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Given the apparent magical surrealism that the months of April is the month of fate for and death of writers, artists, dramatis, philosophers and poets, a phenomenon which readily gets support from the cases of untimely and early April deaths of; Max Weber, Miguel de Cervantes, William Shakespeare, Francis Imbuga, and Chinua Achebe  then  Wisdom of the moment behooves me to adjure away the fateful month by  allowing  me to mourn Gabriel José de la Concordia García Márquez by expressing my feelings of grieve through the following dirge of elegy;
You lived alone in the solitude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, an eminent Latin American and most widely acclaimed authors, died untimely at his home in Mexico City on Thursday, 17th April 2014. The 1982 literature Nobel laureate, whose reputation drew comparisons to Mark Twain of adventures of Huckleberry Finny and Charles Dickens of hard Times, was 87 of age. Already a luminous legend in his well used lifetime, Latin American writer, Gabriel Garcia Marquez was perceived as not only one of the most consequential writers of the 20th and 21ist centuries, but also the sterling performing Spanish-language author since the world’s experience of Miguel de Cervantes, the Spanish Jail bird and Author of Don Quixote who lived in the 17th century.
Like very many other writers from the politically and economically poor parts of the world, in the likes of J M Coatze, Wole Soyinka, Nadine Gordimer, Doris May Lessing, Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, V S Naipaul, and Rabidranathe Tagore, Marguez won the literature Nobel prize in addition to the previous countless awards for his magically fabulous novels, gripping short stories, farcical screenplays, incisive journalistic contributions and spellbinding essays. But due to postmodern global thespic civilization the Nobel Prize is recognized as most important of his prizes in the sense that, he received in 1982, as the first Colombian author to achieve such literary eminence. The eminence of his work in literature communicated in Spanish are towered by none other than the Bible, especially  in its Homeric style which Moses used when writing the book of Genesis and the fictitious drama of Job.
Just like Ngugi, Achebe, Soyinka, and Ousmane Marquez is not the first born. He is the youngest of siblings. He was born on March 6, 1927 in the Colombian village of Aracataca, on the Caribbean coast. His literary bravado was displayed in his book, Love in the Times of Cholera.  In which he narrated how his parents met and got married. Marguez did not grow up with his father and mother, but instead he grew up with his grandparents. He often felt lonely as a child. Environment of aunts and grandmother did not fill the psychological void of father and mother. This social phenomenon of inadequate parenthood is also seen catapulting Richard Wright, Charlese Dickens, and Barrack Obama to literary excellency.Obama recounted the same experience in his Dreams from my father.

