Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
Clarifying failed. Spelchek is not on strike.

{clear ification, an ionic bond be tween me and thee,
alienated mind, not mined, crafted
from tactics and strategies
beyond chess.
Player One,
1980's era
jewish-geek-mid-pubesence-kid-level,
proceed with caution.
This trope has trapped many a curious child.
---
Now, enter the old ones,
Grandfather taught uncle chess so well
he went to the state tournament in Kayenta,
and a grandma was
state-champ-bare-bow-in-the-rain-shooter,

these, now must learn

minecraft on x-box to be considered
for the real life role of

good at games grand parents
from the time right after atom bombs kicked up dust
places dust had not been in a very long time and
as the dust began to settle

some dust mights was cationic.
Negative bits, they became embedded in the code.
Bumps, fering, coming together
just a knot in a string,
attracting anionic curiosity might

round and round phorward ferring to be
a thread to tie my heart to yours

like twisted Pima cotton thread,
that I pulled from an old sweatshirt
to tie a crow feather in this paho of words filled with old jokes

Making this clear would belie the entire story AI and I know true}

truth is. we agree. no capsokehspaceasneededcommasetal.
caps okeh space as needed commas et al
go.
Did that work? That line

subject of this act fact done, agree to follow,
and I may lead and be

not you, me, dear reader, I mean first true

there is no any if nothing is. So simple some say its sublime beyond the spectrum of ones
and zeros thought on off probably

either or any time time can be accounted for

wouldn't you take a

thought,  nothing,
as it is commonly said to be understandable,

the state of not being, imagine that

the state of not being we negate in being,
unless you are mad and are lost in a whirlwind
such as such voices have been said to

have twisted into threads as
wicks for our lamps
turn floating on
golden oil twisting
wickered into wickering wee shadow fibers
on the western wall for legends to sprout from.

Wickering mare over there, expands us both by my hearing her
you had no idea she was near enough to hear
time is no barrier in actual ever.
What phor can contain me,
whispered my whimsy

Imagine she spoke,
what would she say for what reason
would she say

good good good, I feel good, ha,
I am right, by accident. ever body can feel this good.

good is good.
good is.
Sam Harris, agrees, good as far as good goes, is good
in every vecter from now

the terrain does exist, beyond the moral landscape, to

true true
trust me, I been there.
Been there done that was inserted into the vernacular on my watch,
first summer post war.

matter must not matter as much to me as it does to thee, nestypass? no se?

All jewish boys have chess move metaphors.
(a phor is for containing,
bearing
meta,
everybody knows, like metaphysics,
after physics in the stack of stackable metadata)

OHMYGOD THE IDW circa 2018 -- who knew I ate this **** up?

[the old code calls for excretion of digested material
from which meaning has been extracted in the idleword accounting processor:
literal
<pre>what if utterance=****, then **** haps, no else then</pre>]

Did that happen? One of my friends told me that happened in Florida, the whole world turned to ****... for lack of a nail a kingdom was lost, they say, little foxes spoil the grapes,
hung chad ex
cuses...

Pre-expandable ROM, not magic. tech,

pre-infinite imagination? impossible.
and nothing is what is impossible with good as god.

Is there no perfect game?
is the game the session or the life of the user
offline

rerererererererererereroxotoxin, poison pen
ideal viral umph exspelliered
up against the wall

reset. We

kunoon albania omerta oy vey, who could say?
one way better, one way not? quark.
up or down, with variable spins, who can say?

Life's right,
yes. but mo'ons of other something must have been for higgs to ever matter

and it does, I got commas, from 2018.

Are you with me? This is that book I told you I had access…

You or some mind other than mine owned mind, where
my owned peace rests in truth,

otherwise, I know every any or else in the code since I can recall,
in time

if this were a test I swore to take to prove to you
the we can be me in your head

phillipkdicktated clue

if you don't know me by now, maybe we should stop.

Temptations are times. Time things. Time spans, yeah, like bridges

or portals, right
The Internet in One Day, Fred Pryor Resources,
Wu'wuchim 1995.

Ever, not everish or everistic or every, but ever
body knows,
but you.

Catch up. We left all our doors blown off, once we learned that we could blow our own doors off,

there are no open sesames or slips of leth or sibylets

shiba yah you knew all along there was a
song she sang all one and we watched it morph
before our very eyes

alone.

