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Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
. you're using all the right words: for all the wrong reasons... and let's face it: if women own the monopoly on reproductive avenues... then men hold the ego-key, to slot their presence, through a door, that curbs or gives allowances, to what is thought... *** was nether a transluçent enterprise... oh look... the Roma sigma pops up... dire straits: de profundis - money for nothing riff - boogie boogie... milkshakes from the 1950s 'n' all... you know what my biggest pet peeve is? the englih language imitating ancient Latin, i.e. not applying diacritical "punctuation" markers to close in on syllables and make the language atomic (i.e. H is hydrogen, He is helium)... **** me... the same Brits who lived in the 19th century, are not the same Brits living in the 21st century... no wonder the fertility rate is s ****** low.... try ******* an english bride... no thank you; i'd rather **** a female gorilla.

the milkman passes my house
at, circa, 3am...
see the van skid around the bend
up the hill...
            
i listen to music at volumes
equivalent to my father working
the construction site -
i'll be deaf by the time i'm 50...
     and guess what:
                  for the music i'm listening
to? it'll be worth it...

dittoing out:
   have the criticism of post-modernists
ever suffer?
doubt: doubt, is the modern
relief from existentialist
    negation...
  
why is doubt being attacked?
doubt is half than that outright
******* of denial
proposed by French existentialists...
doubt is good in that it's
tornado of emotions,
you want to imitate Christ on
Golgotha?
  you doubt, and achieve the pinnacle
of the passion...
you start negating?
     you're, nowhere...

    on your own...

came the noun-phobia of philosophers -
the tinkers and tailors
of a.. what seems to be:
a noun-phobia
  guaranteed with fog...
   and thing..

  the term
  "thing" presupposes
the supposition of tree...
     which subsequently serves
the proposition: let's hide in it!

      philosophy and its infamous
noun-phobia -
               thing...
           and it's nihil...
  its nothing...
      
                 a ******* cul de sac -
     epigram -
       of quasi morse encoding -
     braille to boot -
September is coming -
           van Morrison (moondance) -
hiding autumnal chill -
           pan-Europeanism:
proto-"africa": either in Hindustan -
or Siberia;

suppose a moon, suppose a shadow by
candlelight, some edgy urban solo -
as a bricklayer i could raise kids
and crux on a woman -
          chicken / doctoral itching with
a blunt nail are called scratchings -
       hand-writing:
             less digits in the digital
formatting - and more
calligraphy...
                      the rotten handwriting
of general practitioners...
     Hippocrates might have made an oath...
but in terms of a handwritten cipher?
no clue...
               the canvas of a monkey
onomatopoeia within the confines
of a custard of a lexicon...
   a mouth thus opens -
a month begins -
instead of a tongue ejected from
the ivory temple -
  a sludge crescendo of a quasi
                 cascade of sludge gluing the
whole theater into
a replica of a Russian drinking game...

....                 ⠞⠓
          ...     ⠑⠁⠑
     ...           ⠞⠑
    ............                  ⠞
...                      ⠥ ⠎
     : : :           -  ⠎          
   ........ : ....           ⠕?

100 wolves of the continent...
for, but 1, fox,
of the English isles...
   i'll settle for that ratio...
and then i'll bite to ensure
a signature!

  howl all you want...
but have you ever found seagulls
annoying up the river?
more annoying than magpies
or crows?
             the wolves can howl
all they want..
ever endear the ear
to hear a fox "laughing"?
   no?
  might as well listen to me.
i cradle that sound,
above the chariots
of a human newborn...
        i grieve!
   i am... sombre gsture...
    a past, a passing,
a future, a wicker man within:
torch...
   banquette of souls!

    let's interlude -

   touko "tom" laaksonen -
    how can people "do" sober
           when entertaining such
extravagances....
        is it empathy, or sympathy?
            in the name of the either,
with either being the sum
of what wll never be a sum
allowance,....
     to gain from...
                  why not
       ****-ease up the ****
    for a zeppelin-esque
                            bomb drop -
(minor the Nagasaki) -
                    and hand-piked ****
with the cusp of your hand -
         throne of thrones -
  flagship?
   "king of kings":
  like ****...
  the holy trinity of
       the no. 1, as the no. 2,
   and subsequently the no. 3:
**** (father),
       take a **** (son)...
            ******* (the holy ghosts)...
king of kings,
never sat on the throne
of thrones...
   i always hated "artists"...
    painters -
   plagiarists -
      cheque sketchers...
             plagiarists...
         ******* indentation
from holding a pen to add to having
exposure to a grammatical examination...
       quality cinema:
panorama take on a versus of
heavy editing...
                     and there was a time
frame to encompass dialogue...
      somehow it fits:
the verbal myopic -
            the entire pre-
& post- canvas of a blinking eye...
   always the question of the
pre-industrialißed sketch;
words predating metaphor
akin to  -
  words versus metaphor
in genesis -
   format? anecdotal.

