"suffrage" poems
I don't think tunnels can go this deep:
The way the oceans part--
Starfish foam, bubbling for air.
I saw the moon bleeding,
So many hidden cries.
She shouted:
"No fair, no fair...No fair..."
And now the polished skeleton
Bones glisten in the sun.
Taken from the dusty closet,
One by one by one.
Alongside a black journal,
No embellishments,
No lock to conceal shame.
Pages of her history,
Like collected pages of
The suffrage, and at the
Very last page, her dream's name.
Italicized like lies fresh oyster pearls shine.
Glistening in the frost of the night,
The soothing heat of her mind's height.
Tunnels can touch Earth's spine.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 8:58 AM UTC
Witches are eating the toes of a troll with a spoon,
boiling blood in a cauldron, and chanting
mischievous lyrics in the silver moon.
Feel their devilish ways cursing life,
casting ugly spells and cackling at
tormented suffrage and strife.
Watch in horror while witches dance,
stripping away sanity by carrying off
hope with no redeeming chance.
**** this nightmare caused by witches,
hypnotizing minds by changing their
appearances.
Hunting desperate men for affection,
seducing the weak to coerce their
love like a **** infection.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC
A Few lines etched where no words give weight.
Good riddance say the veterans
Of a nation gone sour with grief
Like a lemon slice evaporating onto the tongue of the sick.
But when the young yearn for White Nights,
The old claim they are blinding lights to the cold sugary substance
That supplants an easy path.
The bullithole rush of renewal and loneliness and progress thwarted and abandoned,
Inertia seeping through
Into a cold summer's day.
Between the cursing slant of sleek paved roadstrips,
And the burning briars that thresh the border's haunt,
What is picture postcard emerald
Is in that same instance soviet architect gray.
These are the sleepers bereft of the dream
whose twenty-five stories high
or ghost estates
are domes to cast out the howling banshees, those suffrage of the real
to be re-thought as mere props which surround the haloed glowing screen.
So sheen the Motherland glows in untarnished eyes
Familiar solely with glass behemoths parading with their reflections
In grey water-drizzled streets,
Only to be replaced by iridescent rainbows that foster a hope.
A hope that was packaged and sold two decades back
Since it was not worth carrying into the New World.
The water-trough falls to where the electric line banishes, connects a spike,
"rejuvenate the breakfast table"-some far-off God reports, Hades still waiting,
Intel-chip Blue, epiphany at the gates.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 9:02 AM UTC
Ignorances innate wove curtain of veils
Cut usunder heretofore obscuring
Bodhicittas valedictory wintry gloom torn
Of enlightenments will factioning the
Silenced mammonish city kingdom truced
As the wings of Azrael clinch
Earthly thistles; monolithic raiments
Deposed Hull, Hell and Halifax parcae
The willowing of light unfettering Fenrirs
Durance, howling aconite psalms suspiring
Suffrage relict paving with mewed stars
Redemptions tithed talents bequeathed
Of Heavens sinister prayer burning
Acinta dusts thine ashes threading
The wilful sword of Gods destruction.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:44 AM UTC
Lift you up,
hold me down.
Whatever happens,
please stay around.
Life is a chess game,
and I think I'm your pawn
I get the feeling that soon
you'll be gone.
I understand that there are sights to be seen,
but here stands the pawn that wants to be queen.
I thought you were a king, not a knight with no sword.
Now I stand as queen because I crossed the board.
Little did I know that's how you had planned it.
Now comes the suffrage of this queen's gambit.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC
A Few lines etched where no words give weight.
Good riddance say the veterans
Of a nation gone sour with grief
Like a lemon slice evaporating onto the tongue of the sick.
But when the young yearn for White Nights,
The old claim they are blinding lights to the cold sugary substance
That supplants an easy path.
The bullithole rush of renewal and lonliness and progress thwarted and abandoned,
Inertia seeping through
Into a cold summer's day.
Between the cursing slant of sleek paved roadstrips,
And the burning briars that thresh the border's haunt,
What is picture postcard emerald
Is in that same instance soviet architect gray.
These are the sleepers bereft of the dream
whose twenty-five stories high
or ghost estates
are domes to cast out the howling banshees,those suffrage of the real
to be re-thought as mere props which surround the haloed glowing screen.
So sheen the Motherland glows in untarnished eyes
Familiar solely with glass behemoths parading with their reflections
In grey water-drizzled streets,
Only to be replaced by iridescent rainbows that foster a hope.
A hope that was packaged and sold two decades back
Since it was not worth carrying into the New World.