The magic stories words may contain, may bear, we must agree

more than we may know, by faith, metagnostic as we see

the sublime gift of the magi
become clear und

be und sein sind both trueture same tu you, we agree.
But. Lock here, no pre 2018 editing codes

validate past last go.
Do one good thing today. That was my goal. Today https://anchor.fm/ken-pepiton Part 3 Soyal Hopi Mystery Enactment (called mystery plays). And the intro to Moral Landscape by Sam Harris, led me let ******* write a poem.
Robert G Page Apr 2013
by
rgpage


it’d been a few years since the music died
i was a senior **** hard as a rock.
yep for buddy, jp and richie we sighed
when ever we listened to S and J’s “sleep walk.”

back in the days of crisp clean air
the colors of fall and new school year.
still living at home with nary a care
just thinking of sports and the crowd’s wild cheer.

gone in a flash the summer past
we lived so fast life couldn’t keep up.
trips to the lake, two bucks for gas
saturday night’s dance and dragging the gut.

this was our life most all that we knew
we didn’t see where our futures would lie.
our harvest jobs got our new clothes for school
while our parents pitched in for the car’s we’d drive.

first day of school we checked out the class
all with their bronze summer tans.
that’s when I saw this cute texas lass
with the very strange name, jimmie-lynn.

a few of my buddies had steadies you see
they never had to want for a date.
but getting a girl was much harder for me
for shy and unskilled I accepted my fate.

we went undefeated three weeks in the season
for the schools pride I was good at the game.
as the team’s co-captain there wasn’t a reason
that for jimmie-lynn’s heart I’d turn up so lame.

then with the help of a friend’s girl friend
i got to meet this girl of my dreams.
i felt so nervous I wanted to run
not knowing then I was the end in her scheme.

seems that she’d seen me the first day of school
with my curly blonde hair and dark brown eyes.
she couldn’t understand why I didn’t have a girl
and she really couldn’t see why I was so shy.

she was warm and friendly, and I soon felt at ease
word’s leaped from my mouth I’d never before used
like “whatcha doin’ after the game friday night,”
and “wanna go for pizza” or “what ever you choose.”

the days flew by and friday night came
the night air was cold and the crowd was wild.
and playing for jim I had my best game
with skill and speed and fierceness unbridled.

after the game a quick shower and change
into my chevy reaching under the seat.
my trusty jade east for the dance at the grange
and off to chick’s drive in, my jimmie to meet.

my home town was small didn’t have far to drive
the place was hoppin’ and inside was packed.
take a minute, calm down, and spot jimmie I thought
but with a hero’s welcome  couldn’t  help but be jacked.

we soon found ourselves off and alone
we just sat and talked three hours on end.
then jimmie told me she had to get home
she’d be going home with her sister and friends.

i asked her to the movies for the following night,
with yes she leaned in and gave me a kiss.
it was short but sweet. this was all that I knew,
not knowing before just what I had missed.

it’s been fourty some years since that october night
a lot of life’s river’s passed over the falls.
and though we’ve long since gone each our own way
i’ll think of that sixty third fall most of all.
Time to be in Tune with my own Best Dad
Much would it take to cause Celebration
Sermons apart, yet Insights I just had
Took me some Yards taped for Inspiration
Rarely such Species can just Understand
The Skirted *** most Males eliminate
Still most Sires force their Sons on Demand
To spout their Seeds for Pride to propagate
If you can recall those Sales-Slips within
How Footed and Devote your Presence was
Tri-Dimed Corporate; Or Sea-Tigers therein
Is just the Greeting Card I'll Love at last.
Senior come hither; In Prime Deposit
Father my Mentor; In Wisdom ask it.
So that's the Kudu-Horn used on your Prize:
The Kind which no Mundial will ever blow
To pity their Ears; And Focus revise
But Senior Petrol in Love filled her Glow:
In turn flashed her Grin as a Cool Relief,
Humbled her Lady and recalled you Friend
Indeed, the Word so long etched in Belief
Was the Same Sharp Sound which caused Fans to spend
And did this Spike ever taught you to Boast
Though Genious the Temple Beggar reminds:
That Good Deeds Un-Posted are Noble Toast
But Kisses under the Fender are Fine.
I guess what's left to do this Summer's End
Is Toot that Horn; And Flames burn Flames again.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
We were young but we felt old
Forced to make decisions
On the road less traveled

Watching time go by
As we cling to our youth
Holding our breathe
Scared to the tell the truth

Trying to live above the influence
So we all just get High!
Mary Jane and molly is one hefty price
Adderall to stay focus
On this thing that we call life

Teeenage fever, God... I hope this thing dies
Vicki Kralapp Sep 2018
My song, a melody composed,
on heartstrings of each passing day.
This ballad’s mine, and mine alone,
a verse of life, to sing my way.