      in writing:
            by one hand alone,
made into two...
        my, my...
  what a ****** self-portrait
"assumption"...
        a self-portrait...
a wish for color,
with nothing to show,
but the relief of encompassed bones;
that become a disembodied
skeleton - minus a purpose
of tendon attachments...

∟          "contra"    Δ          -
equilateral my ***...

            a few days spent within the confines
of a Promethean *****,
     there be, elemental insomnia
of an electric bespoke...
if Prometheus stole fire,
who, in in all for ****'s sake
stole the saber of Zeus,
the thunderbolt -
electricity, who?
who craved the insomnia?!
             this Frankenstein-esque
insomnia-zombification -
             white as is white:
with all the dermatological
copper take on broken shins...
         should ivory coco -
come between piglet *** copper
auburn in terms of autumn...
******...
             *******!

take your ****** *** elsewhere,
and then... start spelling
it with a missing G...
when citing Niger...
  you do the double dip of the NBA...
you count the second dip...
why do i love Batman as the best
superhero?
  not of his superhero powers,
he has none...
          his enemies are
the only interesting
counter-factoids of
having implemented an existence
for.
   there is no exacting of
a superhero,..
   but there is enough
to mind an antithesis...

          tylko wieśniak
by wydział film w tym,
          bo sie nie rusze -
    cegła, kamień -
       pień - mur -
           i by mówił - w tym
co zamarzło -
          to co ostygłe -
    w co z tym samym -
        meine filmisch -
      i skakaniem świec -
   od i na nagim cieniem -
   pytać nad pyche -
       tanz! tanz!
                 moje iskry słów...
   sto! i lat,
    o wielbłąd churem o
grzbiet da, i da,
       iskra; alfabetu!
    bogiem impromptu
o czym warty: -gień.


- suppose a moon, suppose a shadow,
by candlelight - within the confines of
mercury - that quickened silver -
some edgy urban solo -

      as a bricklayer or a cobbler  -
shoes that deviate from ushering
an echo -
          i could raise children and keep
a woman: only if she decided
upon not allowing me
a leash -
            what a saddening affair
of minds and freedom...
           chicken doctoral -
i don't know: vanity of the impossible
mortal gain...

    the monkey onomatopoeia
    within the confines of a custard
of  lexicon....

          that Victorian image proof
source of envisioned Braille in
the confines of a primate...
  
handwriting:
itches, scratches, chicken esque
clucking... which is what
handwriting looks like these days,
what, with the coding...
    semi plumber,
half the electrician...
  and certainly null when it comes
to calligraphic invigoration...

- homosexuality was always a contingency
escapade to release suppressed yearnings -
a sudden but a non-fulfillment questioning
celibacy...

               you can enforce curbing homosexuality,
but then there are two outlets...
the perversity: or the question...
of Ayn and Sophia...
                          
        greeks ****** the hebrews in the hole
without an outlet - zee heed: with a missing A...
      Ayn - Aleph -
                    twin Adam -
          perhaps a Siamese abomination...

mind you... the forbidden fruit?
sounds more like... the forbidden flesh...

thee burdensome walking
the already burdened earth: as the fruit,
somewhere between the flesh of man's last predator,
contained, on land, and his hidden desire
for revenge and introspection,
a denial of commonality and shared purpose -
thou shall not consume
that which also hunts you -
little or no concern with equal
     measure of forbidding, that which you pet...
the forbidden "fruit",
in between the flesh of a sabertooth tiger,
and Cain's fruit of famine and incompetence:
               cannibalism...

   and why would you think about
drinking a ms. amber with pepsi...
pepsi! to coca -
and not slide in a slice of lemon
while you're at it?
  terrible mistake...
       well... one way to get y'er vit amins...

