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Erica May 2018
never trust a poet's words
they sound sweet at first
but you'll notice the emotion in their words
it all sounds too...
"i love you like the sea loves the shore"
becomes too scripted
you hear the small tinge of love actually left in their voice
hoping it could mean something
but it doesn't
it never does
it's just the way they say it
one day, after they have left
you will find their poems, and they will be the exact words that they had said to you
once long ago
please understand this poem is in a way just me talking to myself, reminding me to not trust a man who i once loved, thank you
T Oct 2018
From within the darkness I can see a little will get brighter if I continue to do things right
If I do return to the light happiness does is all up to me so what I do will reveal my fate
What waits for me in this light is a big piece of my life's greatest puzzle......for it is her and my voice will no longer wear a muzzle
She is the lords greatest gift to me
Now is the time for me to open her eyes so she can finally see
My fate was scripted long ago
For it is our destiny this I must show
It may take a little while to reach this light.....and it will end this dreadful fight
So the moon will be full and the stars they will shine bright......and together we shall be each and every night.
# when you wish upon a star
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
Imagine living a scripted life,
perfect image, born and
jane taylor Apr 2016
shadows casting forward
pastel edges
of water colored nebulous scenes
once known

i fuse with deja vu
in its feather-like fringe
i beg for the meaning
of history reliving

perhaps it’s a maze
tho’ previously scripted
funhouse mirrors silently mock
our own carnival

or is it a wink?
the north star is nodding
a slight innuendo
we’re not lost at sea

perchance it’s a hint
it is all an illusion
a glitch in the matrix
the black cat walks by

i grasp for the answer
and peer at the ghostly
parchment paper dream
as it dissolves to thin air

chichee Dec 2018
In a sermon, the preacher says:
"The Lord created us in his image,
all who desecrate themselves
too destroy a part of God."

I've murdered pets and
alphabetised people by
sense and style and laughs like
a rack of dresses.
I've kissed girls just because
they said they could never like me
like that
as if their lips were some
sacred maiden's blush and not
a pair of fleshy rims.
As if I couldn't read their
***** little lesbian fantasies
underneath those
angel faces.

Susan from accounting thinks I need
to see a therapist. I think she needs to see
a mirror. We don't really get along, but ****-
maybe if drink enough
these clocks
these blue collars
these billboards with the pearly white teeth
won't look like straightjackets anymore.

I have this thing where
sometimes I'm just so tired
of being a body.
The world's a ******* advertisement,
Everyone with their scripted
good mornings and
chemical feelings
down to the last **** t.

My skin is a cage
and I'll strip it off like
a *****.
Why be happy when you
could be interesting?

Love like a bluejay,
Fists in our stomachs-
The headlights of a car coming
at 80 miles an hour straight at you,
pummeling in a stream of light.
The taste of a cigarette after
it's been on someone else's lips.

Don't you dare tell me you understand.

When I tell her this
my therapist only smiles,
Darling it's only purgatory.

Allen knew. Nietzsche knew. Woolf knew.
In all our hearts-
We've already killed God.
Experimenting with voices, Richard Siken, Frank Bidart, Allen Ginsberg. Title taken from a Hozier song under the same name.
Carter Ginter Jan 2018
I write a poem
You write a poem
We write to each other
In hopes that the other will read it
Hear our words
Feel our pain
And yet we don't talk about it
We don't talk at all
Except through our scripted feelings
These thoughts pour out of me
Freezing into words on a screen
But what do they mean?
What do they change?
It's ok to love someone and not be with them
But it's hard to know when that applies
And actions are trickier than words
But here we are
Putting our art
And our hearts
Out there for the world to read
For each other to see
And yet we don't speak

We were writers in love
And now we're writers in agony
Jerry Feb 25
I Envy These PERSIAN Winter Chills;

Destined To Embrace Your Essence...

