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Jeremy Betts Oct 2019
(political)

Our leaders don't instill much confidence with their arrogance and incompetence
The blind leading the blind, leading Trump, leading Mike Pence
The importance of common sense diminishing due to a far sub par influence
Leaving said common sense to no longer be common place, commonly erased and/or misplaced, replaced and praised by the physical embodiment of ignorance
A fact, in essence, is knowledge not acceptance, they rather you had no  remembrance of that conflicting evidence
With no thinking cap there's an absence of intelligence so you find yourself turning your nose up at the science
Thinking you can create your own semblance of order but it doesn't stick cause there's no substance
Empty ideas with no means to an end will never silence a crowd, just spreads around more violence
It's proven every election, they are tyrants saying what we want to hear then going back on all campaign statements
No more compliance, gotta stop thinking we the people can't make a difference
That thought was born from the opposite of arrogance in the sense that we don't know the extents of the power that comes with just our presence
It really, truly is a gift, now we just need to open our presents with a willingness and appropriate acceptance
Gotta quit with the indulgence of the hot air and flatulence that spew from these sycophants
Blind obedience is a dangerous way to advance and go about your existence
To much trust given in this instance, we bought it not 'cause it was a need but 'cause it was on clearance
Now we know the price was to steep but deceit is their quasi brilliance
Pure reliance on these p*ss ants we supposedly elected for guidance is a death sentence
They saw you coming from a distance and detoured your persistence
All the while preying on you from a white house window as you brave the elements
They even got you believin' your thoughts are your own but I can't stress this enough, that's nonsense
Regardless, it's no coincidence that we're falling right in line behind their wicked influence
Every four years we seem to pass on the renters insurance, so there's no assurance
No guarantee that when it comes crashing down like suicide insurgents
You won't be left to foot the bill of their gluttonous indulgence
Face it, you ate it up too, don't lie, can't claim your innocence when there's a witness and clear cut evidence
Evidence you bought into this with no regard for this nations residents
Coining the hashtag my life matters more then those low life pesints
In that regard see, poor is poor, color really, truly doesn't make a bit of difference
That's just used to keep us at each others throats so we don't form any kind of resistance
Saving face is a progress hindrance, we messed up royally when we voted outta spite and defiance
Even before it was official we knew it wasn't gonna be a good alliance
You could just tell by looking out into his audience and seeing who was in attendance
Every stance he took seemed like another foot in the grave but he buys his way out with daddy's allowance
Excuse me, I'm sorry, I mean inheritance, whatever, same difference
And this ADD society can't focus long enough to begin an impeachment prosses much less secure a prison sentence
And with the occurrence of each lie we lose more and more faith in the system put in place to uphold some semblance of balance
This breeds a nation of violence, looking for vengeance, no more tolerance
But we cant be the change we want to see while in a safe space, our soundtrack can't be the sound of silence
We don't want to be left with this blood money inheritance riddled with the guilty parties fingerprints
But at our core we're just looking to make more of a difference by being the difference
And yeah, they should be scared of what we're capable of, the gloves are off, we broke the trance, now let's dance...

©2019
Nemo Dec 2013
I've recently fallen into an elite group of individuals: youth diagnosed with depression by their mothers.

I can't argue with her; she is licensed.

But I can't help but feel that my case is different, minor in comparison. I'd like to call it loneliness but it's more developed than that.

It's like a cancer that started in my fingertips when they realized there was nothing to hold on to, and has since spread to my heart or my brain, whichever is responsible for the distribution of numbness to my bones and vital organs.. I'll call it 3rd stage loneliness. I'm saving calling it the 4th stage for when it starts to feel terminal.

"Lonely" is kind of a **** of a word, like "love," or "beautiful." I think people like to use "lonely" like teens use cigarettes. It taste good when it falls off the tongue. And by my observation, they both cause cancer.

Everyone wants to be "lonely" but no one wants to be alone.
So I've put it upon myself to separate loneliness into subcategories, based on mortality rate.

If you're wondering why I'm lonely, don't bother. I'm wondering the same. I have friends a family that loves me, and the rest of the chemo-esque **** that's suppose to nurture you back to health. But
I've still got that tumor buried under my skin where no one cares to look.

I ain't got many friends I can talk to.

I've concocted a list of side effects of 3rd stage loneliness, if you're interested:
1.) Insomnia - the inability to completely shut the third eye on your skull because it persists on looking to the future.
2.) Selective Hearing - the inability to listen to supposedly happy music and instead sulk with the sounds of Bon Iver or Bright Eyes ricocheting through the canals of your brain. Music your friends "probably haven't heard of"
3.) Loss of Appetite - Don't worry, you still crave food and other survival necessities. You simply lose the appetite to expand through the universe. Loss of Ambition, as the form would say.
4.) Improved Acting Skills - You'll eventually learn to manipulate the stringy muscles in your face to pull up the corners of your lips when you feel you are expected to. Not all side effects are bad.


I am not one of those darkly dressing teenagers that complains with visible angst about being misunderstood. But I do have the hair for it.

I am not suicidal. Maybe I would be, but I seem to have been struck particularly hard by Side Effect #3.

But at first mention of depression you can see their faces squirm and contort to resemble a clumsy soldier tap-dancing through a minefield, while simultaneously conducting open-heart surgery on himself.

5.) Exaggeration.