        and why is it that all the best
movies these days are about homosexuals?
the dutch girl for starters...
   me, drinking, watching t.v.?
either **** good drama,
a western,
   or a movie about a *******
homosexual...
          did i mention that i think that
homosexuality is an auxiliary escapade plan?
natural, of course,
    but i'd hate to have to life
a doubled up life -
then again...
     perhaps i would...
           me? i have a new girlfriend -
Sophia - and her ****: Philip -
           so am i expected to make demands
for the child they might end up
called Ayn, or Aleph?
                - the Wahhabi hypocrisy
    concerning music, or rather, censoring it...
but... but i thought the adhan:
the call to prayer: was sung,
rather than abiding by the catholic
credo murmur?
     no?
                         my bad... you know better...
i'll send you a postcard from
the Galapagos Islands,
if i find the time, to find:
    that 4th dimensional concept doing
the trigonometric shoom! elsewhere -
on a tangen "bias": **** knows where -
like a comet - missing a tail -
shoom!                                       gone.

shrapnel:

            not enough thrills for a hard-on...
... images... drawings...
   apparently fine art is not enough
stimulation to ******* to for these Arabs...
****? .....   in general?
cartoons.... cartoons of women....
   ... because?
well... apparently the niqab...
  extends beyond the realm of...
  readily available attire...
            women on the street?
   pornographic "actresses"?
                       you see the cartoon?
it's all ******* ******...
                  oh don't get me wrong...
amy adams?
  buff as an exploding Hindenburg...
    the pale ginger - milchskin...
                - unrelated:
   how about i sneak a skunk into
        a coco chanel perfumery -
while advocating that people will still
call it a: scent just shy of roses and strawberries.

- people have heard of incels -
but have they heard of Vcels?
    huh?!
   yeah, yeah... voluntary celibacy -
i know what a ****** sounds and looks like -
and, to be honest?
   there's hardly any rhetorical ***
involved -
         a bit like jerking off...
              monkish chants -
Byzantine -
     the fear of man,
   when his own inability flourishes:
     in a woman...
                          
these acts have become well trodden...
so well trodden that i'm
authentically surprised that anyone
would still goosestep them into
their mundane plagiarism's existence...
    replica invigoration:
turns out...
    
   zeit ist nicht gerade, aber
kreisförmig
...

                              touko "tom" laaksonen...
i.e. tom of finland...
   question: you think a macron over
one of those As
                     would do the trick in terms
of spelling correction?

  touko "tom" laaksonen...
you seriously can only watch European cinema
while drinking...
    again... invigorating the english language:
one baby step at a time -
a simple grapheme -

    the vater's S Z interchangeability -
   synchronised contra synchronized -
    settled -
    synchronißed -
                       sometimes the slithering S
of a snake -
   otherwise the rigid totem with
a torso of a zebra...
                     hardly a major investment -
but when i see English having moved
from the Elizabethan Shaky Steward of
thou etc. -
       imitating ancient Latin -
    coordinating the Greenwich study of
dyslexia...
            Joyce...
              no diacritical application?
   hell...
                 might as well release a bull
into a China shop...
                 or a rottweiler into chicken shack...
still... why is there an orthographic aesthetic
in practice, hovering over I and J,
  when there's no difference, as suggested
in CAPiTAL letterIng?
                                       ah... i see...
the english "think" they can bypass the para-
frontier, and the orthographic frontier
and race down to the metaphysics...
        first?
   you explain why it's i and not ι,
  and why it's j and not ȷ.
Jenny Jul 2018
the electricity runs through our veins
and past the street signs we rumble by
in the car you stole, we go fifty above the speed limit,
the roof of the car is the noir sky above
and the midnight rain pelts our upturned faces
the dancing drops of water drip onto our smiling lips
the sound of the sky collapsing
echoes the flashes that streak the sky,
the flickering light casts paved roads with a brief brightness
(as if god were wearing light up sketchers)
the lacy brallette that wears me
gives me the bravery to stand up in the speeding car
the velvet pants that ripple with the wind
drink up the nighttime rain
and the rare headlights race past us,
heading into homes and hearts
the mellow playlist that connects the aux cord to our ears blasts
so loud, we can no longer hear our insecurity
the mascara that once clung to my eyelashes
now streams down my face.
on a two way street,
we drive down the middle
unafraid in the face of direct dangers
so unaware of the towering empty skyscrapers
and instead highly exhilarated
from the street signs we drive by
too fast to read the blocky lettering
the road signs glint, smiling as we wave and reach towards them
the cigarettes you smoked are thrown through the open window,
still smothering slightly.
i can still taste the smoke on your lips
and your hand tucks my hair behind my ear
and as the wind objects and inhales
unreal in the hazy a.m. car trip
the tunnel rushes towards us,
and we both hold our breaths,
as if breathing would contaminate us.
the lights that glint, cast a yellow-white glow
and for once, i see you for who you are
a boy too buzzed to feel
a kid who only felt "sort of"
a person who couldn't heal
and a lover who could never give love
about a boy who was my living teenage dream // nothing scarier than finding a broken loveless boy who makes you the same
Brandi Clark Dec 2014
Im split in two,
Like a pair of old shoes,
One is in the dryer,
The other caught fire,
And I dont know what to do.

