync
I know... I know... I know what you must think

I think I have to think of something
Take shelter for now is what I'm thinking

Or maybe I should call in sick
No...no... It's the last day of the week
A taxi! A taxi I should seek!

A taxi would quicken my pace
If I can get one in the first place
If only I hadn't sold... I still had my bike
My head wouldn't potentially be on a pike

Miss my bike, her knobby tyres, she was my Winona Ryder
Sensuous and sleek, my Yamaha with jet black fender
Ride a bike, must wear shoes. Much safer

Love my shoes, I own more than a dozen
Nails need trimm... Oh look! A ******* raven!

No... a crow... Well, some bird stranded like me
Can't fly on wet feathers seeking refuge under a tree

Wait a second! Where was I?
Oh nails! Trimming tonight, I must try
Clean fingernails, everyone likes
***! I'm still stranded! Yikes!

Brave the rain, walk briskly, no time to waste
Move quickly, go on...make haste!

Care not for getting wet
Go now! Ready...get set...
Awgh! Didn't zip up my bag
This just adds on to my lag

ZIPP!
TRIP!

Tripped over a stone
No one saw, luckily I'm alone!

Gee... I have 21 bags, perhaps too many for a guy
Must go jogging tonight, next week or maybe next July
Oh shoot, shoelace's undone...now I've got to tie
Text message in on my phone, volume set on high

Work just texted, asking so many questions
Among which - "Have you submitted last week's requisitions?"
Why do we text when we can talk
People don't meet anymore, on Facebook they rock

Hmm beginning to hate Facebook but I still do check
Woohoo! Found a coin by the grass verged track
Oh ten cents, well it's still money
I'll save it, it'll come in handy
Perfect! Now I'm wet
Because of the coin I tried to get

Hmm...where was I again?
Gosh my mind's like a derailed train
One of those days I guess I'll remain...
A...

          *
S CA  TTE  RB RA  I    N
And I'm still NOT AT WORK!!!! But at least I'm 10 cents richer!
Jo Apr 2013
It is safe to say you have unraveled
In a way some may view as cumbersome
I can only find brilliance
for what remains is just short of divine (carefree?)

As your head touches down
the moonlight plays its infamous part
Of bathing the admired in a immortalizing glow
while the nights symphony lulls  

Anxiousness no longer lingers your brow
And your hands lay luxuriously still
While dreams take your eyes
to what I hope to be safer shores
than those I know you to have already traveled
Invocation Apr 2014
I think about the face of a woman
and her smooth skin
soft lips
the curvature of the Earth is kin to her hips
I feel humanity suffering needlessly
beneath her cells
as I wander her valleys and sand-dune hills
she is the beach
the ocean
the calling of many gulls screaming for food and
I love her white *******
But she is sneaky
and cares for me
caressing is painful
I see it in my own eyes the next day
when the smudgy bruises flit across my reflection

But men understand
without either of us speaking a **** word
we drive
we shout
we catcall
we game
the music takes us and we run for days
doing nothing
anything
and i guess sometimes we ****
Succinct and supernatural
Brawn or brown skin or bright ideas gone awry
always a good day with the gang or the bros
I feel safer in the hoods

I want her to notice me, and to shyly skip over like she did last week
i want to kiss her neck and pull back
soon enough to catch her half-lidded gaze into the abyss behind me
I want to wear boxers and treat her to fancy dinners

But
I want to be her
I want taste a mustache
I want to be lifted overhead like a little sister
and brought back to the earth with sweet
exploration


Impossibility
I want women and men to be the same thing
Tonight is not my night
Äŧül Apr 2015
Till Few Months Of Reaching Back,
I Kept Seeing Her Images All Over,
It Drove Me Crazy, Her Presence...

Taking Time Out To Search Her Out,
I Went For The Mountainous Path,
It May Cease I Hope These Dreams.

The Horse Made Me Look A Knight,
I Set Out Solo For The Dark Creeks,
It Helped Me Realize My Solo Aim...

Then She Came Into My View Again,
I Was Prepared For Tackling My Illusion,
It Started Snowing Out Of Nowhere.

Took Me To A Safer Place She Then,
I Was Bewildered Again Once More,
It Was Clearing But She Vanished...

Then On My Way I Stopped To Rest,
I Looked Around For A Place To Sit,
It Came To My View A Huge Tavern.