This poem is not meant to sadden, to depress. It is simply for the public awareness of 3rd stage loneliness. If you know someone suffering from this disease, please call this hotline:

1-800-462-5663
(1-800-IMA-LONE)


The more you know...
Logan Robertson May 2019
there he was
head hanging low
on a totem pole
for all to see
supposedly
their crucification, self imposed
like a bull seeing red
and feeling melancholy
he walked out of the casino
pockets empty, again
and just fresh off the farm
he now wished he stayed home
milking cows
collecting eggs
saving his money
instead of losing his scalp
to the Indians
he looked passed the exit
a door he walked into a few hours ago
with wide open trappings
where the glitz. glamor and neon
caught his eye and addiction
literally
the cling, the clang
the sound of music
Julie Andrew's voice coming to life
reach for the sky, reach for the sky
whirling around in his head
... a cut of cloth
who knows
maybe it was his grandmother's roots
grandma are you watching
yes grandson, I'm crying and praying ...
he looked over at the green mountains
the lost forests of patrons
the felted tables, banks of chips
fjords of  waitresses serving drinks
majestic, scenic and serene
and for a moment
he wished to be a boat in Norway
instead
instead
like always
he took to a splash in the abyss
******* and sadism  
his lost fork in the road
and like a billy goat
teetering on the edge
echo's  from the valleys below
don't do it , don't do it, don't do it
he peeled off all his Benjamin's
and credit
to the depts of the dungeon
beaten and wounded
where if only the next time
he rewinds his entrance
and finds his bouency and oars

Logan Robertson

5/07/2019
To my nephew, godspeed. You have a good job, good looks, especially with those blue eyes that knock women off their feet. Yet you can't stand prosperity. Every so often you get on your high horse and gallop to the nearby Indian Casino and keep falling off. My nephew choose better.
Lindee Oct 2015
A Sonnet: Literally.

Son·net Noun. A fourteen-lined mosaic
poem. Usually consisting of bland
rhyme schemes. One poem with two couplets, three stanzas
Ten syllables per line. Verb Ever-lasting. archaic.

You said you would stay here with me forever.
Shakespeare warned me about this. About us. About them.
The wine we drink is never all that strong enough
Romeo and Juliet were cop-outs.

Gravity supposedly rides with luna.
Tongues weave together, eyes made of moon rock.
We are atom bombs, small enough to travel alone.
The space-time continuum stops with us

