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Samantha Nguyen Aug 2018
this is it,
the downfall of our empire that took so long to build.
it’s over.
while the music of defeat is playing,
the princess can’t hear the beautiful, sad melody.
all this girl hears is noise.
she walks through the ruins of her empire.
has this happened because of her mistakes.
slowly, it begins to rain.
but this rain is nothing compared to her tears.
her senses aren’t working properly. she can only see.
she sees the hatred in your eyes.
your stillness that sets her off.
your expression reveals anger.
some things she can’t see right now.
the princess doesn't see her mistakes.
she can’t see what pain she caused you.
but what she will see eventually is another girl in your arms.
she’s prettier than the princess and doesn’t lie to you.
she will keep all your secrets and make you happy.
she won’t make mistakes and she’ll be perfect.
she won’t be the broken princess, she’ll be your princess.
the invisible girl will see that she wasn’t worth it
and she’s going to run and not stop till she finds someone who wants her.
even if it means leaving home and everything behind.
one day later she sees a white rose.
it has been torn by the rain and withered.
life and beauty has left it.
when the shattered girl will see you,
she can see all the life and beauty in you and your new princess.
the destitute girl will envy your princess.
eleanor prince Sep 2018
(contains references to sensitive issues)

She’s just a babe
he’s only two
of youth refill
they’re broken in

but leave no mark  
so they're unspoiled
for clients booked
it's all arranged

no tracks you'll leave
their brain's not through
not 'til they’re three
so chill out dame

the program works
divert impel
‘'you crazy sh-t
here take this pill’

nobody hears
if told some tales
but they won't talk
their lips are sealed

from dot they’re trained
they’re here for us
don't have to guess
‘you talk, you die!’

so pay the fee
their price is high
and bring this dog
they’ll do it all

and shouldn’t you
take all you're due
you work real hard-
on nectar sup
-
Stop! Not so quick
for veils can lift
and imprints made
don’t ever die

archival facts
reveal themselves
when day arrives
you’ll face the Judge

and when you breach
a petal new
it injures both
and gear stick shifts

you've soiled life's bed
with squalid stains
now own the Sh-t
says mirror man







  


             
From time to time an instance comes to light involving well-organized abuse at an almost unimaginable level.  Children from a very young age are trained to provide all manner of ****** services to meet the demands of deviant and sadistic clients.  Contrary to what people may think, this happens not just in so-called 'third-world countries,' but in more prosperous lands too.  

Even where there is significant corroboration for the veracity of such accounts, survivors can suffer the further indignity of not being believed.  There is some movement and improvement in knowledge but more needs to be acknowledged and understood, not only by colleagues and other professionals providing care, but society at large.  

It all makes one ponder what leads a perpetrator to act this way.  Whilst it helps to understand some act out trauma they themselves received, it is unacceptable behaviour, is still a criminal offence - and it hurts others.   We all have choice to decide ahead what we would do if offered an easy way to cross that line.  Decency requires we resolve to remember who we want to be in essence and retain this reality check:  how would I feel if this was my wife, my child?   Refuse to abuse another.  

Some boundaries simply should never be breached, even if one is promised immunity from repercussions, e.g. told 'the child won't remember – it won’t hurt them.'   Many victims do remember and either way, such incursions rob them of a normal life, something many take for granted.  The truth is they are massively, negatively affected on one level or another, often in multiple ways, at whatever age such incursions take place.  

The reality is that transgressing on another's boundaries on any level not only harms the recipient but also those violating others.  It alters and destroys something in the offender, immediately recognizable or not, and by extension the wider community is affected.  

On looking in the mirror an offender may see at best a deluded half-life.  As my poem concludes, who would want to be meeting that inner witness to their corrupt and heartless behaviour, their real character looking back at them through the 'man* in the mirror...'

*(either gender can offend - some women sexually abuse too.  When a perpetrator takes a good look in the mirror of reality, they may well find themselves  confronted with the enormity of what they have done, and who they have become)
B L Feb 2015
I’m in my prime; at the cusp of my development.
A few more years of growth make decay a lot more relevant…

Glass Elephant,
Glass Elephant,


Irrelevance, benevolence,
Compassion, or malevolence;
I’m one of few who sees it sums no difference.