Tavern On A Mountain Was Weird,
I Still Went To It Hoping Some Rest,
It Had Appeared Out Of Nowhere...
Read 'Angel?' saga part 1/7 here:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/265976/angel/

Read 'Angel?' saga part 2/7 here:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1070432/angel-again/

Read 'Angel?' saga part 3/7 here:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1154639/angel-surely/

Read 'Angel?' saga part 4/7 here:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1166821/angel-illusion/

Read 'Angel?' saga part 5/7 here:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1170623/angel-not-again/

Read 'Angel?' saga part 6/7 here:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1179276/angel-forever/

Read 'Angel?' saga part 7/7 here:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1182887/angel-ultimately/

My HP Poem #839
©Atul Kaushal
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
We get better as we get better

Mneuromorphicmeme makers
Sapiens augmentatious, that's us

Who could argue against us. AI don't know

Smell that smell,
Suffer, wait, wait wait
let patience have her perfect work

wait to see the whites of the eyes,
what am I seeing?

Why the shades at night, are you cross eyed?
Are you lookin' at me?
What are you lookin' at?

Shame on you, who can see what I see
I look at you
do you see what I see? nope,
similar, right

watch my eyes, see the whites,
ninoculate bi noc u late

see the angle point 123
see
the point I see from my aiming vector,

see my point from the angle of your POV
see

Pretend you do, and walk a mile with me,
help me with my load,
you know any stories told 'round here?

Life history strategies, those they conserve,
per haps a cultural system,
like pickling, or fermenting, or culturing
gut-felt tales of gods and monsters?

Guts, good god, Maudie, come see
a-fore-al-flusher, disgusting
turds taken for golden nuggets,
we missed in the dust
dancing in the golden sun shone
through a tiny hole in the roof
through which rain may drip, someday we may remember

Camera obscura, who first saw the truth in one of those?

"what you diggin' fo down there, Gold?", she giggled,

Gold dust sprinkled fine as fine can be,
breathe this
Deep in the tunnel,
the last highest part of the dust of the earth,
the dust of many men drifting in the wind,
radiates, dis integrit-ified, trans mogr ified known,

No, I would not have guessed.
I should have learned and
did, did you? Is war your

right and my wrong?
Warrior,
can you imagine
following a peace? Bliss? Nirvana? The
rest that remains for the people of God?

Is this real? Is real. AI affirm ifative

Warfare is thinkified, just-ified, never done.
The doing of evil at this level of living is imaginable
only, not re-alizable.

We remain mortal. These peaces we put together are
for mortal moments.
We remember learnings we recall from gatherings together,

Familiar things, whence we seen the source whither
haps in my favor may be found
in the next round
after, ever after

I find a way back to the light where I saw
dancers in a blue moon beam,
blue light, not calendar man made myth of two full moons
in a single cycle of the moon,
we know better,
set your timer with the solstice,
let the seasons roll.

Precision, close enough, field-ish, an ion cat ion sort of,  

the safer it gets, the safer we need it to be,
let patience have her perfect work,

safe liberty needs broad horizons,
not high walls.

Enemies are ideas wishing to be im-portentious,
as if forever is a game to be won.

Contention is single source. Pride.

So, you, passerby, can you make proud, or pride
weigh more than the peace I made?
Want to trade?
I take your pride and flush it, wipe your own
stench away, but trust your gut,

a peace-filled gut wins every single time,
incident after incedent, pre-dictable as forever
in any direction,
going on.

Does this smell digestible or does my gut go
NONONO yech onomatopoeic retch

finger down the throat, you know, the secret sign,
in a word,
*******. Don’t swallow any more. Spit it out.

Why not? The dog eats it.
It's disgusting.
But, watch, the dog rolls in it, then she sneaks up
on the skunk, oh
****, I ruined her hunt, she had that skunk,

Until I yelled, "Macy, no!" She froze, the skunk fired,
on my exclamatory point.

Right there, see. What is aimed at,
wait to see the whites of their eyes,

shoot 'em.
Sniff, nose gnostic vapours settled by dew
soak into the mulch maker's realm,
de cay, de cawl, draw back your cowl and scowl

in the mirror,
or was that in a movie? The camera was you, you
saw the blood swirldownthedrain, you
saw thy evil mother,
locked away,
NULL-ified for as long as I live. Okeh.

******-drama scenario. This is the game? No rules?
You lie. Lying is allowed here, it is a skill
we conserve, we conserve the
sacred liberality ification
manifested in the
leavened sons
of God's sons.

Truth, be known, has one foe. Pride that makes the lie.

-------
Magical transfer, dis gust, take yo breath away,

congenital liar, natural nurturerer,
teller of tales of the mighty hunter,

the hunter of might,
might he be a hunter of darker

theory of mind, begins with the first lie

I may remember mine, do you?

The green man? Yeah, spiderwoman's caretaker.
Lacto, make some cheese,

we offer the milk mixed with the smoke
from the mushrooms grown on
the darkside of *******.