The water-trough delving where the electric line banishes,connects a spike,
"rejuvenate the breakfast table"-some far-off God reports, Hades still waiting,
Intel-chip Blue, epiphany at the gates.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 5:24 AM UTC
@X5 BMW vehicles are truculent
Where have the real blondes gone to?
Bring back Orion Pictures
to remake Doom Watch,
resurrect Analogue tv,
ban militant cyclists from the roads
and yes the Chartists were right annual suffrage too.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 7:07 AM UTC
while the debate goes on and on,
as to which country has the longest, continuous
democratic parliament, have it on on good authority
that the subject above,
is it better to love your kids too much than not enough?
was the first among all temporal discussions ever held,
despite periodic tabling, the debate remains unresolved,
the question unsettled even after 1000 years+ of argumentation
when over time, Universal Adult Suffrage finally came to be,
the debate became renewable, enflamed, divisive most contentiously,
various coming down on each side of a point of view topically
since mother, father and child, i.e.
pretty much everyone, definitionally,
claimed total expertise,
and sparing the rod was deemed by most to be illegally,
no plebiscite, amendment or ballot initiative was resolved resolutely,
the beat goes on continuously as new children reach voting age, sagaciously repeating their view, personally
my view?
I’ve tried both and failed equally
so I’ve little to contribute,
so let it be stated in manner unequivocally,
the sweet sensibility says too well,
but helicopters crash and monied snowplows
run over other both their own and others better deserving,
leaving all of them buried in snow piles street side,
while those who blame their faults on insufficient love,
are later most demanding more attention than any,
having becoming painfully hardy, by being treated hard about,
hard on themselves and worse to others
everyone knows the answer to this question for themselves
but I’ll leave you with this,
permitting a child to fail is a winning strategy,
as long as there is no legal limit
regarding the amount or frequency
on lifetime hugging
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 2:14 AM UTC
If all were created,
before a finger lifted,
all'd be done...
Before a single word be said,
Every creeping crawling thing'd be dead.
No speaking laws, or slaughtered alters,
Or sacrificing ****** daughters.
No ill lessons, of omnipotence,
Omnipresence or deviance,
The vastness of life and time,
Are much too large, to be defined,
By one who's greatness greater than all,
To know we're here, or rule at all,
It's too far fetched to believe it's true,
There's one above, all around, watching you.
And say a god of sorts is real,
Say christ is god what would you feel,
To know his book is spoken true,
To be applied in all you do,
Word for word and verse by verse,
Forever there to be rehersed,
With jealousy and angry might,
His reasons are, beyond our sight,
His omnipotence we can't define,
His intelegence, beyond our mind,
****** **** and slavery,
plagues and death, so hard to see,
The fact he made this all for us,
From each bright star, and nucleus,
just to cast us in a pit,
A fiery hell, a suffrage.
None of it, It makes no sense,
And think most don't believe in chance.
Now close your eyes, and just believe,
Blindly follow each page you read,
For faith is something you must have,
To not see past this broken path,
Of lies and hopes in false intent,
It's god who man came to invent.
Here's a law he wrote himself,
One of ten, to show us help,
And thou shalt worship one alone,
But now there's christ who claims his thrown.
A contradiction from the start,
O how this truth broke my poor heart,
He created all in just six days,
A sabbath rest I'm so amazed.
A day to gods a thousand years,
So look at this, And shed no tears,
He made us in all knowing ways,
But so confused within just days,
He changed his mind, his laws and story,
Then sent one down to claim his glory,
Then Lucifer, what was the point,
His purity, god did anoint,
Then jealousy and pride bestode,
But then again god had forebode,
Let alone freewill was not,
An angel had no choice to taunt,
Made to fill specific needs,
The devil had no other deeds,
God knows all, from start to end,
So if he's real, he's not a friend,
He doesn't love, or know all,
Or have salvation, when we fall.
A deity he is not,
Especially with how he taught.
There're better ways to plan a path,
Simplicity is easy math,
But who am I, I'm just a man,
Created by his clumsy hand.
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 6:23 PM UTC
A coffin came my way,
They said, therein you lay;
I could believe them nay,
Until they said they could flay;
Wild I went,
I could not vent;
The expression remaining,
Before it started draining;
I was no longer composed,
I had to be dosed;
You were ethereal,
This had to be surreal;
No enmity could matter,
When everything had shattered;
You had been battered,
When you had me flattered;
I can not apologise,
You have been baptized;
I seek not your forgiveness,
I need not your liveness;
For you’ll always be,
Right here, in my heart;
I woke up, to find you gone,
For EVER in your zone..