Glass objects.
Or Elephants.
Irrelevance,
Irrelevance

Striving for motion, with motive elusive
Each thing I endeavor is far too exclusive
I need something inclusive, objectively singular
A sinusoidal wave with a mean lacking integers
Peace in zero and equilibrium inclusion

Glass Elephant
Glass Elephant

Delusions, Delusions
Juhlhaus Jan 23
A sidewalk canvas
Half done slush
An oil slick
Twice frozen ice
And boots that slip
A train just missed
The red eyes glare
Rain that floats
In sour air
Brutalized concrete
Bleeding rust
Filthy floors
And alley walls
Spent cigarettes
In every nook
Steel that shrieks
In cold protest
Blue lights
And a defiant poet
On every corner
An inventory of materials.
We shall make
A recourse to the gun,
If for election we run
Devoid of ideas,
Sell which we can,
We could hardly win
The heart of a single fan.

Also labelled
"Corrupts,atavists
And narrow nationalists"
They can
Put on us a ban
So that sinks on us
The Sun.

Climbing into
A political ivory tower
Is not for us,
Let us beat
The drum of war
To garner
And to monger to power.
.
recalcitrant, retrogressive, detractors,mongers,war
Willow Oct 2018
She will see them always now
The angel numbers  and the simple signs.
With the hope of learning the strings
Of all you have to offer
While the day is still light.

She will see them always now
The plate numbers and the street signs.
With the hope of seeing the truth
Of the third eye’s offer
While the day is still light.

She will see THEM always now
The strayed hair and the warmed face.
With the hope of experiencing all
Of the moments to be reached
While the day is still light.

She sees a human.
She loves my blistered, worn hands.
She loves my dreams of impracticality.
She loves my memories.

Thank goodness she’s my golden hour all the time
Reza Bavar Jun 2016
What is a Legacy
What's the equation that leads to the sum that is
A
Human
Life
The curtain draws as it must and
when it's done...
We spill out of this "Life" a grocery bag of idiosyncrasies, neuroses, hypocrisies, and other I-sees
What are we in the end but broken pieces of a puzzle we leave for others to assemble--who cares if the pieces fit.
Someone found a Kind word here
Another a Generosity
A memory of a Lie
Proof of a Cruelty
Acts of Humanity by a human being acting...
Who knows me well enough to define my Legacy?
Who else but "I"
I like spoken word poetry (a lot) and this poem works best if it's read in that type of tone.
Tommy Randell Dec 2014
To loosen with my bare hands
the wide air between us
in explaining something of meaning
I almost feel
I am pulling flesh
from the living and moving moments
possible here.

It is somehow breaking
the natural order of things
to use words alone
of all viable means
in setting out the wind-waves and rivulets
of ideas internally flowing -
but I must try and get something out for once.

I circle in bad phrases
prickling with the itchiness of sharing,
I send out a few vague words
horrified and perplexed
at their translation now they are naked
knowing you too listen
and they are at last unalterable.

Deep in the brain, far back
this is my bad time
but I know where the roots go
down into me
and from the storm’s heart
perpetual agitation pumps hand in hand
with calm acceptance.
The self *****, alternately
to fan and to freeze
whatever doubts or unease are burning.
Talk travels the spaces between us
through the clear air
in the kind of silence
surviving bones may know swinging in a wind.

But I know stillness can become alive
when living mouths bring their hearts to bear -
ears can well hear
what the breath has to say,
as the eye sees
the body’s smallest noises -
face to face we are a field of listening.

The warm comes without sound.
This is only the edge of a becoming.
We are not trapped in the lips -
already we lean inward
to know of each other and to give
not words for the wind
but a dance at ease with all that flows.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
the angel amongst us

~for Alexander, master splasher~

flexibility is important when poetry writing in a warm tub and a long day ahead is scheduled; so willingly accept the autocorrect
for I am both an experienced poet and bath soaker and
believer in wondrous mystery and unexpected fumbles
that lead to to miracle touchdowns

~•~

the two mathematicians examine the angle, measure the degree of difference at intersection and bless it with an identity,
calling it by its name,
perhaps obtuse, perhaps right, perhaps both

two sets of eyes examine the angle,
study its ****** expression

the old man says:
see the angle on the clock formed by the big handle on the twelve and the little hand on the eight?

this is angle of eight o’clock:
time to stop the splashing and start the get-readying
for we have miles to go before the ocean can say hello!

little angel says angle no go
and slashes the water with both
hands to establish the firmness of his views
and change Einstein’s time from present to future

the angle depends on the perspective of the viewer

the old poet comprehends leaving a warm tub is a regretful thing

but he measures the degree of difference at this
intersection
of time and bath and blesses it with an identity