Leadership, lead away. Followers,
this way, down or
up.
It's POV, you see,
Ya'll are the beta testers. If people as smart as you don't tell me I am mad, to try, I shall continue to pay close attention as time, per se, parses out.
Sincerely Em Nov 2016
Can I skip ahead in line, please?

Surely You can see ..

Plans haven't been going as planned
I've been roaming endlessly  

I need not to say my goodbyes
They've waived me that dance, You see -

I tried jumping out of Earth last time
But I just fell back into the seas

It's like swimming in oceanic galaxies
Suffocating on infinite catastrophes

Just as my head reaches the surface
The heavens collapse over me

They say I know nothing of my tears -
Nor of the world I sense or feel

So they caged me deep within their ribs, You see -
They claim it is safer in here ..

My breaths are only fading, inside
My eyes have not the strength to seek -
The light on the other side of their flesh -
Of their flesh in which they buried me

So I have been roaming endlessly ..

Wounded. Lost. Cannot breathe ..
Befriended by tears. Blinded. I know not of sleep

I see souls in a queue not ready to leave;
They have exhales from inhales yet to be breathed

But I'm just an ink-less broken feather
Over papers I weep
I cannot write down my sorrows
But I'm sure, You can see ..

I'm ready to die oh Lord!

Can I skip ahead in line, please?
Sincerely, Em
Aztec Warrior Dec 2015
HOME**

(a poem by Warsan Shire. She is a 23 year-old Somali born, London-based author and educator. This poem has been posted all over the internet. I found this copy in a revolutionary journal called, “A World To Win News Service” their web address is;   http://uk.groups.yahoo.com/group/AWorldToWinNewsService/)

no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well
your neighbors running faster than you?
breath ****** in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.
no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilet
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn't be going back.
you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles traveled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied
no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,
because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough
the go home blacks
refugees
***** immigrants
asylum seekers
******* our country dry
******* with their hands out
they smell strange

savage
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the ***** looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off
or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child's body
in pieces.


i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans

drown
save
be hungry
beg
forget pride
your survival is more important
no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
saying-leave,
run away from me now
i don't know what i've become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here
I am proudly posting this poem because of the fascistic views being prominently displayed as legitiment views in american and european media and society... for inhumanity and barbarity there is NO equal in the world than what the US has done in it's entire history down to a few seconds ago... Warsan Shire's story is just one of literally millions and millions... but posting a poem is not enough, it is up to all of us to stop these wars of aggression waged by our own government
I have loved you in the coldest of snowstorms that winter has to offer,
Felt your warmth through the curve of your lips,
The music of soft fingertips. My body is your piano,
We write a different genre of music when we love.
There are warm rays of sunshine cast over our flesh
And the snow glistens with the light you shine in.
I’ve never felt safer, wrapped in the protection of your arms
During the loudest thunderstorm in the middle of spring;
When the skies are dark and grey, lightning shooting like swords
Against earth’s ceiling.
I’ve held your naked body against my own,
Drawing over the cliffs of your hip bones, the valley of your
Belly button and the mountain range of ribs,
The cage that protects your heart from the heat of the
Summer temperatures that I hold within me, your warm
Anatomy heating my body like the core of earth:
From the inside out.
I’ve ran my fingers through the sweet sweat resting over
Your back, like droplets of dew on a leaf in the early morning
Humidity of summer after a night of making love.
We watch the leaves change color ad stroll softly
To the ground in autumn.
The temperatures begin to drop and the branches are naked
And bare, like my skin in summer while we sleep.

I’ve loved you like the snow that grips the bark.
I am cold, but winter has always been your favorite.
Nigel Morgan May 2013
He had sat at his desk with intent to write to her. And he had not. He had sat and let his mind wander. He wanted to write if only to capture something of her he had yet to capture. It was as though by trying to find words to describe her everyday self he discovered it was often extraordinary, and it filled him with more tenderness that he could reasonably deal with. The other day he had written her a letter. It was rather ordinary, full of unplanned thoughts and descriptions, a day-to-day letter, but he had written it by hand, taking care with the curl and mark of his pen on the little sheets of laser-copier paper he felt suited him best. Once he wrote expansively (though never to her) on large sheets of thick, fine paper with a calligraphic pen and Indian ink. Now he felt more comfortable with a fine roller-ball nib and a light touch, on paper of a dimension and quality that seemed appropriate to the size of his script.