Though, Scripted To Graze From Your Presence...
Happy Birthday
Lash Aug 26
you're too close..
you scare me.
spare me the 40 second speech,
your kind words
with undertones that speak for me.
they tell the story that i've heard like one too many times.
got one too many lines drawn
keeping out the bad guys,
and the soul ties
and all that tries to save me from myself...
who try to be of help but i cant help it,
im selfish.
im bottled up,
you felt it.
got issues un-dealt with but atleast im genuine...
i made attempts to let you in.
im back.. can you guess for how long?
BJ Donovan Nov 6
Our fragile life's are scripted by parents
and Bibles and courts and judges and
manacles making us take careful steps
upon the thin ice we're born.
Nuns taught me fear. Dad taught
me fear. Mom taught me fear.
Gramps taught me to drink a shot
for courage and stare the devil down.
Akash mazumdar Sep 2018
I already scripted the future when I had no idea,
Already sculpted proximity in between,
I wasn't that wrong though,
I got it right & slow,
Inhaling poison in pace purely hushed that it's "I am" not "we are",
Bragging just bragging through the narrow deceptively  dusky spaces followed in streaks,
And everything is for real ,
Every word couldn't match unfortunately but got preserved & I got healed .
Marisol Quiroz Jun 2018
my past is part of who i am,
i cannot erase it.
it’s written in the books collected on the
bookshelves between my ribs,
stacked upon my spine.

the stories of who i am are carved into me,
scripted on my skin,
branded on my bone,
there is no part of me that is not built upon
this blood of black ink.

i am a collection of my own tragedies,
of my own comedies,
of my own romances.
a library of my own experiences.

not all the collection is good,
some books are quite damaged,
but not all the collection is bad,
my pages are still full of love.

you can pick out which books to read,
which stories you like
and which you’d rather leave,
but it’s still
my past is still a part of me.

― personal library
the wisdom of your eyesight

begins with you legs that turn the body’s odyssey
away, sort of, in the general right direction

but thou stiff neck person, yet still turns away
from what the eyesight will see when the eye shadows lift

thine eyes cast down still seek escape, with last minute haste,
but my pointer finger rests easygoing beneath thy chin

where the finger meets, lifts, thy softened chin tissue,
to look directly at your proffered savior, an electric election circuitry

this head-on-collision of two pair, beat by a full house,
when the combined wisdom of caring lifts two up,
ah, the best writ we ever scripted,
the best hand we ever played

if your eyes should cloud,
upon reading this,
this is too, a kind of wisdom,

for S.B.
1:41am march 25 2019
Steve Page Mar 15
Movies are
at their best
tightly scripted
bravely casted
boldly acted
richly promoted
highly rated
Some movies move me.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 23
poems are cheap they say, the supply exceeds the demand,
all are product of criminal mischief, and Lord, I know,
I’m one of the most thieving, most mischiefing ones

when no one was about, I scribbled many notes,
transplanted from my eyes, for a bottled voyage
to fallow beaches for sandy seeding

no matter IF these poems are from your womb ripped,
****** red concoctions of life’s cute cutting edge inscriptions,
no one cares re your titanic love’s labors, your children’s betrayal

no one cares from whence and wherefore they birthed,
all words, low class and progeny, not prodigy, of demeaning circumstances, best tossed back without much foolish hesitation

writ with pen tip of broken green glass from a parking lot,
the point I broke once more before my commencement,
inked from a wicked witch’s melted green spittle pooling alongside

poets of no way, falsely prophesying falsehoods most singularly bad,
waste not-want not, time better spent than reading rhymes of stolen disrepute and cloudy ownership and ignoble authorship

unless you among a blessed few, who see a full blown poem in glassine clarity, birthed fully formed Elton songs in a mouth full of amniotic fund, you, put down thy laboring eleven instruments

if words you claim of new parentage, you as the mother dear,
know there is nothing new under the sun, even these very words,
scripted by Israelite king whose tomb gone, he, too, poet forgotten

join me in a needle park of junkies who tried and failed, nickel bag
smoking budget dope words, in cigarettes of mostly discarded seeds and twigs, hallucinatory inhaling the same vision again & again