I need not repent,
For I have your scent;
Your memories alive,
Shall always thrive;
You were one of a kind,
Never out of your mind;
It is not cowardice,
For it requires courage;
It shall not be despised,
For it was your suffrage..
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 12:06 PM UTC
We say that times have changed
Yet the issues in the news
Remain the same
Three Muslims shot
Over a "parking dispute"
Yet the media news
Can't get to the root
Of the hateful crime
Committed by a brute
Too busy reviewing
Fifty Shades of Grey
While unjust crimes
Are carried out everyday
And why do we let ISIS
Receive so much fame?
And why is it that every
Muslim is to blame?
Associating a belief
With violence and terror
But it is among us
Where you'll find the true error
Using religious excuses
To **** off God's creations
Manufactured missiles
Sweeping entire nations
Thousands dead
With nothing left to gain
And those who survive
Are left with terminal pain
Seeing tears in the eyes of a mother
Her son buried deep
By the prejudice of another
How far will we go
Until we see the wrongdoings?
Cuz once a life is gone...
There is no undoing
Segregating humans
By religion, *** and race
My beliefs may be different
But I am no disgrace
We classify ourselves
With things like melanin
As if our destiny
Is determined by our skin
Ignorance causing our vision to be impaired
Can't accept the unusual
Cuz we're too scared
Too scared of the truth
So we hide behind lies
Too scared of being left out
So we wear a disguise
Morphing ourselves
Into what is accepted
Turning into clones
Fear of being rejected
But it's time to wake up
Time to accept
The difference in our land
Time to end
The suffrage that is at hand
Time to unite ourselves as one
Time to put down the weapons
And put away your gun
So join me now
To spread the love
And to silence the hate
Our world may not be perfect
But it's never too late.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
Those unchained melodies are heard-
slayed and naked, like a lost soul-
wand'ring along a village; a dejected village!
And hark, hark to how they plead!
O, how they beg to be alive, to be free
from the deadness of these winds.
But no-one greets them, with a handful
of care!-how ill, and thievery is,
such inattentiveness! What a smug
egotism!-For these areth living
creatures, not lurking shadows as they'th seemed!
Blackened willows, stiffened dust;
trembling trees, affronted branches-
bending in their nakedness, a scene of vulgarity
with no ******* and sensations-
to capture attention, o, am'rous
attention! How poor these humans are! Brutes
are they to natureth-dappled with disgrace,
insincerely prayin' for more and more to feed their
ungrateful innuendoes-which prey on their
mortality-to fascinate their tongue,
and ***** And elements with no such marks
are out of them, no thinking is set on them;
no moreth! Peek, peek now, at how those
bountiful thorns blureth, and dieth!-at the scorn
and rivalry amongst humans-and still no-one bothers
kindethly-to eventh peek at 'em, yon miserable,
pitiful creatures! But 'ose humans, whose spitefulness
is awayth from b'ing praiseworthy, are aboundth with
death; cannot they defy it, inescapable as it's always
been-for death is not destined to dieth-never!
Thus thy sins, humans, wilt swing thy joys into swamps
of guilt, denial, and suffrage-be unafraid of which,
straighten thy chins-for these are all what thou'th
deserved, all along! Thou'th betrayed nature, and now
thy souls wilt be thy subtlest enemy-thy veiled threat!-
beware of 'tis, but still perchance, it is futile to
exhort thee-now and again! Thou art stained with
remorse, and prefereth doth thou-to follow thy own
course, rather than nature's bliss's vows.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
Kozarev, you are like a summer's day:
Bright and brilliant; exotic and vibrant.
Smart and gallant; generous and elegant.
Our story is flickering like these smooth bushes
of May; ah, but why I saw thee not today,
I knew not why.
How could I dream of thee not?
Ah, my dreams are bad.
Nature hath probably cursed whom;
whenever they enter into my mind at night.
I hate their promises, and their tongues-
they are forever and ever slandering
my faith-by chanting about thy presence,
their mouths are fraught with lies;
leaning to me like those filthy, ungodly,
savagery; if I was to catch thee not-
why should have they insisted so?
I am jealous of those hidden faces, unknown
Behind thy walls, impatient to grasp thee
with a bite of lustful words, swearing at
thy benevolence, for I canst be more so,
and more generous than thou hath thought.
My blood boileth with sickly temperaments-
whenever I am bound to one thinking
Of thy prudence, and tactfulness
Towards the glamor of insipid dames.
My soul becomes problematic, and forested
in severed distraction and dismay
by averted lips of choking and gasping all day!
Ah, yes, suffrage shall be beneath my eyes,
until no more breath is perhaps to remain,
and only wreaths of crossness
Frantically treading about the paths
of my gouty lungs; wreaking away bit by bit
their brevity, washing off every virulent trace
of devotional identity, and gravity.