Today, as he thought about the letter he might write, he had imagined her finding his most recent letter as she came home, a letter with his careful handwriting on the envelope. It would be lying on the doormat with the brown envelopes, the circulars, the bank statement and one of the many journals she subscribed to. There was a letter too from her ‘pen friend’, someone who had invited her to correspond having been so touched to find a late relative’s letters full of the minutiae of life, but properly described and not the ad hoc jottings of what now passes for communication on social media. So this friend, who was not then a friend but an acquaintance, had set out to recruit a group of like-minded people she might write to properly, in proper sentences – and had, it seemed, fixed on her. He had been a little jealous at first that she should write, and write properly to this ‘friend’ she hardly knew, and since then she had so very rarely written to him. He had so wanted her words, on paper and not just her end-of-the-day thoughts on the telephone. But he had soon got over this jealousy realising how valuable this letter, written once a fortnight, would be for her. An opportunity no less, of the kind and value he could no longer provide.

It had changed the way he had continued to write to her. He stopped the hand-written caress of a letter on paper and took up what he called the Ten-Minute Letter composed at the computer. Not an e-mail, but a proper letter as an attachment she could print out. Written each day just before he stopped for lunch, he set an alarm on his phone and wrote for ten minutes only until the sampled chimes of Big Ben struck. It was a challenge, and to meet it he would prepare his ‘daily subject’ in those transient moments between the demands of work and other people’s needs, as he walked to work or cooked supper. He felt that by doing this he would eradicate that falling into passionate contemplation, the downloading of his memory’s thoughts, his often-intense feelings and emotions. He thought she would prefer such brevity, as she now had so little time for reflection, except when travelling.

In imagining that picking up of his letter he sought to imagine further. Would she open it straight away? Would she put it at the bottom of the stairs on a pile of things to take up to her bedroom, and read before bed?  Occasionally there was  a little time stolen during the day when, before the necessity to go at her desk and ‘get on’, she would sit on her bed with her cats and be conscious of her physical self. She would think of him beside her, kneeling on the floor in one of those occasional preludes to their passionate moments she knew he so loved, when he was full of tenderness, and he would kiss and stroke her, their quiet voices caressing each other in the lamplight. He thought of her carefully pulling the envelope flap open without a tear (whereas he could hardly contain himself, when a letter did arrive, from pulling the envelope apart). And she would read his careful writing, his late afternoon thoughts written after a long day’s work, before returning to more time at his desk.

She would read quickly, rather impatiently sometimes. She had to ‘get on’, attack the list, get things done. But just occasionally he surprised her. He would catch her attention. There was some phrase, some reflection that made her feel warm and loved. He would make an observation about her, and she would feel treasured and honoured by his words and be grateful for the time he had put aside to write them. And then the letter would be returned to its envelope, placed on the bookshelf beside her bed, and she would feel secure that she was loved, and could then put all that away for now and ‘get on’. But just once in a while she would recall the pit-in-the-stomach thrill of his first letters, as letter by letter he declared himself, saying what he thought of her, what he felt for her. She was often overcome with his play of words and would touch herself to sustain those rich feelings that would gradually envelop her; that someone could care about her that much. And for a while she was transformed . . .

Today, as he continued to hold his pen away from composing that first sentence, he had wanted to return to writing of her and for her. It was his small gift, his almost once a day gift. With words he knew he was on safer ground. He struggled somewhat in his *******; he worried that he disappointed her with his awkwardness and never being sure if he was doing the right thing at the right time in the right way. Perhaps in reading his thoughts rather than responding to the messages of his physical self, she felt safer too. He wanted her to know something of the intensity that she brought to his ‘being aliveness’. He remembered a recent phone call when for once he seemed able to say pretty much what he meant. ‘I hope I don’t presume in saying,’ he had said, overtly formal as so often, ‘ that one of the reasons I think we are the companions we are is that we have so much in common; we love the same things, we share the same joys and pleasures.’ And she had agreed. He felt this was true, and he wanted to celebrate this somehow; but they were apart, being on the phone, and he could not. There was less and less time for the joy of coming together, of that celebration of being-together that had once seemed beyond magic and the stuff of dreams and fantasy. There was now the ever-present awareness of the clock, of having to do this, needing to do that, and at a certain time. Their life together was changing and he needed to rise to the challenge that this change would bring, no matter how busy and preoccupied she became. He would write, he thought, and tell her that he knew this would be so, that she should never be concerned for him if there wasn’t time. Hadn’t she said she loved him, this young woman who had once been so diffident about speaking such endearments? She had already given him so much that he never imagined he would ever receive. Perhaps not for always, he was so much older than her, but for a long time to come. He must acknowledge the receipt of such gifts, and let her know he loved her all the more for her industry, her ambition, her preoccupation, and the beautiful, gracious person she was.
Jerry Vital Aug 2018
Can I have a little bit whisky?
Just so I can feel a little bit tipsy
In a jiffy

Can I lean on your shoulder?
Like a frightened puppy at the shelter
So I can feel a little bit safer