Poverty determines convenience or hardship of marriage. This is mirrored by Garcia Marquez in his marriage to Mercedes Barcha.  An early childhood play-mate and neighbour in 1958. In appreciation of his marriage, Marquez later wrote in his memoirs that it is women who maintain the world, whereas we men tend to plunge it into disarray with all our historic brutality. This was a connotation of his grandmother in particular who played an important role during the times of childhood. The grand mother introduced him to the beauty of orature by telling him fabulous stories about ghosts and dead relatives haunting the cellar and attic, a social experience which exactly produced Chinua Achebe, Okot P’Bitek, Mazizi Kunene, Margaret Ogola and very many other writers of the third world.
Little Gabo as his affectionate pseudonym for literature goes, was a voracious bookworm, who like his ideological master Karl Marx read King Lear of Shakespeare at the age of sixteen. He fondly devoured the works of Spanish authors, obviously Miguel de Cervantes, as well as other European heavyweights like; Edward Hemingway, Faulkner and Frantz Kafka.
Good writers usually drop out of school and at most writers who win the Nobel Prize. This formative virtue of writers is evinced in Alice Munro, Doris Lessing, Nadine Gordimer, John Steinbeck, William Shakespeare, Sembene Ousmane, Octavio Paz as well as Gabriel Garcia Marquez. After dropping out of law school, Garcia Marquez decided instead to embark on a call of his passion as a journalist. The career he perfectly did by regularly criticizing Colombian as well as ideological failures of the then foreign politics. In a nutshell he was a literary crusader against poverty. This is of course the obvious hall marker of leftist political orientation.
Garcia Marquez’s sensational breakthrough occurred in 1967 with the break-away publication of his oeuvre; One Hundred Years of Solitude which the New York Times Book Review meritoriously elevated as ‘the first piece of literature since the Book of Genesis that should be required reading for the entire human race. The position similarly taken by Salman Rushdie. Marquez often shared out that this novel carried him above emotional tantrums on its publication. He was keen on this as his manner of speech was always devoid of la di da.so humble and suave that his genius can only be appreciated not from the booming media outlets about his death, but by reading all of his works and especially his Literature Noble price acceptance speech delivered in 1982.
Danny Valdez Jan 2012
He woke up
next to the empty spot
where Wonder Woman had been.
He puked in the toilet
slammed down a forty-ounce Miller High Life
and started putting the suit on.
boots
the gray and black tights
the gloves
the yellow utility belt
and the cape.
It was leather.
He put the cowl
under his arm and left his apartment.
It was a late start
nearly noon
by the time
the bus got him to
Mann's Chinese Theater.
He saw a lot of his
friends and colleges
as the bus went down to his stop.
It was a regular day
all the characters were
in their usual little groups.
Spider-Man & Captain America
two Mormon boys that had been
excommunicated from the church
they got caught **** *******
each other
now they were stuck in Hollywood
like everyone else.
The X-Men
or H-Men as most people called them
were a group of junkies.
One of them had a cousin at Fox
and they got four replica X-Men costumes.
So that's how they scored
their junk everyday
garnered pretty good tips from the tourists.
Cyclops, Jean-Grey, Storm, and Wolverine.
It was a good grift. **** good idea.
Then you had the impersonators
plastic surgery freaks
obsessed with Michael Jackson
creepy bald men dressed as Dr. Evil
and there was always
a lazy fat guy
that would do Elvis.
Not know any of the songs
and saying the catch phrases all wrong,
"Well, thank you Ma'am....thank you so much."
Those guys never lasted too long.
The cutesy cartoon characters
were almost always
pedophiles or ******* ladies.
The horror people were hands down
the most bat-**** insane of the lot.
They got into the most fights
they terrorized the kids
and they talked a lot of ****.
Would bate guys into fights.
Michael Myers would always start ****
with guys that had beautiful women with them.
It was ****** up.
The LAPD took away Freddy Kruger last month
for beating up a guy
right in front of his kids.
There was talk from the cops
about shutting down their whole thing down.
Making it illegal to dress up in costumes
and get tips.
'Panhandling' as the office had said.
But
Batman hung out with
Superman & Wonder Woman
while doing his thing.
The night before
Wonder Woman and him
had been drinking, smoking, and
they ****** once
before she asked him
what she needed to.
"We got two new guys starting tomorrow."
"What?"
"Yeah. They came up to me on the street today,
wanted to know if they could hang with us."
"Wha? What? Well...do they have costumes?"
"Yeah." She said, exhaling smoke, wrapped in the sheet on the bed.
"These guys got a Green Lantern and a Robin costume. Really good quality,
they showed me pictures. Hey, you finally got a Robin now! Isn't that great?"
"****...I don't know Diana...I was kinda liking our little *******.
"Oh come on, Bruce. It'll be good." She said, wrapping her arms around him
as he sat on the edge of the book, looking out the window.
"We can finally get the big, group tips. Like what the H-Men got going."
"Alright. That's fine."
And the next day
there they were,
Green Lantern & Robin.
Wonderful costumes, like she said
their hair color and overall appearance
spot on.
"Hey there!"
"Hello. Robin. Green Lantern."
Their gloved hands all shook.
They got acquainted and he couldnt help but like them.
Nice guys, musicians, Rockabilly guys, from Venice.
They went out into
the crowd of people
Superman's voice booming over the crowd
telling everyone that they're safe from
evil and wrong doers, blah, blah, blah,
the usual ******* that Superman always said.
Batman yelled to Robin over the enclosing crowd.
They were now fully entrenched by people
fat & sweaty
Batman's panic attack took over.
"COME ON!" He shouted over the rising crowd noise.
The dynamic duo
shoved & pushed
parting the sea of fat tourists
and breaking out onto the sidewalk.
"What's up, Batman?" Robin asked
looking up to him.
The size difference was just like in the comics
Robin was a little guy.
"I just needed to get outta there. Let's go take a lap
down Hollywood Boulevard...see what kinda cash we can grab."
"Okay, Batman."
They walked
up and down
the walk of fame
posing for a few pictures
making some kids day
with wide-eyed excitement
that will be with them forever.
They made forty bucks too.
"Alright, that's good for now. Let's grab a beer, Robin."
It was a small dive
on Hollywood Boulevard
they were two beers in
and Robin was learning a lot
about how Hollywood really was.
Some real talk from Batman to Robin.
"Yup. I moved out here in 1997. I saw that movie 'Swingers' and I thought...
I could do that, that could be my life, I want that."
"And what happened Bats?"
"Well...I came out here, went to film school, did everything I was told, and...
I still got ******." He said, taking a long pull from the bottle.
"Well what happened exactly?"
Robin's green glove, gripping the brown bottle
tilting it back, bubbles rising
"Well...ya see...when I was in film school, the instructors all told us...you either do your internship here in Hollywood or go to New York. Anywhere else and you won't be able to make it. That's what they said."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. So I did my internship here in Hollywood and it was for nothing. The whole two years that I was at Faramount, I was never allowed to even touch any film equipment. Well, just to dust it off and clean it. But they didn't even try to teach me anything there. I just did food runs at lunch, got them their Starbucks in the morning, and took out the trash. Swept the parking lot, cleaned the toilets, I was a ******* janitor at that place. And you know what happened next?"
"Huh?"
"One day they just fired me. Just like that. After two years of being their ***** boy. So now I have $50,000 in student loans that I can't pay back, and a degree that got me nowhere."
"****." Robin said, finishing his beer.
"Yeah. So what do you do?"
"I'm in school for audio engineering."
"Ah...the music business eh?"
"Yeah, Batman."
"Hmm."
Batman grew silent then, just finishing his beer, and staring into the mirrored wall.
He wanted to say,
"I have 117 scripts sitting in a stack next to my t.v. That's eight screenplays a year. Robin, I've been at this for fourteen years and it doesn't get any better. I never stop trying and I keep at it, year after year. But I'm done. Get out while you
still can Robin. This city will eat you, **** you, **** you. If you still have a home, I suggest you go back to it."
Batman sat there, his beer finished, still staring straight ahead.
Robin pulled out a ten dollar bill, smiling, calling for the bartender
with that sparkle in his eye
of youth and hope.
He didn't want to say all that ****
crush that gleam in Robin's eye
like he once had.
Those were the best days
the great days
the glory days
to be young, handsome, poor, and hopeful
that you could make it
that it could happen.
So Batman didn't say another word about it.
Nope.
There were things
Robin would have to learn all on his own.
Big Virge Sep 2020
HEY... My Name AIN'T Jane... !!!