This is harassing me-the knowledge of
being unable to see thee once more,
this evening, perhaps-
and I am twisting and glaring at
these painful thoughts like a dream.
And you, you are-as the butterflies start to file
Out of their realms and into our world
You are just like their epic poems;
fruitful and delicious indeed-
but humble as those thorns,
smiling at the sun though wounded;
and laughing by the smallest of whose delight.
Kozarev, you are my man; and as you dance along
the gravel paths by handsome moonlight,
you are even more glittering than which;
and with thy stateliness
You will but own my heart once more,
lifting it up from every dim deprecation
and fruitless laudation it hath hitherto ventured into.
And I love thee and might just love thee more every day;
more than every promise my poems can say,
I adore thee and cannot live without thee
Swift and marvelous is my love,
blessed and ingenious as it shall ever be.
I love thee, Kozarev.
Obicham te.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
I think that all writing comes out of pain. Every remarkable work harnesses compassion or strain that begs you to empathize with the pain that someone-something, has felt. It is pain that has taken another form, it appears differently in plots and characters; pawns in a sense, that grace the game board of life. Nonetheless, pain is present. The Bible. A God's suffrage for grace of an undeserving people. Shakespeare's sonnets that brought us to our knees with the agony of lost love.-a lover's sorrow. In every classic there is a tugging on our heart strings that invokes a reply of our emotions.
In short, Pain is Poetry.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
You gave me hope.
You showed me magic.
You helped me believe
in fairy tales, mermaids, and dreams.
At the same time
you gave me
an unrealistic idea
of what True Love is supposed to be.
You showed me misery,
pain, loss, suffrage, Death.
Even the resurrection of a princess.
I got the best kind of reality check
when we lost Her
and knew we'd never get her back.
You gave me innocence.
Then prepared me for the day
when it'd be taken away.
So I wasn’t surprised by it.
So I'd hit the ground running.
Running towards that
Hopefully somewhat Happily Ever After
and Far Far Away
from that Once upon a time...
Yours is the art
of subtle, sensitive, desensitization.
And I'm thankful for it.
Thankful I got
the subliminal message.
“Innocence doesn’t last forever kid.
Life is full of pain
and dark, foreboding woods.
Happiness can never be eternal.
It would lose it's meaning
and the light at the end of the tunnel
would just fade into the tunnel”
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
Stripped,
to the flesh.
Gnawed,
till there's nothing left;
but bones.
Buried 6 feet under,
like a cliche,
I lay; forgotten,
by my own consciousness.
Dead, but still roaming;
only a shell, of the former self.
Haunting,
screeching voices echo;
pleading mercy,
past peripheral vision.
Desperate to be heard,
yearning to embody.
Lost in translation,
misunderstood, and dreaded.
Stuck in limbo, with no suffrage.
Out of presence.
Still, real.
Seeking,
a chance at revival.
Oct 12, 2022
Oct 12, 2022 at 11:49 AM UTC
Hello,
my name is so and so
Have you heard of such and such?
"No, not very much."
Well let me tell you...
The sledgehammer
catalyze the caterwaul of lies
Unhinge your mind,
grease it
and rehinge it,
Because; everything is out of balance
A pendulum disturbed by the devil's malice
while he dances
through our glances and drops the knowledge
of how the money you pledged is wedged
in between stacks of paper and salary checks
The blues in the night-light dance with the stamina
of broken dreams. Well, let me tell you of the suffrage
and my lack of knowledge or power–or both–to discern or summon
a strategy for navigating this slanting ship
capsizing with the weight of the world
in the Suez Canal.
The doctrine of a dead man's cackle
enforce the shackle
of the child's ankle
The unswerwing arrow of my intent,
Pegonia arrowhead
plunge into a heart of lead
to find the hidden treasure
x-marks-the-spot
of another bitter man
"For every pledge donor you get
5 children died
in Tibet."
And so will they continue to
What can I do?
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
The clocks keep ticking in my mind.
Keeping me asking questions,
to which answers I may never find.
In my room, with countless
"if's and why's".
While weighing my options
my opinion weighs in,
then my conscience,
then my mind once again.
Then they start.
The flashes on old memories past.
Hurt and constant suffrage, remains in the past?
No, I will not choose to let it go,
or pretend it wasn't there.
The past is all you are, all you were, and all you CAN be
and if we forget, we are no one.
All the people, places and things, evem if just for
a spare second of your time impact you for a lifetime.