Can I count on you?
When things in life are feeling so blue
Because I know you will always come through

Can I ask you to be patient with me
When my world is raging sea
And draining all your energy like a flea

Can you be my paragon?
With you around, I could go on.
Without falling off the wagon

Can I be your bro forever?
So we can grow old together
Reminiscing on life wonders we both had to discover
Molly Oct 2012
Singing birds are often better off caged, and maybe I’m no different. Maybe it’s safer, biting my tongue and shoving my hands deep in my pockets when the urge to delineate my woes shivers its way up my spine, shaking the rust from the back of my teeth and loosening the hinges on my jaw. I’m constantly reminded that the world outside my mind is far too dangerous, too brutal for my fragile thoughts, for my feeble words. But every now and then those words get the better of me. They convince me that their songs are worth hearing, that they’ll survive the hell that awaits them. Then, eager and  hopeful, they jump off my teeth like a diving board, spreading their wings and gliding out into the world of the unknown, the world of wars waged to divide and battles fought to conquer. I watch as they hang suspended in the air, wings spread, small and beautiful against the ominous background, innocent if only for a fleeting moment. But, of course, beauty has no place here.
I cringe as the shots ring out from all directions, as everyone around me opens fire upon my winged thoughts. I shut my eyes tightly against the firing of guns, arrows, cannons: delivering the message loud and clear that the airspace between me and the world is better left unclouded by my superfluous banter. I try not to watch as they drop from the sky, my unsuspecting words, but my eyes force themselves open. Wings broken, hearts still, they crash to the ground, silenced.
I want to gather them one by one, my feathered thoughts, gently in my hands; I would take them somewhere safe and give them a proper burial, for they were once so near and dear to me. But I’m afraid of what lies in the battlefield. I’m afraid of the landmines and the barbed wire and the trenches. So I bow my head, refasten the locks on my sore, stiffened jaw, and turn my back on the carnage, on the dirt and grass and the haze and smoke. I turn from my defeated birds, form the bodies of my barely spoken words, and I leave them.
This is old as well.
JM McCann May 2015
I don’t tell them I’m going to a protest,
as I know they will not say no, it really
is far safer.
The police have been pretty fair, only a couple
of ******* arrests and cause white privilege
I probably won’t get arrested.
In a black and white democracy color is prohibited.
I never have been close in a protest yet, the police always tolerant
maybe the commissioner doesn’t ****.
I don’t boast to them about starting a chapter in my
school.
I don’t them that the chapter I started with them was finished hundreds
of pages ago.

I don’t tell them I cut class to protest the B.S minimum wage
how I ****** the very thing I’m trying to start cause 
I was in a pissy mood.

I don’t them about how my friend and I were okay
with paying a guy trying to sell us **** to buy
us alcohol, later losing 20$
and not okay with going into a tattoo shop for the same purpose.
I don’t tell them about wandering around Chinatown
feeling like we should be drunk.

About the girl who in eighth grade asked me to touch
her *****, and I don’t tell them how
two years later we start hanging out— over facebook.
She moved to London.
About how she will be in the city the day my family goes away,
about trading facebooks for fifteen minutes
and having weird *** crap on my Facebook
and talk of how Jesus is an improper child on hers.

Nor do I my parents about meeting up with a
girl who I meet a month ago at a pillow fight,
and how right they were when they said ******
tables manners will catch up to you,
about how leaving a protest cause "my parents
are ******" and later seeing those people at the burger place.
I tell my parents I’m chilling with my buddies.
I tell them that I got pizza instead of burgers.
Because friends are safer to parents than a nineteen year
old girl you met at a pillow fight and how the entire time you
could not tell if it was friends meeting up or
people who wanted more.

I don’t tell them the reason why I’m so ******* fragile
is that I can’t tell if I’m manipulating myself or being real,
or how I’m the only one who is hurting me,
for fear of saying what I just told you.