Big Virges' PERSONALITY...
Does NOT Embrace... CALAMITIES... !!!!!

YES Doris Had Her Day...
But Virge Is A Name...
Whose Character CAN Claim...

... The Type of...
Brain Thought Waves...
Worthy of... ANY STAGE... !!!

Because I Use Wordplay...
That's Smart And Edu-tains...
Due To My... PERSONALITY...
NOT Running From REALITY... !!!

So What's Yours Like... ?
Are You The Type...
Who... ALWAYS Smiles... ?

EVEN When Life...
Brings You TRIALS... ?!?

Like Those Now Known...
As... PAEDOPHILES... !?!?!?!

Whose Personality TRAITS...
Are... BEYOND A Disgrace... !!!

Personalities CHANGE...
From Person To Person...
And... Place to Place...

Some Now Seem LAME...
So Make A LOT of CLAIMS...
That... DON'T Hold Weight... !!!

Quite A FEW Now SWAY...
To... STRANGE Displays... !?!

From Road To STAGE...
And Of Course SCREENPLAYS...
NOW... INDICATE...
That Creative Personalities...
Are Quite Willing To Play...

The Lives of Those Who SADLY...
Have Been Victims of TRAGEDIES... !!!

... REAL Life CRIMES...
Of Course... DRAMATISED... !!!

But You Shouldn't Be Surprised...
When CERTAIN Personalities...
.... Within YOUR LIFE....
Give You... CLEAR SIGNS...
That Things AREN'T Right...
... Inside Their Minds... !!!

Cos' They Choose To DENY...
Their... " Internal Fights "... !!!!

Personalities Resigned...
To... unBalANced Lives... !!!

But What About THOSE...
Whose Vibes Incline...
To Give Off WARMTH...
Just Like SUNSHINE... ?!?

These Are The Types...
... I TRY To FIND... !!!

Girls And Guys of ALL Skin Types...
Because My Personality...
Now Lives It's Life With PARITY...

Because It Is HUMANITY...
That Signifies My Mind And Personality...
Does NOT Embrace DIVIDES...
That Make Personalities... DIE... !!!

Because of Their SKIN TYPE... !!!

Or Things Some CHOOSE To Like...
That DON'T Encourage My Mind...
To STAND Right By Their Side... !!!!!

What I'm Saying Is RECOGNISE...
Personalities NEED To Find...
Those That Are ALIKE....
So Connections DON'T Cross Lines... !!!

You See As I Age...
I See How GREAT...
It Is To Meet... Personalities...
Who Choose To Feed...
OFF REALITY And SANITY... !!!!!

Because I DON'T Deal In Fantasies...
Or Talk That Is... PURE FALLACY... !!!

Personalities To Me...
NEED To Be MORE FREE... !!!

FREE Through SPEECH and ARTISTRY... !!!