Well my mom shouts,
" darlin you cant leave this house..
Til you've got both shoes on your feet!"
But even if I found both shoes,
Id still be incomplete.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
Reworked and resubmitted, and this time to stay.
Anything you say can and will be used...


excited utterances,
acerbic witticisms,
utter stupidities,
elegant inanities

can and most assuredly
will be used
evidentially, eventually,
about you
in the court of poetic
justice

as inspiration,
original source material,
proofs of our collaboration
with the enemy,
whom Pogo
fathomed long ago, is
us

a Vermeer-vectored light ray
will reveal with luminous clarity,
all that you have spoken,
been secret-thinking,
template of colors for
future etch-a-sketchers,
inspiration for future poets,
far, far better than
me

this dishonorable, low repute,
poetic eavesdropper,
poet-as-recorder:
revels in the smoke and ash of
absurd, common sensible
trash,

the trite and tragic,
the pith and prissy,
the calm and hissy

all your lovely revelations
of human frailty
and asininity,
most adorable,
(except for those scarface
treatises I despise as
never justified
self-pity)

that you n' I are blessed
to have combinated
in a manner most
curiously original,
now recorded in my
digital memory,
proving positive the unique,
discreet charmes de notre
humanité

Even your silences are
most curious fodder,  
the sighs you sigh
so hard
and yet again, even
harder

unfair game, mined as
veins of golden material
for my aquatic scribblings,
as I float downriver on
currents of compulsion
to promote vicariously,
our joint disjointedness,
our grade A, prime choice,
recombinant and genetically improved
absurdities

Rembrandt will honor us,
we as the Comedic Elders of the City,
paint us upright
avec expressions most suitably gravitas,
but see the poetic jester,
funning underneath the table,
in manner most levitas,
out-sticking his
protubered tongue,
like a common geni-***,
a la maniere de
Einsteiny
and he will be
the one
future generations recall

when I cross over the Styx,
limbs turned to
potash, dust and trash,
my blush transferred to earth,
to color the good earth red,
my body eradicated yet,
our body of work extant
a written record of us,
our very own
Dead See Scrolls,
shall be an amuse bouche
for our loyal satrapped
retainers

Let the scholars

dicker and obfusicate,
delve and explicate,
each turn of phrase

write tomes on the
catacombs, where in
jar and cracked vessel discarded,
these Poems and Catechisms,
the collected processes
of our mutualism,
your edicts,
pronouncements and verdicts
captured as
dots and dashes,
zeroes and ones,
wait most patiently
for shepard boys to find  
in the year 2300

you err most grievously,
if you relegate
this note
to the dustbin of
simple ditties.

take these words
at plain face,
and
look not askance
at this fair warning,
for I am
but a tragic,
empty vessel
for you to fill,
you are the raconteur,
me, just a  
poet poseur~extraordinaire,
street urchin,
word merchant,
all my verbally,
wordly goods expropriated
from the wind,  
where your scattered thoughts
lie about, carelessly
unattended

Mock me not,
for anything
you say to our chagrin,
will be fully attributed
and recorded on the Web
of long-lived
embarrassments

A fevered dream
you might say,
rumors and excuses of a
vision of drug induced haze?

a theorem most plausible,
but the redacted versions
will not conceal
that all my words
were Indo-rooted in
a dialect called
collaborative

this I pen
partly as apology,
partly thank you note,
written notice,
subpoena served,
for as long
as you emote,
my fingertips
will gleefully record
with love abundant
in their artful device,
your mutterings, putterings,
and in-cahooting

right here, shall be,
wrought and wrote,
treasured and kept
anything you say
that can and will be used...
to express our communitas

Written June 1, 2011
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
Dedicated to you.
Fair Warning: a long road ahead*

MAJOR WARNING: Anything you say can and will be used...