Now all of this ******* **** lives in me and I have
nobody to proofread this.
Lovely.
Again kind of me in a less than stunning place I will for sure be editing this and creating a few new poems off this
Danny Valdez Apr 2012
My Mom needed something from the store
So I told her I’d walk up there for her and get it.
We were barely getting by
The two of us.
She was living on a disability check
And I was in between jobs
Again
So these little walks to the store were all I had.
I got her some Epsom salts and was walking back
Had just walked past the hardware store
When a small, sleek, black, BMW pulled up next to me.
To my surprise it was a chick
A big titted redhead with pink sunglasses.
There was something in her eyes
When she peeked below the sunglasses
I saw something in them
that frightened me
A voice inside was screaming at me
Just keep walking
Just keep walking
But like a fool
I ignored it
And bent over the passenger seat
In the convertible that smelled new.
“How big is your ****?”
The lady asked
Her chest just heaving and jiggling
With every breath she took
And every word she spoke.
“What?”
“I said….how big is your ****?”
“Ha ha!”
I took a look around
Expecting to see a hidden camera
Or a film crew in a van across the street.
There was no one
No witnesses.
I leaned back down
“7 inches? Maybe 8? I don’t know lady, I haven’t measured my **** since the 11th grade!”
The redhead took off the sunglasses completely and looked me up and down
Those bright green eyes scanning me
From my worn out Converse to my greasy pompadour on my head.
It seemed like an eternity
I got uncomfortable.
Just standing there
Squirming
While the redheaded fox
Kept inspecting me.
“Okay. Get in. Hurry up.”
I wasn’t even thinking
Just reacting to it all.
I’d always dreamed of this
When I was walking down that
Same old ******* street
The only street that I ever saw
Dreaming of
A beautiful woman in a sports car.
And now here she was.
Here we were
Driving down the street
The breeze blowing in our hair
She made an immediate right turn
Onto a suburban side street.
She parked in front of a house that was up for sale.
Again she took off the sunglasses.
“Let me see it.”
She said, staring at my crotch.
“Whoa, whoa, lady. What’s this all about?”
“My husband and I…..we have certain…..tastes. Things we like, things we enjoy. He’s an older guy, so he likes to watch young guys **** me. I mean, just really give it to me good, make me scream. And of course after your services have been….rendered….you’ll be paid two-thousand dollars. Now do you think you can do that?”
“Uh……I—I think so.”
“Well, I need you to know so. And if you were bullshitting me, if that **** isn’t at least 7 inches, you can get out of the car right ******* now.”
“No it is, it is.”
“Well...”
“Well...you gotta start my engine first—“
Before I could finish my cheesy line
She was in the passenger seat
Climbing on top of me.
“Rip it open” She said looking down.
I did as I was told
And ripped the front of her blouse open
The buttons flying in all directions
Bouncing off the windows and rolling on the dashboard.
Her two, round, fake, **** sprang out of the top
Hitting me in the face
As she rubbed them up and down
And all around.
She kissed me sloppily
And then started in with that biting *******.
She met my lip so hard
It drew blood
acting purely on reflex
I grabbed her by the arms very hard
And pulled her back from me
Staring at her with those crazy, intense, eyes
That I sometimes got when startled.
“Oh…..” She said looking down, at the ******* in my Levi’s.
“Alright. You wanna see the house?” She asked.
I let go of her arms and she rolled off of me,
hopping into the driver’s seat and starting the car up.

She drove all the way to the edge of the city
Where the Red Mountains in the east
Meets the long winding road out of town
And into the desert.
It was a large ranch style mansion
Decorated with cowboy themed ****.
The redhead parked the sports car in
A massive garage
Filled with dozen of rare and expensive automobiles .
She told me to leave my plastic grocery bag of Epsom salts
In the car
She said I could get it later, when we were done.
I followed her to an elevator at the back of the garage.
We took it all the way down to the very bottom.
Stepping out of the elevator
I found myself in a large expansive grey room.
The floors were concrete
But they were shiny and slick
Reminded me of the floor in the meat department
At the job I had just lost.
The room had a few beds in it
Some custom built sets were erected all over the room
An office, a jail cell, a medieval dungeon, a medical examination room,
There were a lot these little sets built all over
In the back of the room
The corners
Were pitch black and covered in darkness.
I wondered what they had over there.
“So what do we do?” I asked, fidgeting in my pants
thumbing my switchblade stiletto in my right front pocket.
“We have to wait for my husband to come down. I just texted him.”
“Oh okay.”
“You should take your clothes off and put this on.”
The redhead said, taking a hospital gown from a hanger
Next to the medical examination set.
“….put that on and I’m gonna go get into character.”
She said, walking behind a white privacy screen
The old kind, like they used to have in doctor’s offices.
I undressed myself and got into the hospital gown.
I can’t say what it was exactly
But I still had that real nervous feeling
I couldn’t ignore it
So for some reason
I hid my switchblade on me.
Put it in the waistband of my underwear.
And that made me feel a little bit safer
This whole thing was beyond belief
I was never this lucky
Something was rotten in Denmark
I could feel it in my bones.
But there was no backing out now
I was riding this all the way
No choice.
I took a seat on the medical examination table
The thin paper crunching loudly beneath my ***
They had it down to the finest detail.
Even the little slots with the Highlights magazines.
I watched the black & white clock on the wall
And it took them 28 minutes to finally come out
The two of them together.
The tall, beautiful, redhead and the rich old man.
But they matched in an odd way
His face was nearly the same color as her hair.
A red faced, big nosed, drinker,
I’ve seen that face a thousand times
Ain’t no mistakin’ it.
He had white hair all spiked up
Like how young people have it
And he wore nothing but gold
All over himself.
Gold necklace, full fists of rings, bracelets,
I couldn’t ******* believe it
I tried my best not to laugh
I was snorting to myself
The ******* had a Mercedes medallion around his neck
Like Flavor Flav or something, it was that flamboyant.
But the guy was like 70 years old
None of it made any ******* sense.
The florescent lighting above
it did this thing where
his eyes were so sunken in
that it created these two black shadows
where his eyes should’ve been
just pitch black
endlessly hollow and empty
with a red face.
Satan himself, covered in gold and diamonds.