And FREE of...... Personalities...
Who Work In Teams Who Seem To FEED...
OFF Economies Where HYPOCRISY...
Makes Them DEAL Like Fiends Who Kneel...
For A Daily Meal Where DEMONS STEAL...
Their SOULS...... For REAL...... !!!!!

Personalities Designed...
To... HURT Mankind... !?!

WHY... WHO KNOWS... ?!?

Personalities Flow And Sometimes Roll...
With Those Who CLONE To RETAIN CONTROL... !!!
And USE Them Like CERTAIN Folks DO... " **'s "... !!!

Or YES... Rent Boys... !!!
Personas' DEVOID of MORE Than CHOICE... !!!!!

So YES SOME Personalities...
Have Been FORMED By The TRAGEDIES...
DEFINED BY Their Life's RIDE... !!!

So I'm THANKFUL That Mine...
Has Had... BOTH Sides... !!!

GOOD And... BAD Times... !!!
And Has Brought Me SMILES...
And TEARS... Sometimes... !!!!

Personalities Inclined...
To PLAY The TOUGH Guy...
Are Those I CHOOSE...
To Now Walk By............................ !!!!!

Because Personalities...
Who'll ABUSE or ****** GLADLY...
Do NOT Leave People Happy... !!!!

My Vibe is MORE...
About STOPPING Wars... !!!
And... THAT's For SURE... !!!!!

And My Name AIN'T...
... " Milton Bradley "...

Attempting To TAKE...
BLOOD From My Veins...
... WITHOUT My OKAY... !?!

INDEED Could End Up BADLY... !!!

Life's... NOT A Game...
I Choose To FORSAKE...
Or To... Throw Away... !!!?!!!

So YES I Have TENACITY...
But Now Live Life... ORGANICALLY... !!!

So When It Comes To BIG VIRGE...
That's The Word I... PREFER...
To Which People DEFER...

To DEFINE My...

.... " Personality "....
So many in this world to navigate around, or with, it's best to try to, quickly get to know, what type you're dealing with.....
Tark Wain Sep 2015
I can't help it
I guess
I grew up on screenplays
on all of the hidden meanings
the metaphors
they shaped my thoughts

you know I never dated in high school
and I was a looker too
I didn't do it because no girl was perfect for me
there was no princess charming
do you realize how stupid that was
four years wasted

one girl ruined it tho
lisa turner
oh my god this girl
this beautiful body
beutiful smile
perfect everything she was angel
but when she talked
....
dear god she had a lisp
how could that be
how could the perfect girl be
imperfect?

That's when I first realized
something was wrong with me
I discovered that people weren't archetypes
that events weren't symbols
but most importantly
I learned a happy ending was guranteed
aleali-láuren Apr 2014
Sad
Think of the first moment you knew. Think of the diagnosis. The strings of meaningless letters - OCD, Bipolar disorder, Xanax, Lamictal. Think of the year you wasted confirming that, yes, you are, in fact, sad. Think of the year after that that it took to get help. Think of the time you could’ve spent teaching or running or doing anything but telling yourself that you’d leave your room in just five more minutes. Think of all the times you tried to cut yourself but couldn’t because you “aren’t that person anymore.” Tell me, would someone who’s “not that person” need to constantly remind themselves? Think of the happiest moment of your life. Now, realize that Bipolar Disorder gets worse as you get older. Think of that happiest moment and realize that you may never feel that good again. Think of the songs you tried to write. Think of the poems and screenplays and suicide notes you tried to write. Think of your mom, think of your dad. Think of your mom and dad crying. Think of your mom and dad moving on. Think of them not thinking about you much anymore. Realize that dead is dead no matter how much someone thinks about you. Think about killing yourself anyway. Think of it often. Shine the idea like your favorite ******* mirror. Think about taking medication. Anxiety makes it so hard to use your telephone which makes it almost impossible to get medication. Think of medication like you think of death: permanent. Think of permanence like you think of a brick. The brick you always see smashing your face attached to a disembodied hand. Think, ******* think of sunlight. Your brain will try to make it burn you but just think of sunlight. Fall in love with it daily, even when you can’t see it. Even when it’s just a mythological creature your mother told you about so you’d sleep. Think about sleep. How asleep, you are perfect just like the child you were and still are. Think about the stories you tell yourself so next year doesn’t seem so far away. Think about the story. Think about the story of the sun if you die. It dies too.
By Neil Hilborn
Lior Gavra Nov 2017
What if life was played in fast forward?
Would you look more, out the window?
See the buildings, the missing trees?
The colors changed, painted in steel?
Focus on folds, beneath your cheeks?
Spend time with the once, called lonely?

What if life was played in reverse?
Would you redo things, differently?
Experience reality?
Change your lack of identity?
Free your mind of not feeling free?
Rethink responsibilities?