“time to go”

the angle of my angel is now 2 pointed arms, pointed straight up,
at the twelve o'clock,

as he stands up in fevered protest,
my arms sweep his little legs to
a point at eight o’clock,
angel, commenting on his swift flight
disputes the grandfathers physics

"no go now,
now go later^"

though the angle is unchanged
the perspective of time and space
(and traffic),
yet differs

one sees an angle,
the angel sees time
eternally folding in on itself


that is the angle amongst us
^Surprising as it may be to most non-scientists and even to some scientists, Albert Einstein concluded in his later years that the past, present, and future all exist simultaneously. In 1952, in his book Relativity, in discussing Minkowski's Space World interpretation of his theory of relativity, Einstein writes:

Since there exists in this four dimensional structure [space-time] no longer any sections which represent "now" objectively, the concepts of happening and becoming are indeed not completely suspended, but yet complicated. It appears therefore more natural to think of physical reality as a four dimensional existence, instead of, as hitherto, the evolution of a three dimensional existence.
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2016
He sat by a furnace of seven-fold heat,
As He watched by the precious ore.
And closer He bent with a searching gaze,
As He heated it more and more.

He knew He had ore that could stand the test
And He wanted the finest gold,
To mold as a crown, for the king to wear,
Set with gems of price untold.

So He laid our gold in the burning fire,
Tho’ we fain would say Him "nay."
And watched the dross that we had not seen
As it melted and passed away.

And the gold grew brighter and yet more bright,
But our eyes were dim with tears,
We saw but the fire, not the Master’s hand,
And questioned with anxious fears.

Yet our gold shone out with a richer glow
As it mirrored a form above,
That bent o’er the fire, though unseen by us
With a look of ineffable love.

Can we think it pleases His loving heart
To cause us a moment's pain?
Ah, no! But He sees through the present cross
The bliss of eternal gain.

So He waited there with a watchful eye,
With a love that is strong and sure.
And His gold did not suffer a bit more heat
Than was needed to make it pure.