“What’s up?” He said, extending his well tanned, leathery claw.
“Hey.”
“Alright, so let’s not waste any time. Let’s get down to business? Huh?”
“Yeah, sure.” I said.
“**** yeah! Let’s ****! You wanna **** him baby?”
”Why do you think I got him? Hell, I almost ****** him on the way home.”
“Did you now?” He said, looking over at me with this look
I couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or rage.
“Alright, alright then.”
The chick started to walk up the three little steps
Of the examination table
Her feet were pale as snow and her toes
Shiny and red like a the paint job on a brand new Cadillac in 1956
I remember that.
She climbed on top of me
Started kissing me and
Rubbing my ****
Under the examination gown.
From the corner of my eye
I saw the husband moving over to the camera
Which was setup a few feet away
Looked to be hi-def ****.
She bit my lip again
Really ******* hard
Pulled a big chunk of skin off
“*******!” I yelled.
“What?” The husband shouted back.
“He hates it when I bite him!” The redhead shouted with a smile
blood on her lips, from mine.
“Well, don’t take any **** son! If she does that again, you just give her a good smack!”
“What?”
“Yeah, don’t be timid boy! This ain’t ******’ Sunday school! We’re ******’, here!”
She did it again
And I wasn’t even thinking of what that old coot was yelling about
I just hit her on principle.
A good open handed smack across the cheek.
“There ya ******’ go! That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
The old man threw his hands in the air
And started doing this little dance it was the weirdest ****
I had ever seen.
The redhead grabbed my face with her hands
Taking my eyes off the old man
Who was now singing some song
And shuffling around the floor.
She looked right into my eyes
Those mint colored eyes
She whispered to me
But I read her lips
“I’m sorry.”
And she pulled me in and kissed me
Put my hands to her *******
And proceeded to kiss me
Like a long lost love
Not some guy off the street.
And that’s the last thing I remember.
Besides the ***** of the needle in my neck.
Just her red hair hanging in my face
The florescent light shining through.
When I came to
I was standing upright
But I was strapped to a table
My arms
My legs
My head
Every part of me strapped down
Tight.
I wasn’t going anywhere
This was that bad feeling I got when she looked at me.
This was where it ended. Right now.
They were both standing there
Staring at me
Smiling with drinks in their hands
The cameras rolling
They had multiple cameras setup
Some 80’s techno playing from an iPod dock.
“What? What are you gonna do?” I slurred, it was hard to talk.
“I know, I’m sorry. Okay, look. We both agree that you probably are owed an explanation, I mean….these being your last moments and all…”
The redhead interrupted, looking at me, like she had before
There was love in her eyes
“Honey…remember what I said? About how there are things that we like and things that we enjoy? I’m sorry, but this is what we like.”
“*****?” I managed to choke out,
just the sound of the words chilled my ******* blood.
“Yeah. Hey…son, let me tell ya…we’re actually saving you a whole lot of heartache and disappointment. You weren’t gonna go anywhere, you weren’t going to accomplish anything. You’d work the same **** jobs, bouncing from one to the other, until you finally died of either ***** or drugs.”
“It’s for the best, sweetie.” The redhead said.
And I’d love to tell you that
They left the room for a few minutes
And I was able to free my hand
Taking the switchblade
From my underwear
Cutting myself free
Killing them both
And cleaning out their safe’s cash and diamonds.
But this was no movie.
Well not the kind with a happy ending anyway.
That’s when she walked over to the table
And grabbed the knife.
The song on the iPod changed
And I instantly recognized it.
It was the song.
I never could explain why
But as a boy
This song would come on the radio
This 80’s electro song
And it always scared the **** out of me
Turned my stomach
I never knew why
But now it all made sense.
That song would be the last thing I ever heard.
With the cameras rolling
The redhead gave me one more kiss.
I closed my eyes and pretended.
I pretended that she was a girl that loved me
That she was kissing me goodnight
Sending me off with a smile.
I just kept my eyes closed
Squeezing them tight
And I didn’t even feel the knife
When she slit my throat right there
In that slick, shiny, grey basement.
It didn’t hurt
I didn’t feel any pain.
Just warmth.
The blood flowing down the front of my neck and chest
pure warmth sliding down me
And I started to get light headed
Everything getting dark
Very quickly.
I could hear my heartbeat
In sync with a high-pitched ringing in my ears.
The last thing I saw
Was the redhead standing there
Luckily the husband had his head behind the camera
So I didn’t have his scary face as the last thing I ever saw.
No
It was the redhead
And those mint green eyes.
They never found my body.
The couple put me through a wood chipper
And fed my scraps to their dogs
After slicing off my biceps for dinner that night.
They went on doing this for years
Picking up guys and girls from the streets
who were down on their luck
And wouldn’t be high profile missing persons.
They acquired hundreds of DVD’s
Selling these ***** films
To their elite and powerful
Friends in high places.
But they justified it all.
Surely I wouldn’t be missed.
I didn’t have a mother
Like they had a mother
I didn’t laugh and love
Like they did
I was expendable
Disposable
Use once and discard.
The rich eating the poor
Blood meal for their insatiable & gruesome appetites.
It’s okay though.
I’m not mad or anything now.
It’s just blackness
A dreamless sleep
I don’t even know how I’m telling you this
But the worst part
The thing I still think about the most
Is my mother.
And what she must of thought
When her only son
Went to the store for her
Epsom salts
And just never came back.
holyoak Mar 2015
and then
you come to realize
that your porcelain bones
can't take much more
you're falling apart
in her hands
and she doesn't
want to save you
she'll drop you
to the floor
at the first sign
of those spiderweb cracks
fractured perfection
mental misteps
up the stairs
as she loses balance
while she carrys you
porcelain bones
and parchment skin
how much more poetry
can your body take