The curtain closes, they all bow and bow.
The heroine kills herself with the pen.
Jess t Jun 2010
Bright lights
Red. White.
Red. White
Sirens
Screaming
Red. White.
Anxious. Breathless
Silent-explosion in ones eye
Whirling around your head
Desperate
Tears stream down. Throat closes.
Laying on the ground
Obscure position
Eye lids flicker
Shards of glass and debris
Dirt, modern rubble
Why was I chosen?
Life given, life taken away
Here just for a moment
Particles dispersed into thin air
Into the trees, and the sky, and the innocent
Into the eyes that have no voice, no say
Chosen to be executed by the power above
Because energy is neither created, nor destroyed
Static tv set, flashes a message
Float away, return to the clouds
This recycling is necessary
The lottery, unfair yet supposedly unbiased
Why are one’s tears more valuable than another’s?
Fight the atmosphere
Grip the opponent’s sword
Mightier than steel
Eye lids flicker
Violent ****
Glazed over from the eternal war
Black night victory
Fatigued beyond belief
The little soldiers will surely carry me to their fort with chants
Another day, I shall return
Until then, my chest plate remains
worn yet intact
Copyright Jess tallini, 2010.
Scarlet London Nov 2014
they don't mean a **** thing
it's just words, decisions
made outside of my head
which, interestingly enough, is where the problem is rooted
these "risk factors" i supposedly show
what do they really, honestly signify?
that i'm mental, incompetent, a danger to myself?
words that a man in his fifties can scribble onto a piece of paper
and hand off to another man in his fifties
and it means the same thing across the board
because they apparently know what i'm thinking
how i'm feeling
they can see by the fact that i can't get out of bed most days
that i'm depressed
they know that because i hyperventilate over due dates and social situations
that i have generalized anxiety disorder
they conjecture that because i don't hesitate before crossing the main street on campus
i'm at a very high risk for suicide
i suppose none of these are far-off guesses
but my brain is not a textbook
and my thoughts are not teaching material
i am not a simple headcase!
i will not be simplified and generalized into the little boxes you've charted out
"here's where the depressed kids go"
"bipolar disorder falls here"
"eating disorders go in this corner to the left"
"watch the ones who want to **** themselves closely"
"it'll probably be a big show"
my thoughts, feelings, actions are not so easily categorized
yes, i've taken psychology
i know that freud claimed we're all acting on pent-up ****** rage
i know that skinner put rats in a box and thus proved behaviorism
i know that all of these men, they wrote papers and did experiments on how it's all inside our unconsciousness
my unconscious
i am not so easily uncovered
i refuse to put myself in a tiny box and let someone else dictate what is going on in my head just so he can receive a paycheck
i won't let someone pump xanax and prozac into me like it's nothing
i want to know that i'm not just going through a rough patch
i want to be certain that something is broken before i start fixing it
**** me or repair me
all i know is i won't go down without a fight
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2017
Yom Kippur this year was celebrated on Oct. 12th 2016.
Leonard Cohen passed away on November 7, 2016.


~~~

faint knocking at the door to the Tower of Song

the ministering angels, hearing a rhythmic, lyrical rapping,
sigh, thinking the atonement day,
the holiday/holy days, are supposedly over,
the human balancing act, the rush to judgement period,
all tallies totaled, the busy sale season for souls,
at last completed, each fate inscribed & sealed,
in the book of life^

but, always one,
the itinerant straggler, the last reluctant sinner, a judgment resister,
flaunting an expired coupon, trumpeting demands for a recount,
waving it, claiming it, the bearer, entitled to a mercy discount and
an extra 30 days

"who shall we say is calling?"

the Angels are stunned to hear,
a familiar raspy, growling, almost indescribable,
yet, stammeringly, beautiful voice enchanting,
equally asking and answering,  how both,
with a strident humility, "a man in search of answers"

this voice, instantaneous recognizable,
the asking superfluous,
all beating wings now, all in vast excitement,
this psalmist, long awaited, one of His best,
a chosen one, a courtly singer in the Temple of his people,
blessed with the curse of seeing and believing,
the comprehension of beauty of the human superior interior,
never being quiet or quite satisfied,
in capturing, its multifarious variations,
in every language spoken

this is the man who took ten years
to compose just
one song,
one poem,
one word,
Hallelujah,
whose faith was strong,
but still needed proofs,
whose every breath of oxygen inhalation,
brought more questions,
every exhalation, only releasing partial answers,
and yet, still, yes, yes! finding hidden verses inside

a simple, everlasting
hallelujah

the hubbub subsides, the man sings~speaks:
how came I here,
was I one, who by fire?
that fire afeared,  that my finality was spirit consumer?

one voice, answers,
in one voice, the swaying back-up singers answer,
not by fire, not by water, not by stoning or
even drowning
in tea that came from all the way from China

when sing we Angels, the Judgement Day poem,
we alone, on high and above,
we, keepers of the books and records of everyone,
are permitted this to query:

Who by Sufficiency?

you, the sidekick of the creator,
special commissioned by him, anointed to live a life of research,
record in word and song the mysteries of musical gene strings,
that intertwine the skin cells of man and woman,
man and his fellow us-human,
your soul commandeered, ordered, delve deeper,
into the consolable chasm tween divine and mortals,
all those who are poorly constructed
in his image

he, who has earned his place, his best rest,
his works adjudged sufficient,
he, who best answered
this judging,
this calling out,
calling in
incantation,

Who by Sufficiency?

now forward on, write only of answers,
wade in the troubled waters no more,
no more passports, or borders to cross,
no more measuring the days,
the last road trip finale
finished & feted,
fate meted

no more changing thy name, changeling priest,^^
sing songs of solution, salvation,
for the questioning hours of confusion,
the urgency of revolution,
no longer need a hallelujah resolution


                                                    ­| | |
Who By Fire                             Who By Fire, Who By Water:^
(lyrics by Leonard Cohen)     (A Yom Kippur Hebrew Prayer)

who by fire                             How many shall die and      

who by water,                                how many shall born,
Who in the sunshine,                 Who shall live      
who in the night time,                   who shall die,                      
Who by high                                Who at the measure of days,
who by common trial,                    and who before,
Who in your merry                            
                                                          Who by fire
month of May,                                 and who by water
Who by very                                 Who by sword,