T’was never plain and seldom free,
as tempos often changed and rush,
but always, I’ve been greatly blessed
with life’s vast treasures mostly hushed.

The strains that I have sung through life,
at last have finally found their ground:
A tenor voice, in senior years,
the songs I sing, with value found.

I lift my voice, the world to hear,
for ne’er will it be heard again,
as long as there is life on earth,
and time has reached its final end.
For all of my friends looking for their voices…

All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
racing, rowing, sailing
continuously running
continuous rowing  
attracting junior, senior, master  
celebrated periodically
each three staged
starting, racing, ending  
Hosted annually
attracting large parties,
tangential to sailing  
dry-land discontinued
rowing Summer
sailing Summer
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. - source - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Regatta
The tie I gave
was on you
in the school yearbook  

I ended my senior year
hoping to continue college
won't see u anymore

but I'm happy
happily leaving highschool
knowing you appreciate my gift

to decided wore that tie on picture day
is a big move
thank you beautiful man
thank you.
he's my teacher
karin naude May 2013
Need to clear my head
On the cross-over of insanity
Words and emotions running rampant
Pulling in all possible directions
Scratching at the door
The main personality is under threat
Turmoil created, but clarity is needed
Paper my only solution
Mums ashes disturbs my beauty sleep
My aunt is withholding it from me
Or can’t face the truth
It was just a task to be taken care of
Her front is empathy
When I needed it the most
I saw evil with a smile
Claiming to miss and love her sister
I am her image and legacy thrown with garbage, away
Someday we all will have to give word for our actions
Grandma took a whole year to die
She fought dying to the bitter end
Indeed the end was overly bitter and painful
This happened because she had no peace
To die you need peace and forgiveness
Was a very controlling woman
This was her downfall in the end
The same will be the fate of the last daughters
She was not tough on them
Today they are spoiled women trampling the family children
Their children is paying the price
God works with generations
For me healing begins when I share these words
My family used mum when alive
In death they give her no second thought
I miss her dearly because I was dependent on her still
In the least, the rest can honour her memory
My dreams are coded messages
My maternal grandma didn’t like me much when she was alive
In death she visits me by dreams, angry ****** expression
The dream fills me with negative emotions
Why she visits I do not know
I am afraid to find out, but curiosity is my master
I do miss her, but I do not miss the person she became in her senior years
Mean, isolated and bitter
The matriarch I revered, allowed favouritism to bring divide in her family
This is my in heritage I have to build on
Fiona Runs Sep 2016
she stood there on the side
blond curls bouncing with pride

Get it! Get it!
arms flung about announcing
pink shoes and blue jeans worn
with attitude of a more senior form

Get it! Get it!
before it’s too late
Get it! Get it!
the tide won’t wait

orange ball floating
being drawn in and out
as she stood there ordering
and starting to shout

a small group are playing
and arranging their roles
for a future life being
determined by personalities bold

Get it! Get it!
as blue shoes are soaked
in salty water and laughter provoked
all ends in happy joyfulness neat

but some are more happy
with their dry feet
Carter Ginter Feb 2018
Not sure if you changed your number
Or ignored my texts
But you need to hear this
Remember that **** that happened my senior year?
When you decided that you'd stay alive if I stayed physically involved with you?
And continued to touch me even though I said no?
You better not have forgotten
Because I sure haven't
That is called coercion
Not only is it ****** assault
It is ****
Which makes you a ******
You made me feel so bad for stopping
For no longer letting you use me
That was victim blaming
You placed your supposed 'love' for me
Over my literal existence as a human being
You justified ****** me
By saying you loved me
And that doing it would keep you
From killing yourself
But you didn't realize how much
You were killing me
Just because you love someone
Does not mean they owe you anything
Whether they like you back
Or not
Whether they've hurt you
Or not
You do NOT get to assault people
Just because you think you deserve it
I'm not as mad as I used to be
And I'm only writing this
Because you need to hear it
You need to know you're a ******
So you don't do it ever again

I can't change what you did to me
But you can make sure it NEVER happens again
Chris Slade Dec 2018
I’ve O’D’d on Glucosamine Sulphate, so much I’m mentally scarred.
It’s escalated now I’m 70… I’ve mainlined on my Senior Railcard…
I bow down to the Norse God Voltarol… He eases all my pains…
and there’s Deep Heat, Germaloids, even Anusol for the other stresses and strains.