What if life was paused?
Would you be doing, what you are doing right now?
What is the first thing that comes to mind?
What about the colors on your brush?
Do you think that they are enough?
Are you still on the right track?

What if life had to be lonely?
Would you use your voice to speak?
Is there a reason to listen?
What rules would you want to create?
Would you understand heartbreak?
Would you bother to hit replay?

Either way we all reach the end.
But we write separate screenplays.
Decide our fate and how we blend.
And how we fast forward our days.

Hopefully we are not the same.
Get to use our voice and listen.
To lose ourselves would be a shame.
Or to move forward, not driven.

Remember, your life is in play.
And should not be thrown away.
My heart's ablaze
I'm so amazed
cluttered in clichés
in a daze
I'm dismayed
too many long driveways
Life's fortes
as we graze
upon the gaze
in a haze of haze
trapped inside this maze
our voices phase
into the next of days
Oh did we raise
with utter rephrase
glancing sideways
into stairways
how I hate your ways
as much as I hate causeways
too much decay
along the edgeways
inside the hallways
roadways
screenplays
my heart strays
on into Sundays
and Tuesdays
I hate the weekdays
they're gateways
into other days.
© 2012 Christina Jackson
Pardon this poem for not making much sense, practicing wordplay. I chose a particular word, such as the one used here, "days", and use any word that rhymes hereafter. You can choose to continue until you can rhyme no more, or add in another word and keep it rolling. Like I said, it's only for practice. I highly recommend using this website http://www.rhymer.com/index.html when you do these exercises.
Pens get lost like frost in Boston, if buildings collapsed
I'd rebuild the past to trillions of ticks of the clock ago
before this part of the world became recognized and known,
before any stitched on the American flag were sewn

When the soilage looked like foliage until days passed by and by again
Through April showers which brought May flowers birthing the earth with succulent screenplays of baby's breath, crocuses- a pollen infused haze
turns rays of sunshine up in farenheight
I learned to pull tight on two bunny eared shoelaces and saw faces and faces and went places and places watching the trees beg their mother to leave traces, some green- no orange!- no red,- please!

But you're beautiful my darling, crooned mother
you're not like any other, you're original.  A vision-
an extension of me, and you will die
you will die
and when you die as you are now your limbs
will forever be used as adjectives for poetry, stories, emotions
you will die and your spirit will rev up it's engine for another lifetime of a ride

Do not dwell upon regrets you wish to sell or branches and leaves that have long ago fell, or things in this life that did not go so well- like wanting a mac but owning a dell
or dreams moaning groans from the gates of hell
waiting for you to turn off the lights

It fights you doesn't it?  
Every something and every nothing
it fights your lungs, begging, tossing
A squirming urge, this need, an insatiable hunt, a crave you can't feed
Leads your fingers to the notebook
filled with castles, legalized marijuana, maybe pirates with hooks- Anything in those pages
I want those pages
I need those pages
I have to fill those pages with this mess of a dress
I hastily waste my precious time with everyday
so I can cover up the dog puke stained
Ludacris way
I feel all the time
Gotta find a pen
Amelia Jo Anne Jan 2014
you are a fool, Sophia. As I look up at these city lights, every neon sign seems to advertise you; they all remind me of what I'm missing out on. I pass strangers and hear them whispering your tender mercies: "so?" "fee" "ahhh..." I may be being quite forward so early on in our correspondences, but the theory that you are a scrap of paper that someone would allow to slip through their fingers is ridiculous to me. I say that because even after only meeting you once, by such a fortunate and faithful chance, I wanted to write screenplays, novellas, and entire manuscripts only based on how beautiful your name sounds when I say it. I will be absorbed in everything you admit me to learn about you. I only hope for your amusement when you discover my own scorched trails. I'm stupefied by your compliments, and I will catch every drop of your defrosting heart on my tongue. I felt so stupid but I beamed in pride seeing I could make you blush as pink as the roses on the bush behind you... such a delicate, feminine, sensitive color; white blossoming into red, purity blooming into passion. How I wish I could be the one to awaken a passion in you. I'm terribly sorry if I'm smothering, but you've an expert pen dipped in ink of naivety... in meeting you I crossed the border between respectable me and questionable sanity: the Sophia Line (your kiss would be turpentine, **** anything I used to be to become anything, everything you need from me). Ah... fee so... you've given me a lot to live up to. xo. Josephine.
http://imma-duck.deviantart.com/

reply to earlier poem "sophia"
Tim Knight Sep 2013
I regularly ask myself what have I achieved in a year
and no thoughts come near
to the ones I should tell myself,
like where did my grace go?
how did I get here?
was that house right to rent?
wasted money that got spent on what?