Excited utterances,
Acerbic witticisms,
Utter stupidities,
Elegant inanities,
Can and assuredly will be used
Evidentially, eventually,
about you in the court of poetic justice,
as inspiration, original source material,
proofs of our collaboration
with the enemy,
whom Pogo fathomed long ago,
is us

A Vermeer-vectored light ray
will reveal with luminous clarity,
all that you have spoken,
been secret-thinking,
template of colors for future sketchers,
inspiration for future poets,
far, far better than me

this dishonorable, low repute,
poetic eavesdropper, poet-as-recorder:
revels in the smoke and ash of
absurd, common sensible trash,
the trite and tragic,
the pith and prissy,
the calm and hissy,
all your lovely revelations
of human frailty and asininity, most
adorable

that you n' I are blessed
to have combinated
in a manner most
curiously original,
now recorded in my
digital memory,
proving positive the unique,
discreet charms de notre
humanity

Even your silences are
most curious fodder,  
the sighs you sigh so hard
and yet again, even harder,
unfair game, mined as
veins of golden material
for my aquatic scribblings,
as I float downriver on
currents of compulsion
to promote vicariously,
our joint disjointedness,
our grade A, prime choice,
recombinant genetic,
absurdities

Rembrandt will honor us,
we, the Comedic Elders of the City,
paint us upright avec expressions
most suitably gravitas,
but see the poetic jester,
find him underneath the table,
in manner most levitas,
out-sticking his protubered tongue,
like a common geni-***,
a la maniere de
Einsteiny

When I cross over the Styx,
limbs turned to
potash, dust and trash,
my blush transferred to earth,
to color the good earth red,
my body eradicated yet,
our body of work extant
a written record of us,
our very own
Dead See Scrolls,
shall be an amuse bouche
for our loyal satrapped
retainers

Let the scholars
dicker and obfusicate,
delve and explicate,
each turn of phrase,
write tomes on the catacombs,
where in jar and cracked vessel discarded,
these Poems and Catechisms,
the collected processes of our mutualism,
your edicts, pronouncements and verdicts
captured as
dots and dashes,
zeroes and ones,
wait most patiently
for shepard boys to find  

You err most grievously,
if you relegate this note
to the dustbin of simple ditties.

Take these words at plain face,
and look not askance
at this fair warning,
for I am but a tragic,
empty vessel for you to fill,
you are the raconteur,
me, just a  
poet *poseur
extraordinaire,
street urchin, word merchant,
all my verbally, wordly goods expropriated
from the wind,  where your scattered thoughts
lie about, carelessly,
unattended

Mock me not,
for anything you say to our chagrin,
will be fully attributed
and recorded on the Web
of long-lived embarrassments

A fevered dream you might say,
rumors and excuses of
visions of drug induced haze?
a theorem most plausible,
but the redacted versions will not conceal
that all my words were Indo-rooted in
a dialect called,
collaborative

This I pen
as apology, thank you note,
written notice, subpoena served,
for as long as you emote,
my fingertips will gleefully record
with love abundant in their artful device,
your mutterings, putterings,
and in cahooting,
right here, shall be,
wrought and wrote,
treasured and kept
Anything you say can and will be used...to express our community

Written June12011
birdy Mar 2021
Messy hair and stained white shirts.
The laughing stock of this tiny stage.
Stare at your feet,
Velcro sketchers covered in sand.
Kate Browning Apr 2012
She brought cookies, in a
Ziploc bag, to my door.
I tugged on Mom’s
Carpet-textured sweater.

We swung on a swing
And she showed me
Her loose tooth. I pointed
At the Band-Aid on my knee.

The color of honey,
Inside a plastic
Bear, is what
Her hair looked like.

Red, black, neon yellow;
Caterpillars flooded
Our shared cigar box.
Then the tree-leaves fell.

We stomped our Sketchers
Behind her mom
And mine. They filled
Baskets with glue sticks.

Yellow buses opened
Their tall doors. They mouthed
At us to grow. The caterpillars
Laughed. So I grabbed her fingers.
Rowan Sep 2018
There's a huge bean bag in the corner
the color of rusted tree
and a white painted outline to hold two drawers
of colorful condoms next to the Keurig Machine.
Three circular winded fanciful lights strung above,
shedding semicircular splotches on the walls.
Looking out on the Brooklyn Bridge in the 1893
painted on in black and grey haunts.
There's a magnetic pillar to the left of the too-deep chairs
that at least are comfortable,
but no one has legs that long.
A magazine rack to the right lends a variety of color, from
Love Match to Lavender, it's a mismatch island.
Smells like plastic and a cold air, with a hint of college sweat.
And there's the squeaky roller chair full of business textbooks and drawings of pigeons and bitten fingernails and arms that lead to the edges of the paper.
Masked with worn All Star sketchers and three clocks ticking,
Long labored skies and horcruxes gathered round the edges.
Yet somehow with all the oddities combined,
it's safe and sound under the flag including.
Brandi Clark Apr 2021
Im split in two,
Like a pair of old shoes,
One is in the dryer,
The other caught fire,
And I dont know what to do.