slow decay,                                       and who by wild beasts,
And who shall I                      Who by hunger,
say is calling?                              and who by thirst,

And who in her,                           Who by earthquake
lonely slip,                                         and who by plague
who by barbiturate,                      Who by strangling,
Who in these                                    and who by stoning
realms of love,                               Who shall have rest,

who by,                                             and who shall go wandering,
something blunt,                            Who will be tranquil,
And who by avalanche,                  and who shall be harassed,
who by powder,                            Who shall be at ease,
Who for his greed,                           and who shall be afflicted,
who for his hunger,                      Who shall become rich,
And who shall I,                             and who shall become poor,
say is calling?                                Who will be raised high,
                                                         ­     and who will be brought low
And who by brave assent,                  
who by accident,
Who in solitude,
who in this mirror,
Who by,
his lady's command,
who by his own hand,
Who in mortal chains,
who in power,
And who shall I,
say is calling?




^From the liturgy of Rosh Hasanah, the Jewish New Year and Yom Kippur, the  Day of Atonement, there is this truly stunning prayer (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unetanneh_Tokef) in the Jewish liturgy. The Book of Life contents the fate of every sinner. From the first day of the new year, until ten days later, on Yom Kippur, depending on whether the sinner repents or not, his fate is sealed.
Yom Kippur this year was celebrated on Oct. 12th 2016.

Leonard Cohen passed away on November 7, 2016.

^^"A Kohens ancestors were priests in the Temple of Jerusalem. A single such priest was known as a Kohen, and the hereditary caste descending from these priests is collectively known as the Kohanim.[2] As multiple languages were acquired through the Jewish diaspora, the surname acquired many variations." Today, with no temple, the limited role of the Kohanim is to bless the Jewish people on the high holy days with a  special prayer with abeloved tune,  instantly evocative (see wikipedia.org/wiki/Priestly_Blessing) The Kohanim are still revered, honored, and always called up first to the Sabbath reading of the weekly portion of the Old Testament

A thank you to Bex for proofing and encouragement.
Part I of a trilogy
For a  more detailed analysis of the roots of the song, "Who By Fire," and its origins, see:
_____________________________________________
http://www.leonardcohen-prologues.com/who_by_fire.htm

He worked on the song Hallelujah, arguably his most famous composition, for ten years.
brooke Feb 2016
we were laying on the floor talking
about your perpetually ***** hands,
stained from rusty machinery, and I got
to thinking that they looked an awful
lot like terra sigillata, or marmalade
or yams or tulip poplar honey--
waxy, with a glazed finish

you brush your left thumb down my pinky
and comment on the thinness of my skin
(unsurprisingly) I mean, look at my hands! you say
and I do and you're right, your hands
are like slabs of green wood--in fact
your whole body seems like some sort
of pliable tree trunk but I don't say this
because we've lapsed into a silence or
an otherwise conveniently synchronized
thought that has billowed up around our
hips until our arms are overlapped and
extended like a petiole of our bodies with
my palm cradled in yours like some aeriform body,
birdlike and gentle. You're tracing those lines like they
mean something.
Like they
mean something to you.

you have to understand that I am too often
inside myself, awash on a shore, grown into
the sand like a clam, experiencing solitude
through a shell, keeping at bay on the bay
sending prayers up like signal flares
pumped up into the sky, silent on
the horizon, loud from in here,
so when I tentatively thread my
fingers through your hair, know
that I do so in supreme intimacy
because words supposedly say
the most (depending on who
you're talking to) but my
hands are a different language
a different place, a different time
a company of dissarranged thoughts
and emotions, rippling and swelling
trying to make sense of being touched

so

softly
(c) Brooke Otto 2016


deep, deep breaths.
Mike Hauser Dec 2013
Why is it the supposedly more tolerant
Are the least tolerant around
Can we no longer speak our own minds
Without someone out there shooting us down

Feel free to speak your opinion
I'm more than willing but never forced to listen
That there my friend is your basic right
A freedom that seems to be missing

Are we not free thinking individuals
Did I miss the memo where that's no longer allowed
Should I just step into the jet stream
And become a part of this mind numbing crowd

I can clearly see that you are not me
Isn't that what it's supposed to be like
It also rings true that I am not you
So can't we just live our lives

It's hard enough standing on your own two feet
That's why at times we might step on some toes
But can't we all just get along
After all we might like the way that it goes
itoro Mar 2018
Unapologetically Black

I am black, what does that mean
It's supposed to mean that
That everywhere I go I am seen
It means that the sun and I have the best of relationships
That of melanin and honey I drip
It means that every step I take is magical
So beautiful, its biblical
My body, a pulchritudinous sculpture
In my roots, circulating the richest of cultures
I make my own light
And it's so so bright, such a beautiful sight
My cloud-like tresses with the most diverse of personalities
From wavy, to curly, to, coily, to *****
Everyone who is not me can only envy
But instead,it means that
It means that everywhere I go I am seen
It means that people don't have to think too much
Immediately I am judged
Because of the colour of my skin
I am treated like I come from the bin
You see me wearing a hoodie
You immediately think to **** me is your duty
Because I’m African
You treat me like I ain’t human
But I’m so much more than that
Now, I’m going to try to talk to you and make an impact
Don’t you realize, that the fabric of our society is being torn up by racism
We’re destroying and attacking ourselves like it's cannibalism
Don’t you realize that you're not worried about me
But instead my place in the human race
Don’t you realize that you are fed half truths
In the history books
I'm more than your stereotypes of being loud and obnoxious
You all think the same way it’s like you don’t even have an option
You focus on my colour
And don’t realise that the cops killing us are getting dollars
Amadou Diallo was shot 41 times when trying to enter his apartment
Think about it, he never got to do all the things of which he dreamt
This Guinean immigrant came to the country supposedly with streets paved with gold, only to fall to the ground, ****** and grey
It's not a big deal you say
Well Sean Bell was shot on his way home to his soon to be wife on the day of his marriage

50 BULLETS

No reason stated