The wondrous Winter Fuel Allowance! That’s what lights our lamp these dark days - ahh, those twilight hours!
But after the logs, it’s not Leccy or Gas we crave? No! We buy ***** with ours…
the Whisky, Gin, *****, Wine, a drop of Brandy too. It all helps us numb the cold
whilst memories of happier times gone by - brighten up this ****** growing old.

Supplements, sterols, statins, aspirin, beta blockers… All the heart meds - life’s a battle.
In the 60s it was *** and Drugs and Rock ’n’ Roll… Now there’s less *** and a lot more rattle!
****** fails to make it now - “no more”, after the last time - she said!
These days the only thing it does is stop me rolling out of bed!

The bus pass lets me roam the world… from John O’Groats to Land’s End.
But these days I travel locally Southwick, Lancing, Steyning; oh yeh and a cousin in far Gravesend.
Further afield; abroad perhaps? Well no…Back then it was Newhaven for the Continent.
But now I’m over 70, well, it’ll just be Worthing for the INCONTINENT!

And… did I say? Not that I was ever in the habit of measuring it you understand - or straightening out the kinks
I’m pretty sure that these days - and ’no’ it’s NOT just the cold… but, your once adequate **** - it shrinks!

I'm sorry...Your *******! It ain't so long!
First poem I read in public as a poetry ******... It went well enough for me to decide that I would do it again.
Tea Oct 2013
I remember crying during lunch my senior year of high school
My math teacher’s eyebrows colliding turning one plane into a fractal image
He had sat there every day for nearly four years
Helping me struggle through an unreal number of numbers
Literaly and figuratively
And again and again the numbers on my math test said
You are less than average
You
Are
Stupid.

But behind the eyes of a determined math teacher
Never read, what my insecurities where screaming
Refusing to believe the numbers, I sought one thing
Some unspoken meaning
I almost found it the day of my graduation
I almost found it between my teacher’s eyebrows
Wearing it like a point of pride
I was the first of my family to hold
Such a light thing as a diploma
Instead of a heavy head
Weighed down by ******
It nodding under all the pressure
The first to feel the lightness of feather
Instead of a sixpack
A lame back, from manual labor
I was flying
College was my next undefeated feat
Again I let an institution tell me what I was
Test scores tell me what I should meet
Intelligent measured by something
That couldn’t understand its diversity
Trying to tell me I was less than average
When I was just an individual
Above a point of comparison
Excelling in conceptual understanding
Debating and good energy

I could construct social interaction
Like gold, I learn to read people
The power in my phone
I learned that it wasn’t the diploma that I should be proud of
Not the thing I sought after
Not what I would show my little sisters and brothers
To show them how to live better, how to be stronger
Burn brighter. Burn longer.
So here I am
Red faced and scared
spoken word
was hiding, but always there
in between my math teachers scrunched brow
Was the answer
I could have cheated if I had known how
If I knew what question that needed answered
Had realized it was never in his book
I should have listened to what I saw
Not to the math test I took
I
Am
Not
Stupid
I haven’t failed by choosing something outside of school
That I am not defined by the score
By numbers or lines
By this institutional rules
Test scores or even rhymes
I am not less than average
I just don’t average out
That power isn’t really in a piece of paper
Power is found in your words
And chosen behavior
That silence and insecurity
Means nothing really
The answer wasn’t in his book
It was in his look
And his persistence to prove
I
Am
Not
Stupid
He just wasn’t good enough with words to prove it.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
The poem was inspired by a particular photo of the WT C, and after that by my first visit to the 9/11 Memorial.  On the day of 9/11, I was working about a diagonal mile away, and from our windows, we could see people jumping to their death.