~ A.F. Ingler
~~~
Kitten Yvad Aug 12
My heart is still
still enough so that the bad
can’t see it
move

but so still
I hold my breath and the light
can’t pass through
my eyes

heart
afraid that if it sees beauty
the world will see it.

Angrily
Banish it from its quiet
home of comfort, behind
my ribs

no, no, little heart

i breathe
coax it to breathe
a sunset, a delicate
pink sunset, see?

the wave of setting colors
washes over me

you will not be punished
for finding beauty
in this simplicity
Take these images and fry them
All your words are nonsense
Birth the shadows of your objects
And let the river drown them
Swim against tides of pain
Maintain your aggression
Life is purposefully depressing
We are managing our minds
Frightened by our spines
We are all cowards and concubines
Retroactive impostors govern our speech
Beseech your pleasantries
If you try to please them
You will just end up
On your knees
Antino Art Sep 2018
Who draws strength
from watching the passage of time
after dark
blur against the windows
of a moving train bound
for ends uncertain.

Who walks most balanced
on the beams of empty tracks.

In the shuffle of strangers
at a crosswalk, who finds
direction.

Who sees
clearer through rain.

Who finds their place
in the limbo of airport terminals,
on delayed flights
between chapters,
over open roads that branch
into tales of cities unseen,
in the turn of pages unwritten.

Who can keep track of time
during the improvised chaos of jazz,
catching notes scattered
in the winds of horns.

Who understands
that wind moves
fastest through dark places like tunnels,
during storms in late August.

Who finds their center
hurled in flight,
always coming and going.
Storm flight trains movement
teachers teach
professors profess

delivery drivers drive
and sometimes guess

fights, faults, and failings
I too confess

Ocean's 11
Danny and Tess

Buddha lamp
Enlightenment?  Yes.

Love not money
art too can bless
Joseph Miller Dec 2017
One glorious moment
God said to me
"I am here"

Tears of joy
washed away my fear
as he lifted the veil
revealed his face
radiating the essence
of all things
a cosmic oneness
filled with love
beyond imagining
the mystic sees
the infinite connection
of the ultimate power

But I a mortal being
consumed by form
it seems
God withdrew
left me standing there
in a world separate
where matter divides
and boundaries form
to close the mind
and hide the truth

Yet I am blessed
to seek the light
and find myself
witness to God
true story
Pat Broadbent Oct 2018
Planes streak across the wide October sky–
The sun is setting–
Contrails stream behind them,
glowing scars of the evening.

The highest ones, they exhale the day’s gold,
pure and sharp
like fields of August wheat,
dusty and late-summer charred.

Redder and lower ones hug the skyline,
No cloud to catch them,
Fall like meteorites,
the slow burn of a dwarf star

Memories never print so vividly,
slow burn sees fast death,
Reds, golds and what's between,
A brain is all catch-and-release


So afterwards what should be left of this?
Not but an umbra,
Impressionist beauty,

A mere relief of its source?


Beauty’s slow fade is not the tragedy,
–rather the reverse–
That we fade to beauty,
To never hold it in full.
Beauty and whatnot
King Panda Mar 2016
It’s no fun to cry when someone is looking at you
It’s only fun to cry when you’re alone
naked
under covers
your pillow saturated in salt
and sometimes that’s not even fun
and you wonder
why even bother
when God sees everything you do
every tear you shed
that you are always being watched
that you can never cry without someone looking at you
and you raise your fist into the muggy darkness and declare
*******
God
ymmiJ Apr 1
Brown white hell falling
Eyes sharp, an arrow point, Flash!
death from razor talons
Francie Lynch Jul 2018
Birthed by altruism or selfishness,
Motivated by personal gain
Or the forfeiting of a nation;
It's the betrayal of friends,
Country, cause and trust.
Cassius,
Judas,
Benedict Arnold,
The traitor has many personas.

Traitors are hated by those they prefer. (Tacitus)

I forgive those who ****** and steal,
but a traitor, never.
(Zapata)

A nation cannot survive treason from within...
He rots the soul of a nation...
No wise man ever thought a traitor should be trusted.
(Cicero)

Softness to traitors will destroy us all. (Robespierre)

An open enemy, however criminal, is no traitor. (Spooner)

To have a traitor as an ally is to have an enemy in waiting. (Carey)

It is the just decree of heaven that a traitor never sees
his danger till his ruin is at hand.
(Metastasia)

There are but two parties now... traitors and patriots. (U.S. Grant)

If I had one bullet and I was faced by both enemy and traitor,
I would let the traitor have it.
(Codreanue)

There is a special place in hell reserved for traitors. (J. Trudeau)

Every man must be for the U.S. or against it.
There can be no neutrals... only patriots or traitors.
(S. Douglas)

Et tu, POTUS. (F. Lynch)
2020 Campaign Slogan: "Make Rusmerica Great"
kell Aug 2018
Every person sees from a different angle
Every event leading up to how they perceive how they think and there endless thoughts
What they love and what they do not how they see themselves or just all the flaws
who they are is deeper than a
conversation or what you see,  
They're so aware of something that's not there
So their cuts never close they always bleed
And who they are comes to surface someone they never thought they would be
It's funny, right when you let go
The more you want to breathe
So misunderstood an addiction to acceptance can never be relieved
No one understands anyone
It's just how it is
And how it will forever be
Inspired by a friend

luke
Sibyl Feb 2016
Breathe in slow
enough to hear
his voice - ichor
dripping from beneath

his lips sewn
with incessant thoughts
of the looming
shadows that he sees

at night, with heavy

gasps
drawn deep within
his lungs, he dreams
he's awake
AditiBoo Aug 2018
She hates what she sees
So she tries so hard to please
You see,  to be seen is not enough
To her, even a smile is a rebuff...

So she lights up a room
Leaves no space to gloom
Becomes your Bob and your Godmother
Always available when you need her