Well my mom shouts,
" darlin you cant leave this house..
Til you've got both shoes on your feet!"
But even if I found both shoes,
Id still be incomplete.
12/5/2014
Alexander Nelson Sep 2013
for now my eyes feast, on the great famine at least
how appetizing it is, to feel ***** swell in your throat like fiz
nobody cares that you have something to contribute
they just want *** and attention
to increase the hypertension, so sleep evades
and weakness of the mind body and soul pervades
every corner of your mouth
every cracked bloodied lip and spike
driven into your chest, bled out trailing south
ignorant steps with sketchers on your chest
they want to be ****** on your coffin and the rest
they want you to hear it when your life ends
when time bends and your mind extends, cranial fluid dripping
saddened eyes drooping, maddened lies falling apart
drama takes center stage as the hot lead part
briannah rae Sep 2017
she wore
her clothes
for the sole purpose
of not
being naked.
she didn't care
about looks.
she wore
shapeless baggy jeans
with a shapeless baggy tee
and ***** old sketchers.
and yet she was
the most
beautiful girl
to walk the halls.
her stringy brown hair
curtained her face
and it was clear
of any makeup.
she was so real.
so true.
so confident
in her own skin.
she didn't care
about the opinions
of others.
and oh
were there opinions.
they called her
ugly.
they called her
a loser.
the called her weird.
and yet
i was so
jealous of her.
of her ability
to dress however.
to never wear makeup.
to never style her hair.
to not even care
what people think.
it seems like
people dress me.
i have to wear
what they like.
i have to wear makeup.
i have to straighten
my naturally curly hair.
i have to wear
a mask.
meanwhile she wore
her clothes
for the sole purpose
of not
being naked.
Traveler Jun 2015
Word sketcher
In waiting rooms
And stalls
Incomplete thoughts
Writings unresolved

Bits and pieces
In boxes
He hoards
Parts and pieces
Of his very core

Inspired thoughts
That found no rhyme
Lovers lost
Between scribbles
And lines

Perhaps someday
He'll write his book
With incomplete sentences
That have no hooks

Or passionate themes
Of romantic dreams
That run amok
When the telephone rings

And so another lost thought
Of the sketchers get boxed...
Jasmin A Dec 2016
O pleasant one
staring at the sun
ruin your eyes and bloom sunflowers
from the pupils of your idiocy

make friends with the girl in the marching band
tell her the sketchers bring out her heart
bring tears to her eyes because she
likes the sound of your heartbreak

show mother that her beauty is more
than her makeup
and her tears at night as she tries to
give you a father

paint the laughs of the people in Dubai
when you visit in the summer
after college and make the rain
your favorite because you can't stop it anyway

share the warmth of your pretty skin
with someone who will leave in 2 minutes
to board the plane and leave a hole
forever in your heart

make everything alright in your last
breaths and let your children
who cry beside you know they are extraordinary
and you forgive them for the mess with the blender
when they were twelve

you're grand so let them feel your grandness
leave every last bit of your heart
in the quiet streets you walk through
love... endlessly
j.***
ruby stains Dec 2014
she was like those /light-
up sketchers/ {or a} <pair> of
worn out h e e l y  . s;
*gone.
keď bola číslo jedna : if she was number one in javanese form
rjr Apr 2017
In the back kitchen you'll find
two boys scrubbing dishes.
One loud mouthed and lanky;
the other stout with broken English.

Amongst soap suds and grime,
clothed in long black aprons,
these two teens share a bond
stronger than mugs of ceramic.

Though the mason jars may chip
and hot dinner plates burn their fingers,
minimum wage is the thing
that keeps this quirky pair together.

And they dance around the kitchen
in those slip resistant sketchers
balancing bowls, pots, and pans.
Graceful as expert choreographers.
Shoutout to Jaime, Drake, and Hunter.
tompoet rwanda Jul 2018
"Alone in my city"

It is a silent night
I'm Standing out here on a reddish black lavander,
I'm Lonely and lights are creepy bimming,
The pleasant breeze of Gikondo
Are smelling like blossoming roses,
And i glance at the scattered
Low glimming lights of Nyamirambo,
And eye a surreal joyful avalanche.