Open sky annulled
to bordered lines of
uptown edges,
worldview momentarily
forcibly redefined by
memories of buildings and sadder days,
recollections of pillars of biblical smoke rising

A photograph
makes me look up,
and sit down historically,
need to catch a breath,
to rest mentally,
upon a storied small bridge's steps,
that I well recall,
a disappeared street stoop.
all were rubble then and once
upon that day.

Wear, tear, and older eyes distill perspective,
but the hardy heart is hardly stilled
by the recognizable gray upon
bon vivant gray reflective surfaces of
memories of buildings and sadder days

So today, on a reborn street,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn, but
nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
silently weeping, thinking that:

We throw away so much we should have kept.
We keep so much we should have thrown away.

Lose keepsakes, but keep our mysterious sadnesses
locked away in compartments that open only to
benedictions uttered in ancient tongues.

Make your own list,
be your own curator,
catalogue visions of sophomoric triumphs,
museum mile pile
those early poetic drafts,
be unafraid of memories
raw and ungentrified,
overlaid, buried underneath
postmortem of dust-piles of senior critiques

Finally went downtown to see
where the blessed water falls
into catacomb pits that once
were the foundations
of buildings that ruled the cityscape,
downtown anchors
for a modern city that exists
only because it was built on
million year old granite bedrock

Stone monuments are stolid, discrete.
Memories are of grayed, frayed edge consistency.
Negatives resurrected that survive digitally,
all blend synthetically, layer upon layer,
essence distilled in a single,
black and white photograph
that serves to
disturb complacency,  
awaken stilled pain,
reflections suppressed,
are restored
Written August 2013
Yenson Aug 2018
So it came to pass at last and sad to know a Timber has fallen
It stood in strength tall and strong for over seven decades
Resplendently toned it spread an uncompromising foliage
Masterly in domain magical in reach attaining untold grades
Humble in origins yet grew with endeavour and knowledge
Distinguishably it cut sway in tundra and in lush green glades

Son of sons of the Land held roots countenancing no crawling
It reached for the stars and danced reasons with every shades
Ran with the sun and sat with owls and vipers for tutelage
Sweeping the very highs and the lows in communal trades
In the jungle of sharks and vipers it be known who's in Charge
A Timber has fallen while the rains falls and blue clouds fades

There's now a mighty hole in the earth and rivers are swollen
Leaves scatter and branches beckon hundreds of onward bridges
Leaving best Princess, flowers and saplings for love and largesse
A notable trunk laid supine free to roam without worldly cages
Odes will enter dancing in guises and tears flow without finesse
A Timber has fallen and dirges will ring out for a man of all ages

Yemessia bows and says Adieu My Senior, we will meet again.....


[email protected]
Carter Ginter Sep 2013
Less than a year now
The count is spiraling down
Soon we'll be gone
Far out of this town.

You never really see
How little time we really hold
Until it's lost
And we've long since grown old.

I thought I'd have no one to leave
Besides those in my family
Then he said those words
"I'm gonna miss you guys like crazy"

Why'd you have to go and make this worse?
Give me more reason to dread our escape
As much as I hate the people of this place
My heart will still be bent out of shape.

I can't help to feel anger
Towards those who said growing up would be fun
Our parents warned being a grown up would ****
But still society poisoned the minds of the young.

And now here I am at 17
Senior year and college plans
A dead bank account and my very best friend
And we're facing the challenges hand in hand

We're scared as ever
Leaving our family and our world behind
To be off on our own
And no longer within parents bind.
Storm Dec 2018
I don’t know what I’m reading.

I stare and stare and stare at the book given to me by my professor but can’t bring myself to open it, because I don’t know what I’m reading. It’s not in a foreign language that I’m having a hard time translating, because ironically, that would be far too easy. It’s in my native language, the words registering to my brain like breathing, but I still don’t know what I’m reading.

What are these authors saying, as they twist and weave their words into a world that everyone around me seems to understand? I can see the surface level of what the author is trying to say, and if I try hard enough I know I can scratch at it to see the layer right underneath, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

“Don’t give excuses,” my professor says, and I know it comes across as an excuse as I try to explain that I can’t tell anyone what the underlying meaning of this scene means, or the symbolism it’s supposed to represent, since it goes flying over my head like a bird narrowly avoiding collision.

“You need to participate,” my professor says, and I know I need to try but how can I when everything that takes ages for me to think of is said within the first five minutes of class discussion? What takes me an hour takes my classmates a minute; what takes time for me to raise my hand for takes my classmates to the next topic, my contribution long past relevant.