Existence is tiring,
though it's all we've got and nothing more,
ideas yet to be printed, screenplays
yet to be tested,
theory's waiting to be put to the test and laid to rest in a textbook
in a classroom, in a school.

We'll end up in creases and creaks in
the chair at ten to 2 with misty eyes,
tired though they’ve seen shadows turn
to nights, streets to lamplight,
socks to feet at the bottom of bed sheets.

*I'm from red bricks and Hulme backstreet corners; Manchester born and Wakefield bound, stuck somewhere in between.
coffeeshoppoems.com >> submit your poetry now.
Kati Davis Feb 2016
1 second:
my mind drags my languid body across the tundra of insanity
my eyes focused on a space
a blurry shape focused
something in between reality and the real world
2 seconds:
roles of films show screenplays flickering across my mind, lighting up possibilities of what could go wrong
One goes by, and the film starts again running over and over
as the films play, I slowly drown in a sea of attacks
1,000 feet, my world spins
2,000 feet, my world fades
3,000 feet, my world becomes red, blocking the rest of the colors of the world
preventing the peace of the world into sight
4,000 feet, my soul mending into an entity with no right of way
it drifts upwards as I drift away
3 seconds:
my mind becomes the phantom
black, hollow, clustered, dreadful, worrisome
following my hollow body, swarming with words
creeping up behind me, people pass in blurs
their energy sweeps me up, fills me, empties me, making me feel even more alone
4 seconds:
do I cry, show the world the Prince of Darkness that clings onto my body
pulling strands of my hair, slowing my world to where I stare at myself and see a mess
see the tearing across skin, my face, only my red eyes can see, when they see my reflection
it’s a happy girl, who is never too sad, but the red can see through the mask that is always glued on
or should I **** it up and keep the beast swimming through my brain
prying my mouth open, keep it inside and let it eat me alive
5 seconds:
my heart, feeling four times as heavier as it did 6 seconds before
telling me *you’re okay, it will pass, the storms almost over, the friend always there to help the in pain

even when the expression shows different
the brain, feeling four times heavier as it did 6 seconds before
telling me you’re not okay, nobody cares, see they just passed you, why would someone care?
The common enemy, the one who's always there to tear you down even when the sun shines bright
6 seconds:
to keep the phantom from attacking, breathe steadily, never miss a beat
which would you chose to believe?
The phantom, the common enemy, the one who controls your thoughts
or the friend, there to keep you running through it all?
The choice seems easy, but sometimes
the choice isn’t yours to make
anxiety attacks, this is what happens to me.
paige Jul 2013
At  a music festival
Among sixty thousand others
I managed to spot you

We both knew the other
Would be here,
But figured there'd be
Too many people,
Too large of a crowd
And not enough cell phone
Service to go around,
To bother trying to find the other
Especially since we haven't spoken
Since, well,
                                           you know

      But here you are.

Eight rows of people ahead
Through the most perfectly spaced gap
I spot your face
Turned slightly to the right
Of where I am standing

I watch you laugh at what
A friend behind you said
You cut your hair
just the way I like it
And your smile still
Makes me go weak at the knees

It's this moment that people write books about, paint pictures of, this moment filmmakers write whole screenplays revolving around

Where two people make eye contact from across a crowd, and instantly the spark is ignited, or reignited, and their fate is written, the opening to their love story that, without their control, is set in stone, perfectly planned out stepping stones that lead to happily ever after

But you never turned my way
And we never made eye contact
And my text that said
I see you! :)
Didn't go through until
Hours later

I guess this wasn't our moment.  
                                 our relapse
                                 our love story.

                                                         I guess this means
                                                         we really are not
                                                  m  e  a  n  t   t  o   b  e
Joe Satkowski Aug 2014
Writing ****** screenplays and drinking tea with all of your chain smoking friends never got you anywhere
I make films with all of your friends
and I make their friends jealous

