"terminated" poems
I wear beads and African bracelets for beauty. I forget why the people before me wore them. I wear them with pride not because I earned them but because I simply look beautiful. Beautiful!? What does that even mean? My Nana has scars on her body. She shows them to me with pride. Narrates stories of the war in the past like an action movie only she didn't have a gun only bows and poisonous arrows. The missing teeth in her mouth causes her to spit almost every second she talks. But this embarrassment is only felt by me. She is proud of the hole in her mouth. Suddenly I feel the urge to remove my African beads. They have no meaning only that they are African and I am and so am entitled. But I have done nothing for my heritage. Not even fight for it. Slowly it's being forgotten and people are crossing over without a care in the world. 'To civilisation' we say. 'For the good of the people' we say. But is it? We were a community wrong as we were to circumcise women, marry them off at an early age, burn the wrong... We were a community. We loved each other. We cared. We taught our children how to feel and be the earth. We taught our children to respect the earth and in return the earth blesses us with herbs to cure. What did they call it? Aaah yes 'witchcraft'. We were not animals who forget their children in pit latrines or by the river side just because we cannot afford them or don't want them. We cared not of individualism because together we grew in spirit, body and soul. It was not backward it was culture. And culture is flexible. It can change but can never be terminated. It is not a shoe that when you grow out of you throw and buy another.
And so I am not telling you to go back to your roots because if am quite honest you were never in it. Rather embrace it. See how 'civilised' you will feel then.
yours
The Red_Head
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 3:08 AM UTC
I'm looking deep into her eyes
*Looking into her eyes...
is like opening a door that leads...
to another door*
Wait..really? OK...I open the door.
*This door leads to a long, winding path,
like the winding path of your love.
The path leads to a third door*
O...K. I open the door.
*This door leads to a spiral staircase
descending down, down, down, deep
into her soul.
At the bottom of the staircase is--*
A door?
A door.
I open the door
The door is locked. The key might be under the mat
Seriously? I check under the mat
Nope, not there. Maybe try under the small rock next to the door
Oh for the love of...I check the rock
There is a key
Wonderful...I unlock and open the door
*Inside this door is a large atrium
the glass ceiling giving way to a
beautiful summer night, the stars
twinkling in the distance. At the
far end of the Atrium, there is a curtain*
Sigh I pull aside the curtain
There is a door
Come on! I open the ruddy door.
*You find yourself in a long hallway,
with fine art hanging along the walls.
Crimson carpet lines the floor.
At the end of the hall is a door locked
with a combination biometric
fingerprint scanner/retinal scanner*
What.
*You have 10 seconds to unlock the door
before the hunter-bots de-atomize you*
What!? Ok! I try my fingerprints and eye!
*The door unlocks and the hunter-bots stand down.
In the next room are three vials. Two of them contain
terrible neuro-toxins that will lead to an excruciatingly
painful death. The third will allow you to continue on
to the next room. You have 30 seconds to choose before
you are terminated*
What the hell is this!?
This is the path to true love hidden deep in her eyes
No, this is insanity!
15 seconds
OK! Geez! Umm..Vial Number 2!
You're totally dead
Oh god!
Just kidding. None of them had poison...was just messing with you
THAT'S IT! I'M DONE WITH THIS
Really? There's only one more door. I swear
...Fine. What ridiculous thing do I need to do to open it.
*It's already open. You find yourself in a circular room
with a pedestal in the center. On the pedestal is a hand
written note. On that note is the key to everlasting happiness*
I pick up the note
*You smell sweet hints of your beloved's perfume and
notice the care that each word of the note was written.*
What does the note say?
*My love:
Next Tuesday Only -- Buy One-Get One Free at J.J's Pizza. Cannot be combined with any other offers/coupons. Must present coupon upon purchase. Expires 1/14/14*
...An expired coupon for Pizza?
Such a wonderful expression of love!
How do I get out of here...
You see a door
.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
Devised by Cosmic Boss
Sourced by parents
Aided by obstetrician
Nursed by pediatrician
Nurtured by nutritionist
Counseled by sexologist
Treated by orthopedist
Stressed by physiotherapist
Directed by dietician
Nudged by nephrologist
Nerved by neurologist
Contained by cardiologist
Consoled by psychologist
Interspersed by dentist,
Sighted by ophthalmist
Conditioned by physiology
Terminated by mortuary
The inexorable Lifeline Express
Of hospitalized hospitality
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 6:42 AM UTC
I've done a lot.....
I've done a lot in my lifetime.....
I've done a lot in the past 11 months...
I've felt even more...
I've made decisions....
I've made mistakes....
I've created conclusions and shoved them in the mirror's reflection.
I've made a finalization...
I've terminated the story...
I've concluded this connection.
Now I'm alone...
Now I feel like excess emotions left in a puddle to be stepped in and splashed in, for fun or dismay.
-a muddy disgrace of distaste.
-a muddy reflection of disgust.
-a distraction on the path to your destination.
I feel sick...
Sick to my stomach
Sick in the Mind...
Sickly branches that creep out from my heart, determined to entomb my entire internal system, and hold me there to deal with what level I've continued to stoop myself too.
Myself... the one that's so much better than what she's encountered and how she's figured her future.
I deserve what I have, and what I choose.
I deserve what I get, for what I've chosen.
I'm throwing up...