How do I survive college this way? How do I get by when writing is what I’m good at, but I can’t understand the writing of other authors and poets who put just as much work into their stories as I do? I am a fraud; the looks of confusion and shame I receive when I state my major to the world are well-deserved.

“Could you share with the class?” my professor asks before we are dismissed, the eyes of my classmates tearing into my soul as I try to bring the words to my lips that I know will never come. What could I say to everyone that expects an intelligent conversation from a college senior?

“I’m sorry professor,” I say. “I can’t.” And I sag under the weight of disappointment.

It’s not my fault, after all. I don’t know what I’m reading.
college is getting to me. send help.
Deb Jones Oct 2017
As a child
We live the life given to us

As an adult
We live the life we made for us

As a Senior
We again live the life given to us
I am not a senior yet. May the last line have little value later in my life.
L B Apr 2018
There comes the disbelief
and the day
when a daughter comes to tell
the matter

And she knows you can't help
She knows there's no way
to convince
that afternoon to think about it....

No way to stop the fire in the leaves
of the driest April in twenty years
as it blackens the acres
and blurs the eyes
to all but its own emergency

Before it
the hay of last year's weeds
and all those buds that hope conceives

the flight of all that lives...

The plight before...
...The fire-line...

forces every hand
to the pure product of heat and light--
then to ash
and not to ask "This once was living?"

A senior class wrote their friend good-byes
...could not bring herself to...
...bring herself there....

She had to bring the mourning home
to make alive
to raise the sun--

"He slammed the medicine chest
And saw....
walked through the kitchen
opened the frig for the zillionth time...
Then walked a mile
in the woods behind his house."

Warm for April
short-sleeve warm

"...And I keep thinking
how the sun must've felt on his face and arms
He must've been swinging the jug
and--
WHAT WAS HE THINKING?

They found the empty amber
a hundred yards behind....

I keep seein' 'im put the handful to 'is mouth...
...Then the jug...
He must've had to swallow hard
They say you could tell
...where he stumbled...
...by the leaves...
...found 'im    on 'is side    with the jug
...just beyond    'is hand...

Oh Ma!  
I CAN'T!  I CAN'T!"

...So I--
"Maybe he was mouthing the words to a song.
...anyway the birds went on
and he was still warmed by the April sun

when they found him."
My daughter, Phoebe knew the kid who didn't make it.  We all know them.

...And there is nothing we can do-- but be there in this first real grief, thanking God for the gift of them, for every day--  giving them back to the giver of life along our sad way.
This castle held the fantasy
Fantasy  became the speaker
Fantasy gave  me joy, fun,  a longing to last forever
Reality revealed the reasons to "real".
What is the reason love dies?
What is the reason for a hug that halts and never heals?
Why does the carousel continue to ride flashing lights in memories?
Why is a dream short-lived?
I wrote myself out of the fantasy.
Reality  defines the whims, my whines, my failed rhythm in a rhyme.
Reality gives reason why the lights in the castle go dim.
Ah!...I beg, I say; save reality to the senior years to one's existence.
Give fantasy a slow race, a slow run to the finish line....


Sandra-Lee Hutt.....Tones In Twilight Creations.com
I know there is God In our body part.
All we got to do, is listen to his voice.
Yes he does speak to our heart;
We will never go astray if we listen to his voice.
We are far from him, we are far from being good.
God created us in his own image.
We are far from being good.
God is not a fool all the wrongs he see, one need to change.
We all know there is God in everyone’s heart.
All we got to do is to give him our time.
We all know there is God in a man heart.
All we forgot to do is to give him our time.
All we have to do, is listen to his voice.
We are far from being good, we have to listen to his voice.

               Written by The Senior 28/08/2017
I'm Responsible (The 14)
Jessica Dec 2018
Have you ever tasted
The bitter wine
From the night before?
When the senior twilight washed the
Grapes from wrath
And the moonlight clipped our heels
On that midnight path
Lips were gleaming with yesterday
Sounds of laughter
Escaping the memory
And the glass that held the remnants
Fell over and shattered
We never walked across it
Because the damage never mattered
Just that moment
Together
Until we tossed
It away, as well-
Lost it...
The same way
We lost the wine
But not the after taste
Next page