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Away! away!
  Tempt me no more, insidious Love:
      Thy soothing sway
  Long did my youthful ***** prove:
  At length thy treason is discern’d,
  At length some dear-bought caution earn’d:
Away! nor hope my riper age to move.

      I know, I see
  Her merit. Needs it now be shown,
      Alas! to me?
  How often, to myself unknown,
  The graceful, gentle, virtuous maid
  Have I admired! How often said—
What joy to call a heart like hers one’s own!

      But, flattering god,
  O squanderer of content and ease
      In thy abode
  Will care’s rude lesson learn to please?
  O say, deceiver, hast thou won
  Proud Fortune to attend thy throne,
Or placed thy friends above her stern decrees?
Lauren R Apr 2016
Dear God,

I don't know if you know this but we're counting on you. I don't believe in you, none of your healing touch is true. There are no pearly gates, no wise men, no father, son, and no holy ghost. There's just *******'s trophy little girl swaddled swamp bottoms and dumb men, just a ******, a suicidal-wanderer-mothers-help-squanderer, and teething-on-baby's-flesh demon.

God, you haven't cured me, or my boyfriend, he's still bleeding on the occasion, and not over candle lit dinners either. God, can't you see we're seething? God are you even listening? God are your ears sewn shut? Did some shotgun blow them off? That reminds me, God, that's your job. Please take away the shotguns. I don't want them anywhere near anyone, especially certain someone's. I'm talking about cops and angry fathers and kids taking steps towards the edge. Our freeways are ***** enough God.

God, you've let me down. I'm screaming everything unholy your way God. You're pathetic. Where is the miracle I've been asking for? I'm not praying God, I'm on my knees and begging, like you told me to. Where's the saving? Where's the grace and goodness? All I'm seeing is terror God, all I'm seeing is your face, laughing and crying at the same time.

You're a disgrace.
Frustration with the universe and how it works against us sometimes
Lyn Senz Nov 2013
I cross my path at dawn
and see my feet go on
just tracks of cats
and tracks of me
a time elasped
seen unity
I'm not a cat
don't wanna be
but wish I knew
just who had made
those tracks

a worrier a wanderer
a warrior a ponderer
a hurrier a squanderer
or a freak inside
a dream

tracks tell no lies
all alibis
but the tracks I see
say I wander free
tho I wonder
will I ever be

my burning brain
is going dim
the tracks just feign
how sure I am
but that's okay
the cats would splain
the tracks say
where you been

©2012 Lyn
Brent Kincaid May 2017
Don't call Trump a chimpanzee.
Chimpanzees can't talk.
Don't call him a pile of ****.
A pile of **** can't walk.
Don’t call Trump an Orange
That would be indiscreet.
You see, different from an orange
Trump is in no way sweet.

Don’t call Trump a swindler
Take his fat *** to court
Because when he needs proof
He will always come up short.
Don’t accuse him of bribery
Unless you have the proof.
He’ll just change his residence
To another unlisted roof.

Don’t call him a squanderer.
He’s not if it’s his money.
Trump likes stealing from other people
He finds that hilariously funny.
Don’t accuse him of gross lechery
He feels that is his right.
Don’t appeal to Trump’s conscious.
He doesn’t have one quite.

Don’t expect Trump to speak the truth.
He doesn’t know what that is.
When they were passing out ethics
He was off taking a wizz.
Don’t whine to us about that ****
And how he disappoints.
He’ll claim you heard him wrong
And that is his only point.

Don’t hope everything will work out
In any way in your favor.
Doing what’s right for regular folk
Is not Donald Trump’s flavor.
Don’t look for anyone in authority
To rescue you from the dump.
And, of course, most of all
Don’t call Trump.
Trump, lies, cheat, swindler, embarrassment, politics, poetry, Kincaid

— The End —