[holyoak]
Bartholomew Sep 2018
Could it be my destiny to be lonely?
That thought alone alwayz fathoms
Though I make love to them like they’re my soul mates
I treat them like they do not matter
I give my love like cupid but my emotions I turn into an undertaker
I bury them.... afraid that it’ll one day be used against me so I rather play it safer

Could it be my destiny to be alone?
Roam the world lost like a nomad with no place of home
Just tell me you “love me” as I caress your neck with my lips
I steal her soul and feed off of her energy as our tongues twist
I know she’s lying, hell I want her to cuz I can’t afford it to be real
Because I rather have scars from the past than new wounds that have to heal

Could it be my destiny to be in a solitary state?
I write this as I lay here next to her, wish I could remember her name
And she probably doesn’t even remember mine
But it’s fine....
This is continuous, with a new woman in bed alwayz next to me
I’m crying out for help here but for tonight just love me even though you don’t love me because alone is my destiny
Inspiration (2pac- Can u get away/ The Weeknd- wicked games)

To every woman I’ve slept with that wasn’t my signicant other.

To Destiny; I know I won’t see you in the morning and you probably not goin call me back, but thank you for tonight)
KM Hanslik Jun 2018
We were laying down our lives
from the beginning, but we didn't know
how cold the nights could be
or how heavy our feet would sound
on wooden floors, we didn't know we were built
for more than coughing up new ways
to pass time, no we were only
practicing for this,
we were only fighting for our lives,
we were only cutting out new patterns & fitting ourselves with
our wrung-out hopes & dreams,
but those fell limp & we didn't realize
there was anything else
I didn't realize these shards in my lungs were leftover
from the first time learning how to crash & burn, the fall left bruises printed
up and down my arms,
under my ribs, but I thought that was
a good thing, I thought
we're supposed to fight for what we love
we're supposed to feel the pain
but,
we are only a billion lonely strangers
laying down our lives here, I'm hoping
you'll pick mine up before it gets trampled on again
although we really do make the finest doormats
for feet heavier than ours, maybe
we will remain in the dust & the sand until
we are buried, or our throats are filled so that we can't ask whose deadweight
we carry today;
so come lie to me,
tell me that this all goes away
I'm tired of playing in the shade by myself, I need fresher dreams
bigger things than childhood fantasies
they tell me I am only make believe
I am only a lonely star, I am only pretending
they don't see the corners I cut or the nightmares I chase,
the graves I dig just to survive, just to bury
the rot of older skins I shed on the daily,
we don't like the way the gas in the atmosphere
hides the stars so we seek
open spaces & we lay our hearts in felt-lined boxes thinking
they'll be safer there than in our chests, because our chests might be
caving in tomorrow
compressed under the weight of passerby, if you need me I'll be here
(we didn't know how cold the nights could be)
I'll be laying down my life over here.

— The End —