So instead of asking why, ask what about the rest of my
Lifeline, that I won't be able to impact.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
My mind should strive if it claim the sole cure
To eternal joy for which I am due.
Though others prefer I give in the lure
My claim won't for 'tis foolish to be few.
To stay thus, would render only suffrage,
Though not a matter whilst I've my good teas.
Should my tourniquet no more bandage,
'T means it must hath be infested of fleas.
Thus I must claim the illness in form same
For though indeed I might cure my soul, I can ******
How shall my heart dirtless be; it hath blame!
The heat serves simply to aid this girder.
For that sole moment, I am that healing
Which can only be seen with fine loathing.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 7:37 AM UTC
My dad told me "Son, We all have experation dates".
That stuck with me for 5 years, I never knew what he meant by that.
Until one night, they gave my family 2 options. Pull the plug or continue his suffrage.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 11:23 PM UTC
Before he retired –
aged sixty-two –
life was a meaningful
calling for her.
Not over-radical,
more gentle and
secular – but post-
suffrage.
Her children had
left the nest, and
the story of Esther
came to mind.
She writes poetry
and helps others
less fortunate than
she is.
He puts food on the
table, and she gives
meaning to the
marital vows.
She never wanted
to emulate Steinem
or Millett – maybe
Eleanor Roosevelt.
She neither wears
a bra nor burns one
– competition only a
four-syllable word.
A day in her life is
one hand on the soup
kettle, the other on
a protest sign.
One week a month
she volunteers
at a church shelter
for the homeless.
One day a week
she picks up the
mail for a neighbor
who is bed-ridden.
When night time
comes and she lies
in bed, he massages
her feet in silence.
She hasn’t retired –
never will – not in the
shadows of the night
nor morning’s shine.
© Lewis Bosworth, 9/16
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
Born again
I have been born a hundred times but like the inches between my thighs it is never quite enough
I was born this morning I woke up mourning my flawed skin but when I use cover up it is not jut the blemishes I'm hiding.
Born again into highschool and by the second hour it is your sweet sixteen,
And you're jealous fifty girls bodies you've seen.
Born again and by the end of the day, you've graduated from seven minuets in heaven
by now you're more comfortable with showing photos of your naked body than your naked face.
Born into the whispers of *** deprived teenage males who's idea of a good tale is talking about the circumference of a women's chest
and if she's a size zero,
Well I have zero tolerance for unrealistic standards.
Speaking of unrealistic since when was it real for a women only to feel worthy to a man when's she's altered her body.
I grew up in a society with make up adds on tv full of women who have inches between their knees and my peers beg please,
Please,
Please can I look like that as if photoshop could be found In our makeup bags.
Born again into a mans world where some women are still underpaid due to the gender they did not choose to be.
Where third world girls cannot go to school because they obviously cannot handle the task of picking up a tool as difficult as a pencil?
They die again.
We die again
and again without the enlightenment of knowing that we were born with
hairy legs,
crooked teeth,
oily skin
and braless.
We were born worthy and real,
we die to feel acceptance and love and somewhere in between we give up loving ourselves
and we accept that as were born to believe that that's the only way to live.
Many believe that suffrage ended yet we still suffer,
but it's our choice to endure the pain.
Be born again but this time be born in the rain unafraid of your make up running down your face.
Wash it off.
Be born again.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 1:38 PM UTC
Was that the Cream which you used to Enjoy
Of Four Sticks seasoned to your Destiny?
How Thoughtful be this State of your Deploy
For Good Arm's Purpose reach your Harmony
And once the Friend - though un-known Titles be
Play this growing Suffrage on your Best Mind
For your Honour's Prevail; Which we can see
Why Un-Holy Mouths must be copped behind
Dive, Honour, Dive! That be Support un-furled
As Stock-Toned Pillars coat this selfless Plead
To misunderstand Sane Meanings up-turned
Else sate our Puddings with Un-Salted Mead.
And the Youth, inspired, still makes Amends
Such would be you which Guilded Growth depends.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 2:37 AM UTC
in your eyes i see pain
if i could only take it away
you grasp hold of my hand
your new language
is hard to understand
i'm sorry you came back to this
it was our selfish wish
death is full devastation
but could suffrage be worse?
trapped in your body vs
locked in a hearse?
you want to cry
i can see it
you say that you're sorry
when you shouldn't be it
you're thirsty
you're hungry
you can't even talk
no control of your bowels
you're too weak to walk
you're uncomfortable because
you're feeling the pain
of living and dying;
being born again
no where to go
nothing to do
but get lost in your thoughts
i wish i'd see them too
a battle is won
yes we've come so far
but i know for a fact
you hate where you are
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 11:42 PM UTC