I want to eat your heart out of your body
I want to reconstruct you out of wicker and shards of pottery
The only time I'm free of it is when I'm not with myself
Lynda Kerby Apr 2015
i found a bunch of extemporaneous prose,
screenplays and
other assignments that i had turned in for various writing classes that i had taken when i was going to WSU and
KS Newman (then College, now University)  and
i am happy to report that my pieces all got A's,
save for the one B-,
but after reading the teacher's comments at the end of the page about my refusal to get with the times by my continuing to turn in hand written homework rather than submit typed papers using the library's word processor,
i feel speaks volumes about the teacher's prejudices and
nothing about the quality of my sentence
alexa Aug 2018
in any kind of relationship- friendship or romantic or otherwise, one of the few things i ask for is honesty. if you're gonna be honest with me, then i'll show you that same courtesy now: i'm pretty sure i like you. in all honesty, the "pretty sure" is a safety net in case you turn me down, in which case i can say "oh, i wasn't 100% there anyways," and then go eat a whole pint of Ben & Jerry's and cry until i'm over it. over it, and you. so yes, i like you, and i'm 100% there and 100% ready for you to break my heart. the former was a joke. but yes, i love that you're sensitive and love rom-coms and listen to smooth jazz and write ******* screenplays in your spare time and you don't think my writing is lame (in fact, you kinda love it) and you're not afraid to disagree with me and tease me and you're the perfect balance of sweet and smooth and oh god you're gonna break my heart, aren't you? we're taking it slow, and i'm warming up to the idea of you, the idea of your presence in my life and, i must say, you would be a nice decoration on my life's walls. so although you won't read this i need you to know that      
i like you.
-a.c.b
not exactly traditional poetry but guys he's perfect
edit: also i appreciate y'all who liked/loved this bc i know this is long and you had to read through the whole thing so yeah thanks for reading :)
Riq Schwartz Feb 2012
I would distain to be a character
in one or many of the classic acts
wherein I’d sacrifice myself if e'er
I might find presence only in the past.
There all would look at me and wonder how
an artist with such skill could sculpt me so.
And in this irony, as 'tis called now,
still those who "know" me best, me hardly know!
I would distain to live by others words,
each hanging my intentions to their own.
While screenplays dare not script the flight of birds,
instead, expect love, ne'er having been grown.
What I would rather do had I not been
so tightly reined by such a sharpened pen?
Francisco DH Apr 2014
The audience sits taking in the last scene of the show.
The strain of the chairs echoed.
I guess that's it.
We ran a great show.
You were a great cast member.
Tonight is the beginning of the end.
Tomorrow, you will be on Broadway
And I will sit and write screenplays instead of performing.
Hey, look it's raining ....
Elena K Oct 2013
Every book, every poem, every screenplay, every recipe, every word
Is just 26 letters, arranged in a different way.
Every mom, every soldier, every child, every lover, every human
Is just 46 chromosomes, arranged in a different way.
Every song, every opera, every prelude, every chant, every sound of music
Is just 12 notes, arranged in a different way.

And still

There are books that scare you
poems that fill you with joy,
screenplays that make you cry,
recipes that inspire you
words that upset you.

There are mom’s that annoy you,
soldiers that die for you,
children let you feel young and innocent again,
lovers that give you excruciating pain,
humans that make you feel something you’ve never felt before.

There are songs that make you feel alive,
operas that have you weep in sorrow,
preludes that enthrall you,
chants that carry you away,
sounds of music that help you trough the hardest days.

They are all. They are everything.
tonylongo Mar 2020
My sister’s a mister. She cares for her plants,
Her orchids from Cuba, Tahiti, or France.
She grows lovely children entirely from scratch
In homemade production runs, two to the batch.
She teaches the women of her little town
To belly, to yoga, to boogie on down.
She’s always found living alone such a bore;
A harvest of husbands – she’s on number four.
She drives a Miata with careless aplomb,
The very ideal of a hot soccer mom.

But me, I was thinking of how to invent
A Booker prize novel to cover my rent,
Or lysergic rhapsodies for the guitar
Or finally learning to drive in a car.
The hours spurted onward in skips and in bounds,
Years twirling away down a hole in the ground;
How gently appalling my ultimate fate,
To grow wispy white whiskers, and sit on a gate.

She spins on the dance floor like wind on the wing,
To Western and Latin and Manhattan Swing;
Her elegant limbs grace the South Jersey beaches,
And people go mad for her raspberry quiches.
Her daughter (my niece) with her blue eyes so dear
Sets the upper crust of Baltimore on its ear,
While her brother my nephew is cutting a swath, (um)
Through the au courant circles of fashionable Gotham.
That’s my sister, triumphing wherever she goes,
And she never had anything done to her nose.

But me, I was dreaming up world-shifting rubrics,
Or imagining screenplays to shame all the Kubricks;
My ****** could make you explode in your jammies,
And my song lyrics won theoretical Grammys.
Of invisible kingdoms I was the past master,
I walked with Elijah, I lunched Zoroaster.
Yet somehow I find myself at this late date
With my brain in the clouds, and my *** on a gate.
This imitates a poem by the White Knight although that might not have been the poem but what the poem was called as opposed to the name of the poem
I could get lost in the curve of your neck
in every freckle and every line
all sensation eclipsed by the traces
of soft fingers exploring my spine,
let me dream of your voice under moonlight
and all the secrets it tries to confine
you leave starlight falling behind you
my words unable to capture the shine,
you are cigarettes and soft music and screenplays
the blooming flower on the vine
I'm enthralled by your smile and its comfort
and a slow heartbeat mimicking mine
but namely your eyes and their ocean,
i would willing drown every time
Alice Lovey Apr 2018
Scars.
Rigid and raised,
Mountains of haze
Hazy night in a daze.
No lust or hope for praise.
Essays and essays,
Exhanged
Musical phrase
About crossroads and freeways
Begging for that skin craze.
Seeking to feel pain
With the punishing blockades,
Lifelike screenplays,
And memorial Sundays.
Those thoughts will betray
We misinterpret and mislay,
With winter like swordplay
And summer like dark grays.