I grab my phone and start swinging
around the front balcony,
recording my voice singing one of dualipa's songs,
My voice sounds ridiculous
and i hate it,maybe i have
to train it out In the rain.

And i'm Longing to dance like no one is watching,
Because nobody's around for me,
It makes me feel bored and anxious,
And i can't help but lock all the doors
And every familiar window,
my white short,brownish black jumper
and dark red nike sketchers are ready
i need to step out for a while,
And have an ounce wander down my city.

Hot teens of my age are here,
I'm not standoffish,i do some cares,
Beautiful girls with black hairs
and pile black eyes are wandering here,
With skinny ripped jeans
fitting their big sized hips
And my eyes can't help but stuck on
Their cleavage and woow silently,
My city is really too serene and surreal.
Why do women that i like
Always say **** like
"I like you , but I'm not ready for
something serious!"....right ....

Sounds like ******* to me
Cuz if she liked me she'd be
Ready, but instead she
Doesn't sag what she means

Cuz what she means is
"I think I'll wait for someone better"
Cuz I'm good enough to be
Friend zoned,  but she'll never

Admit I'm not good enough ever
Cuz I've seen this before
Some people get scared hearing
Gun shots but A closing door

Causes me way more horror
Cuz truth is the whole package
Doesn't consist of a fat body
Cuz I maybe cute but unattractive

Overall, so overhauled yet again
Is the familiar reflection
That personifies rejection
So I'll answer the question

Of why she doesn't like me
Cuz I'm a sketchers, not Nike
a no name handbag, when Gucci
Gets the coochi, so ***** likely

Will go to some ******* unlike me
With less heart to offer
who will take her for granted
But as long as he's hotter

Or makes money like a doctor
He's automatically above
I guess that's why I need drugs
The only substitution for love

To fill, what never will be filled
By a companion, cuz a bangin
Full gallery of Personality,, don't
Beat salary, so hangin

Like a man from a rope
as suicide takes air out his throat
Left dead, is my chance to advance
like I choke on hops

So of course back to dope
Is how I cope, but I know that
All I have to offer, isn't hotter
than the beauty of a 6 pack

Left wishing I was like crack
Like I was anything that stops me
From being inferior, like an exterior
Less inferior, so she'd want me

But like always all I'm wanting
Seems to just be too much
why can't someone want me
and not be , saying what she does

when she doesn't say
what she says , not saying it cuz
she don't wanna be rude and say The truth... I'm just not enough
Amanda Stoddard Jan 2015
Every 90 seconds someone in the U.S is sexually assaulted-
there are about 86,400 seconds in the day
which means 960 PEOPLE, not just women-
nine hundred and sixty PEOPLE are sexually assaulted per day.
293,000 people are reported getting ****** assaulted a year-
but 32% of those people don't report their ****** assault.
38% of ****** are someone they know
98% of rapists will never spend a single night in jail or in prison.
9 out of every 10 **** victims are female. 90%.
But don't forget about the 10% never forget about the 10%-

This is not the start of the poem-
just eight facts two show, how it only takes one.
B: We were both one. This is the start of the poem.
R: I was 15
A: I was 7
B: We weren't intoxicated, we weren't asking for it.
R: I was in sweatpants
A: I was in baggy jeans, a t-shirt and light up sketchers
R: I wasn't in a parking lot, or an alley.
A: We both thought we were safe, surrounded by four walls and bedsheets that seemed like home.
B: They seemed like home.
R: He was my boyfriend.
A: I think he was my brother's friend
B: They'll say he will wear a mask, or attack you in the dark-
R: My mom warned me about the city, to always carry pepper spray- but I wasn't prepared for when it was the boy from my hometown. I was running away in the wrong direction.
A: My mom always told me when I was younger never to talk to strangers, that they could take advantage. But she never warned me about the ones who lay between my own bedsheets- she never told me I would become afraid of my own shadow.
B: They never talk about the ones who are close to you. The ones who let you trust them.
R: Society blinded me, told me I was wrong for so long that two years went by before I realized.
A: It wasn't until I was 13 that the flashbacks came, when the boy who stole my innocence invaded my resting place too- I didn't think anyone would believe me, mental breakdowns fueled by just my memory. But my mom listened- my friends listened.
B: My brother still doesn't know. My dad still doesn't know.
A: And everyday I'm afraid of what they may think of me if they find out- maybe they'll believe me, maybe they won't. Someone stole my innocence and I'm afraid of crying out because the people close to me will never look at me the same way again- because of the things society likes to teach.. And it's somehow never HIS fault.
B: But it was HIS ******* fault.
B: We are the 1 in 5, we are the 2 out of every 10.
R: If there are 50 of us here, this is for the 10 of you in this room that have been or will be sexually assaulted-  
A: but mostly this is for all of you because never say "it can't happen to me", never think it can't happen to someone close to you.
B: It does, it will and it probably already has.