Is this really what we’re going to encourage
Aiyana Stanley was only seven when she was shot in her sleep while her house was being bombed
Unacceptable it is beyond
Today I walk on your lands fearing our lives, my head the ground
I wonder if my heart ever feel sound
I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired
I choose not to stand around and watch the hate
I know that I was not made for this fate.
I’m tired of the continuous *******,
Well **** sorry I didn't realise i wasn’t allowed to be black in public.
My skin is not a burden, it’s a blessing with a touch love,
Smiling wide, head high, graceful like a dove.
In the future we stand, sit back and relax
So I puff up my ‘fro and turn my ****** music on,
Because whatever you say or do I will not crack
I will always stay unapologetically black.
this is a collab poem i made with @lorenzyyy_
i do not claim all rights. i give half to miss. lorenzy.
Sammi Yamashiro Aug 2020
What do my memories taste like? There lies on my tongue—
An atomic bomb:
a purported speck, with no chicken pox skin situated upon such.
I spat it out; I wobbled on and on, stomping the microscopic intensity into the sludge.
No one sees; how pleasant…

My shoe’s underside slit it— a paper cut broiled to the infinitude degree—
Preposterous conundrum! Slam!
I fulminate! I screech, the needy baby I am!
My guttural heave strews in the wind:
deformed limbs on the newer generations, an abysmal thread.

Supposedly bland, but then: a guzzling bleed from you and I gushes on and on; but oh, was it needed!
Listen to my writhing! Soak in my curdling roaring!

I am the mafia mastermind, but I plead to guilt!
The vandalism cannot be grated, but I will
revamp, spot clean, and hunt for a vaccine.
I cannot cure a scored scar, but rest assured:
I will endeavor to solidify the clot.
Birdie Apr 2013
if there's one thing i try not to do
it's write the dreaded..
LVOE POM.
i would do without the eye rolls
but secret heart melts
and the awws
but the
*******'s
another one of these?
don't we have any other meaning in our lives?
i do
plenty
but i can't deny
that this is a part of me
i'm a hopeless romantic
by training
and in my mind
it's taken over my heart
and i can no longer tell the difference
enough for me to hate it
and myself
i am an empowered, "strong"
-whatever that means-
woman.
i should be
saying
**** IT.
i don't need no man
but let's be real
we all want someone
i want to hold your hand to show you i care
i don't want to analyze why i should kiss you right now
i wish i even knew what it meant to kiss you right now
why would i even need to kiss you right now?
but i get caught up in this fantasy
longer and longer
forgetting to remind myself that
i've never seen a successful relationship up close
that i grew up in a house of women
forgetting that i'm supposedly prone to marrying an alcoholic
surrounded by enough love that i should stop being so greedy
always looking for more
when it's never even been there
that isn't any different than the way my life has always been,
what am i expecting?
I sat beside you today.
I found it ironic
how we were both dressed
in our Sunday best.
when you looked my way,
I knew you didn't
want me there.
you blamed me.
although you promised
it was never me.
I am aware that the fault
is no longer mine.
it supposedly never was.
I've always been innocent,
according to you.
but when those tragic
blue eyes
met mine...
the world's blame was suddenly
heavy on my shoulders
and i didn't try
to stop it from
crushing
me.
Marshal Gebbie Jan 2023
I really didn't mean it, promise I never even seen it  
done it accidentally on purpose instead
when its comes to purpose, I’m renowned for being earnest  
besides you secretly enjoy being completely misled

accidentally on purpose, accidentally on purpose
rules don’t have the same applicability
its only just a circus, when its accidentally on purpose
its a far lower threshold of culpability  

don't do me this disservice, it was accidentally on purpose,
please consider when apportioning blame
when its accidentally on purpose, almost doing you a service    
the blame is not even close to the same

There’s a thing called caveat emptor, its supposedly there to protect ya
sadly not against other’s intentionality  
when its accidentally on purpose, this rule’s completely out of service
tis writ in the annals of human morality    

accidentally on purpose, accidentally on purpose
usual rules they just don't apply,
accidentally on purpose, that’s why you cannot deter us
it permits me to self-indemnify  

Pete Granger DDA
Another from the pen of "Piddles" Granger.
bri Aug 2022
The bed has never been the comfiest place to sleep in.
Everywhere else is better than sleeping on a bed.
The couch is inviting, soft, weird place to sleep, but acceptable.
Single wooden chairs lined perfectly, not so much.
But still, better than a bed.
The floor too, albeit cold and flat, it stretched my muscles into place, held me to the ground until I was fast asleep,
so still, it is better than a bed.
Sitting while im on my desk supposedly doing my homework is also better than laying in bed.
Why was everywhere else so much better than being where I should be?
I never fell asleep on the bed. It was too stuffy, too suffocating, too boring, too everything.
It was loud, and banging on my mind with quietness and precision as it does every night.
But most especially, it felt too much like a coffin.
I’d rather sleep anywhere else than on the bed.
jeremy maxwell Apr 2012
striving for simplicity
has starting seeming
quite similar to settling
for much, much less.
i suffer this stubborness
       like some plague;
some ***** scared of searching
for a saviour, or a cure,
unwilling to forgo the laws
that make him shout, 'impure!'
or 'unclean!' or 'run away,
******* run away!
i am death and his son hopeless,
and we've come out to play.'
an answer waiting underneath
every leaf and stone
and every molecule he breathes
on the wind when he's alone,
tickling his seeping wounds
and begging him to see . . .
i'm here, i'm here . . .
look here . . . see me.
but instead of living hopefully
looking for answers
that want to be seen,
just writhing in pain at the sting of the breeze,
and cursing and moaning
and spraying forth death
so stubborn and stupid with every breath
that's me, that's me . . .
that's me . . . that's me.
a *****'s disposition
on a long dead, lifeless heart
afraid of hoping for a change,
a cure, a fairy's pond
stubborn like a stone
so stupid and stubborn with every breath . . .
a glass of porter left behind on the bar,
flat and forgotten,
forsaken, weak, and wasted . . .
that's me, that's me . . .
that's me . . . that's me.
so stubborn and so selfish,
never reaching, never finding
the simplicity i supposedly
believed might save my life . . .
an excuse to surrender
and to squander and forsake
every opportunity
that would ever come my way
until my talents are just rusty tools
in the back of some toolshed
in some swamp in new new orleans
in the background of my head.
i have long since lived too many years
to believe i am owed more
and i have yet to do one single thing
that's been worth fighting for,
and sticking to and seeing through
and working at until
it pays off and releases me
from my hopeless, bankrupt will.
a ***** with a strange and stubborn