It weighs and weighs.

Let me rephrase...
Scars.
This is cliche, but I'm amazed.
kfaye Jul 15
fitting together like guns to a victim’s head:paving over holes in parched landscapes_and
parsing out factions in a divided populace

they are

finding and
braking

handholds

in the artificial rock wall
of
a
city made out of
pictures of cities.
selling
an exclusive virtue
made out of

want .


my

want
for us
       is otherwise.

you say, as
all of recorded history is
annihilated in favor of
quarterly growth


and in the coldopen, the sun rises over joggers
going nowhere .
Aditya Roy Jul 2019
Thence, to rise and to shine
Shining Shoes like the boy who dreams to shine guitars
With a box full of things, that I don't even know
What they were meant for, a semblance of freedom
Or some kind of splendid intertwining of these circumstances
My preceding circumstances could be less like my inhibitions
This is the house I always come back among old and missing things
Like a sold case for lost typewriter
These screenplays are written on borrowed time

I come in thy lassos of the sky
Really, is time an object and my preferences are lying about
I am pensive near the fire that I so desire
The attention I aspire for, and the friends I'm grateful for
I gratuitously ingratiating my missing pleasures
The road was taken, and some freed were less
Lost by the surrounding *******, I made haste
Landing upon a metaphorical desert
I was forced to look at ways to leave this road for dated people
Who reminded what it felt like to in the fast life
Theoretically and tersely, I make debate about things I understand
I have hopes and dreams
Being humble is one of them, but, I cannot think of any reasons
To be arrogant, but, you bring out the best in me
And make haste leaving me in my hate and agonizing feeling
I preeminent and imminently expectant of the recesses of sextants tanks that thing in this ziggy stardust
You were once a roll-roll star, you lived by your words
But, they reminded of how you never thought you were an artist
Until someone proves you wrong about your ideas
And exchanges them for incessant doubt
Like a man at sea looking at broad horizon
These are parallel perceptions of how you are brought about
In your life
And my life
You might be slovenly, and that makes you the title
Stolen by some man at sea
Instead, your heart was stolen by the man with the telescope
On a midnight cruise from a distant lighthouse
That signals through the cloudless climes and surrenders ships
Forbidden, like a sea of endless *****
Fulcrum Reaction And Loathing
I haven't made the anthologies and journals,
My novel won't be in
The book stores any time soon,
My songs didn't get me a recording deal,
The screenplays never graced the big screen,
And I expect if I write you a last love note
It will suffer a similar fate.
And to think I had all the same letters
As everyone else
All I had to do was jiggle them around a bit,
Arrange  them in such a way
That they might mean something
To somebody.
Robert Guerrero May 2021
Seems like it's inevitable
Somehow this folly of depression
Sickening as it may be
Is my only saving grace
My super power
To harness words
Delicately placing them
In ballet slippers
Watching them elegantly
Summarize emotions I'm plagued with
Constant fears and thoughts
Screenplays Broadway ready
Tragedy to fantasy
Rarely comical
Yet a jokers laugh is heard
Deep in the cellars of my heart
Knowing all too well
I am what my opinion of me is
No religious text
Deranged teachings of dark minds
Or philosophical psychology
Can eradicate it
I'm lost beyond hope
Trying to make a dream
A not so far off reality
Hindered quickly before
I even take my next breath
What will it take
How does it happen to me
When will it end
Where will I be
Who cares anymore
I'm surrounded by myself
Engulfed in my delusions
Try to become my own martyr
Why can't I be my own god
Carve the destiny I desire
With only a snap of fingers
Or the wiggle of my nose
I know I'm not hopeless
Yet mind and body
Reject truces or seek compromise
Again
I'm lost in these senses
Hating myself
For feelings I can't control
Loving myself
With little avail
I'm detestable
Deplorable
Defeated
Yet waving white flags
Seem only to incur wrath
From whoever raises it first
Again
Another war
Futile in all aspects
The answers the same
Outcome forseen
Again
And again
And...

              ...again

It's only one purpose
So tell me already
Show me what I'm meant to do
Who I'm to become
I'll strive to make it true
If only there's a sanctuary
From the me I am again

— The End —