B: We are not just a ******* number in your ****** education textbook- and as each 90 seconds passes no one can stop time- but it feels like the hands of it are grasped around our neck and we can't quite call out for help because society is looking at us and saying, it will get better with time but 90 seconds still always passes and another person is still sexually assaulted.
A: We are people, living and breathing and dealing with these memories every single ******* day. They never teach you how to cope.
B: They only teach you how not to get *****- they never teach boys not to ****.  
R: Who's to say my 90 seconds won't come again.
B: It's not like mono or the chicken pox, it can happen again. This is society's cancer.
A: Someone needs to find a cure-
R: Maybe it would be found in a textbook if someone would just write-
B: DO NOT ****.
A: Maybe we should make a "How not to **** for dummies"
R: or maybe someone should write a step by step guideline mimicking a children's book.
B: This shouldn't be so difficult to understand. Just don't sexually assault- or assault at all for that matter.
B: [[stop the poem]]

Every 9 seconds a women is assaulted or beaten.
there are 86,900 seconds in a day
which means 96,000 women are assaulted or beaten per day.
1 one in 3 women world wide has been through abuse-
most often the abuser is in her own family.
Domestic violence is the leading cause of injury to women
more than car accidents, **** and muggings COMBINED.
Everyday in the U.S more than 3 women are MURDERED by their boyfriends or husbands.
B: [[Start the poem]]

A: Growing up I was told stories about how the men before my father placed their hands on my mother how they never should have.. Then I saw it first hand as one of my dad's drunken nights turned my face pale and my mothers blue. That was the first and the last time.
R: Growing up I never had to worry about a boy putting his hands on me, because they all knew how scary my brothers were. Until I moved away from home and this boy never met my brothers- so he wasn't afraid to. That was the first and the last time.
B: Domestic violence occurs every 9 seconds. Which means since the start of this poem roughly 30 PEOPLE have been beaten and roughly 6 PEOPLE have been sexually assaulted. Abuse and assault doesn't discriminate.
A: Don't let the struggle fuel your silence- do not let the wounds mask your voice, they will heal and you will find hope again.
B: You will find hope again.

B: There are 7 billion people on this earth
R: he said I was one in a million-
which means there are 7 thousands girls out there just like me for him to put his hands on. but i will not let him buy those other girls over without first paying for what he's done to me.
B: The first time around our abusers got away. They are part of the 98% that will never suffer the consequences.
A: I will not be a bridge for someone else to walk upon at will, I will be the water underneath always flowing and continuing despite the things that try to hold me back. I can turn to ice when my heart becomes cold from the memories and evaporate whenever the tensions get too hot to handle. But I will always keep rising and flowing until I shape these hardships into something beautiful.
R:


B: Numbers don't lie.
there's a spot on the rain website on how to reduce your risk for ****.
every 9 seconds-
75% of those who leave are more at risk of being killed.
Am I so silly
For sprouting possibilities of us
with my hand in enveloped in yours
If I haven’t gotten myself together to talk to you yet?
In my mind you’re as sweet at flan, or condensed milk on bread.
You could be a ****.
You could talk back to your mother,
Or worse, litter.
I wouldn’t know
Because I haven’t gotten myself to talk to you yet.
I observe your outfits. Some could say I borderline stalk you.
In a way that makes me cute because I’m so curious, but if our roles were reversed you’d definitely be called a creep.
I just want to observe you without getting too close.
The anticipation of rejection still worries me.

I told my mother about you, so don’t disappoint me.
Then again, how could you? Especially if I haven’t gotten myself to talk to you yet.
I blush when I think of your colored eyes, curly hair, or black Sketchers.
And you’re so tall
I wonder how much it’ll hurt to bend down when you kiss me.
I wouldn’t know what that feels like (yet), because I haven’t gotten the courage to talk to you.

I can’t help but wonder
If God is shaking His head because I’m slowly swirling into delusion.
Or if he’s cheering me on because His work with us is almost done.
It’d only make sense that we meet in His house.
Could we lock eyes as you move the basket down my pew?
And do you admire me from afar too?
I haven’t written in a while, so I would appreciate constructive criticism. Thank you!

— The End —