sense of salvation
my days are leaking right through my skin,
and dripping their decaying death
along a trail stretched out behind me . . .
a path that's leading nowhere,
made from nothing, with no one along its way . . .
potential in hunks littering both sides
in different stages of decay.
stubborn, and selfish,
but some will must still remain
in the corner of some toolshed
in the bog that is my brain.
a cleansing of the soul, or a
katrina of the mind
my freedom must be lurking somewhere,
for i am still alive.
Kuah Yee Han Jul 2015
Here, I'm gonna get something off my chest
Results, that's all we need, scrap the rest
Just smother us with tests for a key to a chest
That supposedly holds knowledge and while it does, it holds very less

The outcome is what matters to be the best
Success is guaranteed? Hah, more like stress
I know you're under duress so come on just confess
It's so blatant that our certifications are a mess

Does it really matter if I get a B or an A?
It doesn't, and that's what I'm trying to say
The world is becoming increasingly competitive every single day
As long as we have the initiative to learn, it's okay

The main purpose for this isn't to criticise
In fact, the worse it can do is bring some people down to size
Your advice is for us to revise and revise so we can work for the prize
Come on, look beyond the disguise and stop with the lies.
I think I came up with this because I got bad marks on an examination... so yea
Amanda N Jan 2013
This United States is a place forever growing yet continuously digressing.
We protect our Constitution and our rights.
But often at the price of our citizens due to stubbornness.

This United States has two leading political parties to run it.
Yet together they halt its progress.
Through never coming together to take care of the place they supposedly control.

This United States is becoming a second world country.
A place that has been, but has fallen into the shadows.
Of its former-self for the lack of accepting the world has changed around us, and so we too must adjust.
Silver Wolf Jan 2014
Her face trapped behind a shiny glass
Ethereal traces of humanity evaporates into gray
Smoke curls about
Resembling satin ribbons laced with ash
It all seems like
Another world parallel to mine
Surreal
Going through the motions
She paces about from point a to point b
Hair feathers across her forehead
So eyes can hide secrets behind
Comforting curtains
Her only sense of security
Obscuring the view
Drained of color
Whitewashed orbs
Stripped of emotion
Of passion
They mechanically follow you
Fixed on something you can’t
Quite make out  
Blank
Unfocused
They pull you in
Her delicate fingers curl
And you can see veins
Extruding
And flex
In and
Back
Out again
Time slows
Decreases to a halt  
And the smoke continues to grow
Filling up every last corner
Breathing becomes labored
She presses against the glass
Dreamlike
Drawing smooth fingertips across
A thin layer of condensed vapor
Covering  coating the glass
Her mouth screams out
But silence blankets
Deafening
You can’t quite hear what she has to say
Because of this boundary
That supposedly divides
Separating your reality from
What she once knew
What she thought she will always know
The glass
It’s not solid
But liquid moving molasses
Ever so slowly
Right before your eyes
Clean air gets claimed by the grasp
Of smoke
And the choking
Begins
The glass is actually
Quite fragile
In nature
Waiting to be questioned
Tested
By those brave enough
To look past
Beyond glass walls
And venture into the abyss
But it can’t be moved
Flexed or bent
Towards your point of view
Or hers
Because
You finally found the key
That unlocks doors
That could not be opened
You’re finally beginning to discover
How close you are to the outcome
Yet further than you’ve ever dreamed
And everything tangible slips into the ether
What you think you see
It’s not really there
And neither is
The girl
The glass suddenly disappears
Along with the girl
Who turned off the lights?
Blackness takes over
And it’s all just a dream
They are just figments of your
Imagination
Just mirrors
Reflecting lightness
GyozaNeeko Mar 2015
It was just the two of us against all of the sky’s tears that night. Behind askew glasses and matted hair I watched you seep into the chilly wet darkness and pouring noise, how the iridescent urban glows blurred and blinked through your body, like fairy lights on black satin. You gripped my hollowness by the wrist and I came to respect the force of block falls on touch as you threw my world back on its two feet, not before a brief eternity of giddiness and disbelief. The supposedly accursed head of mine took in the images of shock through raindrop-filled lenses as my body changed direction against my will and gravity. My world was a kaleidoscope of lights and blaring horns, and with your hand around mine it was nothing but a distasteful harmony of passion and discord and it made me smile. You were yelling at me and I looked at you and I laughed. You asked me what I wanted and I begged and chortled and pleaded and giggled for the thousandth time, for you to hurry up and tell me that you don’t need me because I had somewhere else I need to go and even after all of that your grip only got tighter, sinking me into the eye of your storm. But that was just you, wasn’t it? Always ready to swallow me straight into your depths in times of uncertainty. I clutched the sides of your dripping face and I peered into your swimmy eyes to admire the reflection of my own and realized I could not find myself because all I saw was the apex of skyscrapers straight pass through your transparency as pure as the waters of the Maldives Islands on a sunny summer day quite unlike this one, but quite like the summers we spent in school for years walking down hate-filled corridors, fingers entwined and then suddenly I was afraid to touch you. I kicked and I screamed and tore ripples through your skin, begging you once more to pour me out of your hands so they are free to start scrubbing the belittling words off our locker doors, or the spay-painted ****** dripping red on the top of your locker like a store brand, hitting you on the head again and again the fact that not all rain yield desirable crops and yet you still pelted raindrop kisses on every inch of my puffy red cheeks till it was enough to smoothen my dry storm down to a drizzle. It was then I realized I was so, so cold. I looked tiredly down below and I was the Emperor of the gazillion city veins below, the King of the critter cars heading nowhere. I was God, and with that power I summoned it and looked back to earnestly, sahara-driedly request you to forget me once and for all because we are in the end sinners in the eyes of common sense, because you were too stubborn to flow out of the box to realize that I am the mercury leak to your springs, slowly diffusing into you when you spread yourself into every crevice of my body when we cuddle at night, a limitless barrel of radioactivity poured down your throat and all over your shirt in the shadows. You came into my life uninvited, flooded my earths with your torrents and left my world in a waste pool of yellow, but also a warm bed enough to nurse a young forest. I hate the way you swept me off since day one just as much as I love drinking in every last drop of your presence. Your arms wafted around my waist like petrichor and lured me back to safety. The rain on the 74th rooftop was ready to stop, but I was.  At least I wasn't sure.