A very good friend and fiend
Always someone you can hold in esteem
But then...there is a dark side you are yet to discover
A black stain in a soul full of colour

She hates what she sees and yearns to be seen
So she shows herself on every wretched scene
She bares all that she is hoping for anything but hate
She gave away too much and now it’s too late

They told her she was worth so much more
They told her “you need to love yourself more”
But you cannot adore what you abhor
You cannot praise what you deplore

And time makes the stain grow darker
It seeps further, spreads deeper
Her light shines brighter
And her smile grows wider

They all say 'what a great catch' she is
As she tries even harder to please
Small favours become regretful errors
Small tremors paralyse all of her members

So she sits, withering in self-loathe
Stunted in her emotional growth
Trapped in a dark corner of her soul
Waiting for someone to hear her call
Ivo Yankulovski May 2014
A word is there for your expression.
Is it time for your confession?

The night is dark and full of horrors.
I wear my mark to seek my honors.

No one sees the divine in me.
All is dead and waits for me.

Gods regret about the light.
I will vanish from your sight.

A Dream exalts upwards this world.
The others lead us mostly swirled.

True words wind off my mind.
I will never leave you blind.

A code is there for me to find.
Deeply hidden and always undefined.

Everything appears one of its behind.
But shatters your illusions once combined.

Stand up and break this truth in parts.
Create a world made of arts.

No one brings the pain aside.
You better take it as your bride.

There is no second paradise.
Drop your eyes and do this sacrifice.
Logan Robertson Jul 2018
there's a fisherman down by the sea
sitting on the wharf
watching the sun sink into the western sky
a frown frames his house
he looks out the window
at his pole, gear
and especially that of his net
emptiness
metaphors that weigh on him
uprooting his garden
a garden of no delight
one lonely row of forget me not
and regret
all wilting
his foundation
lost
never found or realized
he pauses
runs his hand over his pole
like a belt without any notches
his grip slipping into the abyss
as the last of the orange
sinks
bleeds also
at where the sea  meets the sky
where his day slowly turns to night
somewhere out there he sees his image
in nature's mirror
at his crossroads
for deeply
and some may say shallowly
he looks onto the sea one last time
and he means what he says
and throws his fishing gear in
tears welling in his eye
as he watches his teddybear sink
lips gurgling
seemingly asking why
... why
he answers back
there were no fish or bites
in his lonely sea
or wind at his back
... there
his window opens wider
the sea not singing or dancing
he sees the ambient light
correlations
... here

Logan Robertson

7/06/2018
If one reads between the lines the poem reads like a eulogy with a
harbinger to come.
Cassia Aug 2018
"Come hear!" they cry thru the shadowed veil
"Don't you hear the blackbirds song?
Do not weep for the grievings of her heart
For it is you that is dead and gone..."

"It's me indeed!" cried the poor wand'rer
"For behold I meet death at last
My heart beats fast like the fallen bird's wings
Filled with sorrows for my lonesome past..."

"No, No!" cried the blacksmith's wife in vain
"Your heart should not grieve for your colorful days!
I n're leave home and I work till I bleed
I am caged and shall die a slave..."

"Your tunes are absurd to my disciplined ear,"
The businessman spat in the stranger's path
"You can scarce imagine my crimes toward man
I am ****** to Hell for my horrid acts..."

"My songs have begun to fade out of key!
My spirit has died," the performer mourned
"I sing alone with another's words
The crowd sees beauty, but it's pain they scorn..."

Now do you hear it? My song that I sing?
Now that you've reveled on a darkness within
Sing no longer for me the tune that I give
For the caged bird that I am, I see all of your sins.
I tried a new style. Sorry, I can't explain it or make it more complicated than it is.
Logan Robertson Jul 2018
A black crow's darting eyes
spans the wheat field
and an orange pumpkin patch.
She sees
tall grasses of brown
seedlings,
bristling in the wind,
soon to be bushels of grain
and a pumpkin pie that she never savored.
She sits, atop her tree perch,
at times warm and storybook,
hidden by tree branches,
and at times out of harm's way
and infamy.
Her friends, the sun, and clouds in concert,
dancing along.
Her other friends bring alms and smiles.
Life is so good at times.
Down the road sits a mill
next to a waterfall
and a cabin,
with reindeer horns
hanging above the doorway.
She is in her element, happy,
carrying for her nestlings.
Back and forth her parental eyes dart
the hilly fields, a smoked filled chimney, and her babies,
all crawling with sustenance and awe.
Storybook.
A mother feeding a worm to her baby.
Storybook.
Off to her side is not a blind eye
watching her,
scary stick figures of
straw tucked under red shirts and hats,
with a tied tinfoil strips dotting
her eyes and tease.
Scarecrows, cease.
At times life is good nature, hand in hand,
knock on wood.
If only life could be circumspect.
Than darkness filling the light
and a stutter of life.
For a sad page is turned,
pause
... tears.
Then, feathers fall.
Hers.
The sound of a thud.
Silence and tears of her friend's swelling.
A baby's cry, missing her mother.
More orphaned tears.
Who would be this despicable?
On that rogue day.
A kick of a donkey,
an ***,
one bad rock on her path,
breaks the air,
as three little elementary kids were walking along
to school.
One, me, with a rock in his hand,
taking aim at her perch
and the death of the black crow's pages.
I confess.
... Bless me, Father, for I have sinned
it has been fifty years since
my last confession ...
a Tom Sawyer-like childhood gone worse.
I repent.
Some fifty years later I think of those first cairns,
including stealing the reindeer horns and milling
my brother and sister's storybook.
Waterfalls
stream tears, and a sorry boat
rowed downstream
sadly
thereafter.

Logan Robertson

7/25/2018
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