you refuse, naturally, glamming in notional newness, your arrogance, a plentiful commodity of wood-be writers by thousands buried in wooden caskets, under wooden inscription-less crosses

and of the trillion readers possible, to coloring picture books and instant grams, all have gone to the labor-free glancing look-see
of a seconds-short, lengthy meme, 10 second videos, 140 limitations

of the greatest, of Shakespeare and Coleridge, reader’s fast-dying, sunburned neurons reply; “free ***** of his Love’s Labour’s Lost, and the Ancient Mariner, overdue, free him too!”

ancients mock you aware that there be no verbal combination yet to foretell, what Lear said, that’s the the idea, “When we are born, we cry, that we are come to this great stage of fools.”^

fools we are, for there be no fore, the tale already told, once before & more, vaingloriously does this poet’s false vanity speak, so, so boisterously,
“why my tale, why my tail, is as new as the oldest fossil”
^ King Lear, Shakespeare
Stephen Leacock Jul 2018
The energy is protected and restricted from the wicked
the system is shifted and twisted parts of it omitted
The lines of codes are scripted to the listed
Chords are obstructed and rejected.
Life is lifted and gifted everything is permitted
and reflected.
The wands that frees its course way and the cups
that brings love at noon day
The star for only whom is granted committed uplifting of the acquitted
The numbers for notification and feathers for its authentication used as justification
Life brings a vacation with a positive celebration, Spiritualization!
Sing to me what you wish and curse,
in a choir or solo verse.
Scribble down A poem or rhyme,
i’ll give it all of my time.
Sculpt and carve me your heart,
with all its many complex parts.
Paint me all that you dream,
the simple or thee extreme.
Draw me things of what you fear,
or what you hold close and dear.
Speak openly about your thoughts,
all that you seek and all you sought.
Suggest it in A metaphor,
so I can envision what you saw.
Act it out in A scripted story,
so I can marvel at what’s before me.
Write it like A biography,
so I may behold your odyssey.
Free hand me how it is you feel,
so I can see something that’s real.
Be yourself come as you were,
that’s the you that I prefer.
For D.J.H
Deborah Downes Sep 2016
Fever-flushed children and
Broken bodies
Litter hospital halls like so much
Human refuse
….Wondering why
their need for care is treated so tepidly by a
Society which worships
Power and
….Waiting while
they wallow in anguish as
Paperwork and
Payment are
Debated by bureaucrats in cubicles
….Wanting to be refreshed and
restored to some measure of usefulness
Free to Pursue Life on their terms in exchange for  
Acceptance and

Huddling for warmth and in
Fear of discovery
they assemble in rag-tag formation
having scaled formidable fences
Seeking freedom from
Poverty and oppression
Searching for work of any sort
….No matter how
Humiliating or
….No matter the
Cost or
Disparaged and despised they labor
in hope that their children will have a chance for success
instead of suffering a similar fate
Free to Pursue Liberty
in a land where their presence is
Ignored if not Denied

Unkempt in camouflage
One-legged and
he rolls his rickety wheelchair along grassy median with muted effort
displaying cardboard sign
childishly scripted
in one weather-worn and gnarled hand
while clutching a decapitated jug in the other
Forlorn, and
Discarded veteran
Victimized far more by country than foe
Free to Pursue Happiness while
Begging on street corners as
Upright citizens dispense
Unwelcome opinions or
Pocket change with equal

Liberty and the
Pursuit of happiness….
Ideals that slowly incinerate on the
Altar of Capitalism
….Songs forever lost in the
Cacophony now
Played on the
Instrument of Politics
Chrissy Mar 25
You blew dust in eyes so I couldn't see what I was doing
the mistakes I was making
you were pulling the strings and my movements correlated
I was following the choreography you scripted
I didn't realise the life I wasn't living
until you let go of those strings and I collapsed
I was the puppet you were puppeteering
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