Closing my eyes, I opted to drown.
My first attempt at a short story sigh.
FrankieM Jan 2018
I’m going home
Even though supposedly
I’ve always been

I’m sure
If you search hard enough
You’ll find me

In a memory
Camouflaged as rose pedals
A gray sky perhaps

I’m going home
And when I do I will
Be a part of your world

At last
On never truly belonging
Daniel Magner May 2016
Cap and tassel,
diploma,
freedom from academia.
A swift, ****** birth
as I'm shoved through to real life,
supposedly born grown,
a bright smile and a firm hand shake,
along with a list of accomplishments.
I have none, my resume made
completely of Diablo Rock Gym
and Chipotle.
Great.
Maybe I can still fail a class,
tell the professor I copied
my A paper, get expelled
and start all over!
Or fade away quick,
sink fast before anyone notices.
I'll slide into some forgotten swamp,
survive on worms,
and my own words,
                                    my own words,
             my            own                 wo,
my                   own            w
                                 my                      own
                                               my          ow
                   my
            m                                                   y
   m
               .
Daniel Magner 2016
Martin Narrod Sep 2014
WYA
I toast to the spirits you've been counting, lying in that hammock with a stranger from Mars. Your muddy fingers, they creep like hairless spider arms between the ropey knots that bind together all its parts. There is a house inside the hilltop, where it peaks there is a church- there once was a man in shackles and handcuffs living there, he also had mud on the bottoms of his feet. Even the pennies you found get lost now and then. Even your white hair goes a shade of blonde. I can't sleep but I don't try, I never tried not to do something so much that the rest of me broke. I pushed so hard that sand fell into my socks. You only told me half of what will happen to you at 10am, the rest of it you told me that you'd prefer I didn't know, but if I am to survive on the secrets I know that you don't know about. Then tonight I will be sewing the wool over my eyes.------------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------------------------------- No one could ever have any idea what comes easy. The creaking heavy wood of your slop-room door, or the filth I cough up in green, mustard, and tar globules every hour. There is the was. Small hands in half pockets. Stitches supposedly dissolving into our skins. The yellow wall, the panda pillow, the Pink Sugar, your hair wax and heavy handed straight-ironing tilt my curved and bent feet Northward about 6 to 60º degrees. Late trains and no complaints. Stubs of hair and tender legs. I don't give but my elbows buckle. This frame wasn't built to take blow after blow. Some friends tell me they can see tomorrow before it comes. Lakeside, readied, silver-necklace I haven't seen. Gold flightless bird that's never walked but says it will. I am cornered, my cornea tinted my vexes and leftovers, black and white pearls, birthdays, earthworms, and vinegar. Family dinners that push me nearer to the hole in the donut. I'm just so afraid of falling overboard. It's just I can't go forever without being heard.-----------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------------------------------- In and the. How long do stories like this carry on for? Does my name come up in private? Does mom two even know whether I ever existed or if I was split? I am the answer to the secret 'ask' question? When do I become background photo one or two? I am the one that's grateful I had a chance to sleep toe to toe. That I uncovered the winter that woke up the bleach and incense in the frosted air. While school is in session, am I crazy to believe in mermaids and sparklers and stickers, I'll stick with the choice that I made a year ago Tuesday- September hasn't ended but November's nowhere near. The reason I smoke so much is because I am no good at waiting. For phone calls, tweets, texts, updates, or written mail. No one told us that this could end underwater without even half of a breath, if you'd of asked then I would have told you that's why I steal your underwear and your sweatpants. You can have all my money, I don't even want, I just need it for you. You can have every word that I write, wield, and speak with, every sentiment and sentence, each promise,and compromise, everything that I own.-------------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------------------------------- Four photographs later. Everything means something. I'm in knots. Spiderwebs from elbow to elbow. Fishing hooks from knee to knee. My neck feels very naked, bare. Nothing, not even traces of pink or cerise lipstick or lip marks. Smudge me, stop punishing me, please, prease, don't leave. This isn't very good for either of us. My story cannot tread so closely to an ending, to the ends of a night or a phone call or an eyebrow pencil or an eyelash curler, not the double-sided extra-soft blanket you keep on your bed, not the bottles and dollars and boxes and jewelry under your mattress, not the zip in your doorway or the zipper in my jeans, not the two holes in my belt loops or the caffeine in my morning coffee. I quit cigarettes, ended my sentences earlier, grew quiet, wore more band shirts and skinny jeans. Even the lines of lips, outlined by hips, white roses painted red, blonde hairs blanketed by the bleaching on your head. I'm wrestling hula hoops, I'm putting my pinkies in your gauges, and amazed how good it feels- and I'm happy you didn't....leaves of autumn shatter on concrete city streets, although you'd hate it I'm thinking of a tattoo sleeve, how about you make it? Darling please! Rice Krispie I'm on my Lee Dungaree's, begging you to meet me on our knees. And every candy that I spit out once I got to the middle, every lollipop that I ever bit into to find the gum, each Happy Meal toy I bought separately; you are the only girl I attended school to meet when I wasn't enrolled. I'm holding on. The bottoms of my jeans rolled up so I don't fade into use. I miss having your tongue in my mouth. I want to feel my hands in your pants. It's my tongue that gets curious as I begin to feel the heat off your *******. Tender touching. Dire romance. Throttle my face with your legs. I'll perch you up on a pillow, you can hold my head till I beg. Because if I go at this life thing alone, pretty soon I'll have a mouth full of lead.
Fly Vida Jan 2012
Words and actions, actions and words
What came first the egg or the bird?
We’re confined to believing that change only comes from a dollar bill
For a bill of 6.75 but what is the price of freedom?
Freedom ain’t free and I may not agree with what you say
But I will defend with my life your right to say it
But before I can save you, I need to save myself from self destruction
So its up to me to break the chains but
I feel like I’m trapped by a straight jacket with my arms around my waist
Shackles on my ankles and a muzzle on my face.
I’m bound to the ground by belts fastened tight
And I have a blindfold on so I have no sight
I try to yell to scream, but my voice has been silenced
We’re all a victim of organized crime it’s called: the government
The heat waves gave way to my ribcage because
I’m starving but it might as well be my temples carving spaces
of malnourishment of the mind, body and soul
when the body hurts as a whole,
there’s a space void in the mind
and I’m being confined as my spirit is ripped limb from limb.
I’m bound by the standards of society
What they tell me is what I need to be, but
Who is they, anyway? I’m trapped by a system that has me running in circles.
My intellect is tested by standardized tests the determine my fate like a crystal ball
They are not a caricature of my character by any means
Education is the key to achieving your dreams but
Not before you  pay the state government that tells us we can’t get a job
To pay for our schooling so we can’t do the school thing that supposedly is a birthright.
Can we start to get it right?
My whole collection of poetry can be found at  http://itsmissflyvida.blogspot.com/
I titrate 20mg of 2C-T,
A substance I named Tesseract.
The effective dose is supposedly
three to fives times more than mine
but I quite like it here. Warm, benign
headspace, not altogether insightful but
friendly (and
we all need friends at times).
2,5-Dimethoxy-4-methylthiophenethylamine,
It was the first '2C' to have a sulfur atom,
A realm of possibilities opened up from there:
2C-T-1, Tesseract. I wonder what of
2C-T-2, Rosy. Or
2C-T-7, Beautiful. Or
2C-T-21, Aurora. Per'aps
2C-T-28, Vesper. I'd go on,
I do wander so often upon
these marvelous compounds.
Happy birthday to me, I guess, I do
what I love
and only hope
to keep exploring
as I age, I wish only
for
endless
adventures
with the best of friends.

I am rekindling the Entheon,
My gift to me is my spirituality.
Natalie Jones Apr 2014
Stop acting like you're great.
And tearing people down.

You say I'm too negative about myself.
With what I say--that's ******* true.
But it's because of people like you.

You pump yourself up in ignorant arrogance and exaggerate everything.

You say snide comments about people.

"Look at her blog, that's so gayyyy."

"D'aww look at them [couple picture] lyk so in luv."

"'Won regionals today' --you're so cooooool."

Seriously?

I blog.
I wish we took pictures. One ******* picture even (I don't even like them but at least then maybe people won't ******* go, "oh are you still with THAT girl?")
I do a lot of the things you mock.

Then you say that you wished that I did more of the things that I like to do.
Wonder why I'm so negative?

If I say it's stupid first--I'll be less butthurt when you mock it.

This is all so stupid. I shouldn't care so much.

But I'm annoyed.

I'm so sick of people talking about me like I'm mediocre.

*****, you all ******* know who I am.

I'm sorry I'm the little leather pants wearing "goth girl" who hooked up with the football/swim guy you all supposedly adore.

But most of all, I'm sick of this feeling that it seems like you feel like I'm mediocre.
Normally I'm not this ******, I'm just annoyed as **** right now and feel unappreciated
John Jan 2013
There is a place
Deep in the woods on the
Outskirts of town
So deep, in fact
Not even many hunters
Go that far
When searching
For their next ****
It's simply too far in to go
If you don't plan on spending the night there
Because once you arrive
The air is usually thicker
And the Sun is usually set
The Moon already looming over you

But legend has it
That if you do dare
To go that far
What you find may be of
Great importance
To you
Or to someone you know
It will
Without a doubt change your life
Your world
And how you perceive it
Supposedly

The nature of what exactly
It is
Is up for debate
Some say its a well
And the water inside of it
If you're brave enough to scale the walls
All the way down
And drink some of the water
It may have a certain Fountain of Youth effect
If you will
On you or anyone who does this

Still, others say
To get to this well
You have to get there in one piece
Still breathing
You can't already be dead and then go looking for a **** Fountain of Youth, can you?
No, that pretty much excludes you from the whole effect
Anyway, it's a supposedly dangerous path
The trees might suddenly start closing in
As the volume of shrubbery gets thicker and thicker
The branches may take on a life of their own
And direct all their attention to you
Clawing and scratching
Until your bleeding all over
But that's not the least of it

Once a drop of blood is spilt
Just one tiny drop is all it takes
That's when she picks up on you
She lives in a house
The house in which the well is located
In the basement
But when she senses you're near
You're pretty much ******
She waits
And waits
And waits
Nostrils flaring
For you to either turn around and leave
Or to continue on
Towards her home

She has black eyes
Like her pupils have dilated to the point
That they overrides any color that was once there
If there ever was any color
She has black hair
That extends probably to around her waist
And mostly obscures her ****** features
There's no real way of telling
If she's an old woman
Or a young lady
Her hair scraggly
But that's probably due to a lack of bathing
Not age
And she's supposedly not such an ugly woman
When she chooses not to be
Her motives make her features morph
Her hair seems to grow
Her eyes intensify
The darkness within seeming to spill into the air around you

I don't know
I don't know if I believe it
I mean, it sounds like a bunch of ******* to me
Whoever made this up must've had a ton if time on their hands
But people believe this crap
They actually think a woman lives in the woods
With trees that seemingly come alive if you go too deep
And with a well in the basement of her house
That will magically have you live in forever

I don't know about you
But I think I want to try to hike there
Soon
If there even is a "there"
If only to prove all these lunatics wrong
Wish me luck
Colin E Havard Mar 2014
To the Lonely Lunaticks -->
Have no worries - I'm ONE with you,
Although myn diagnosis was Miss-Directed,
Supposedly for myn own sake;
But I have my doubts about Others motives.

I'm against Ostracism -->
         I'll play Devil's Advocate to save a Soul.
I'm against Nepotism -->
         Jobs should go to boys and girls of equal capacity (not always Blood).
I'm against Cronyism -->
         Fk your mates at the expense of competent workers.
I'm against Elitism -->
         Who the F
k do you think you ARE?
         Just because You have an Expertise,
         Doesn't mean You're the Arbiter of Truth.
I'm against First Impressions -->
         Primarily because they are normally Wrong!
         [Besides, it's 1st impressions that the CON-DAMNS!]
I'm against Repression of Free Will -->
         Dissent is a Natural response to Wrong!
         However, not all Free Speech is Healthy;
         Neither for Individuals, nor Society at large.
I'm against the Non-Humourists ==> Killers of Fun & Happiness & Curiosity.

{Personally, while not always in good taste, I don't think Humour should be held to any Taboos}.
23/2/2014
Devil's Advocate, Day 8, Concord Mental Health Centre

— The End —