I'm throwing up everything...
everything that my heart has eaten right out of the palms of those who've given it to me.
I don't wanna feel it anymore....
I don't want that pressure forced on my stomach any longer.
I'm sick...
I'm sick again.
Its all coming up....
I'm letting it out... all the emotions that so rightfully belong on the floor in a jumbled mess rather then crammed in my stomach where they explode with temptation as my stomach thrusts itself in circles....
its looking for a way to let everything go.
My body knows whats right....
I'm emotionally anorexic.
I throw it all away without wanting to let it go, I would rather keep everything that reminds me of that time, that time when my stomach did not churn in agony...
I am miserable....
I am mistaken.... and misjudged...
I am sick...
and distracted...
I'm... lost?
Lost in the mirrors and fine lines... fine lines between punishment and disabilities...
I can see myself....
I see myself pale and done.
Done with everything I'm hearing and thinking right now.
I've gone too far.
I'm done.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 2:56 PM UTC
Adulthood is never initiated
on a birthday,
the obligation to pay the bills,
or even the freedom
to eat those two desserts,
but rather when you realize that childhood
has been terminated—the stage
where you sigh and suppose
that magic was just an illusion
when you finally see how
the real world operates.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 9:30 PM UTC
He walks through a wood once every month
He takes the same route near The Wishing Pond
He meets with the Collector in a secluded building
Who never fails to purchase every new painting
The man was an artist, the Collector was a fan
His works and his reputation was known throughout the land
The Artist had it all: a nice house, a loving wife,
friends in every town and city, and wealth to last his life
Every month, another painting
Every month, the Collector's money
His life was set, his life was perfect
All he needed as an artist was a self portrait
So this next month's painting would be special
For when he would pass, this will be his memorial
He started on an early morning, standing in front of a mirror
With skill and patience, shading and texture, the first sketch was done
The painting process took a few days
Without sleep or food, for hours in his room he stayed
Near the end of the month, the portrait finally done
Proud and exhausted, the artist exclaimed, "This is a special one."
The next day, he readied his portrait to take
To the Collector, who was expecting to be amazed
With a glance at the picture before he could leave
He noticed many flaws and said, "I want a perfect me"
He sent a letter explaining the delay
To the Collector, disappointed, he lessened the pay
For days, the Artist fixed each flaw
The big ears, the small nose, the feminine jaw
Every day he found a new imperfection
But after months and months of fixing, he achieved satisfaction
He took his self portrait on his once monthly walk
To the Collector's house, pass The Wishing Pond
He tripped on a rock, dropping his portrait
Falling into the pond, his art was ruined
The canvas had sunk, the water grew murky
The paint spread around and clouded before him
The cloudy colors swirled in the water's waves
The Artist, distraught, sat in heartache
A figure rose from the water, the colors had faded
He recognized it immediately as the perfection he painted
His portrait was alive for to not be was imperfect
His creation looked back at him and exclaimed, "I am The Artist"
Throughout the years, the portrait had adopted The Artist's life
With perfect skills, perfect fame, and even the love of his wife
The Collector, impressed by its own work, gave it double the pay
He also terminated his contract, he and the Artist had made
The Artist was left with nothing
His life stolen by his painting
Embodied perfection had taken it all
Living wishful thinking, alive from The Pond
He tasked, and pushed, and berated himself to achieve perfection
He succeeded, but lost everything to his perfect version.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 10:46 PM UTC
Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
Thugs with Pens
Hell-bent; not on cultism
Just airing the other sentiments
That don’t make it to primetime
Thugs with pens
Not poking out eyes
Just venting spleen
Sick of the lies
Thugs with pens
Deserve to be heard
They don’t poison your brain
With stacks of *****
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Can change your mind
In ******* time
Thugs with pens
Can make a dent
They don’t need to insert
Un-readable, un-interesting
Covert small print....
Thugs with pens
Don’t need no script writers
Or advisors nor signatories
Witnesses, nor dodgy men
With gold plated fountain pen nibs
To make amends
Or throw in no hidden clauses
That secretly **** your life blood
Thugs with pens
Don’t aim to pierce your skin
But make their mark
Deeper within
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Completely uncensored
champions of free speech
The establishment want suppressed,
silenced, deleted; terminated.
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans don’t
Schedule meetings
To fix the minutes
And schedule another meeting
And keep ‘minutes’
As square angled
And unproductive
As formal conversation
Thugs with pens
Aim venomous ink
At headless politicians
That squawks like chickens
Bending over
For the *************
Bank-beefing corporations,
Controlling the masses
With ***** little catchphrases
And mounds of munitions
And illegally enforced restrictions
On your movement and free expression
Honest men
Have nothing to fear
From Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
These “thugs” seek asylum
From countries
Where the law’s
Not bought and bent
Thugs with pens & aerosol cans
Are made to wear monikers and masks
Thugs with pens
Don’t turn on its own
Neighbours and citizens
To perpetuate myths:
A ****** ************* lie…
A thing that never happened!
(That’s for all of you dumb wits
out there
Who believe most of the ****
That’s drip fed
Your sensation addicted minds
Most of the time,)
Time you started reading between the lines
In fact get a pen
Or an aerosol can
Write your own lines
Start broadcasting
Reclaim your space
Before you’re completely neoned
Into the shade
And corralled under the spell
Of a TV screen
Or an anger raising headline
That conducts the flow
Of the status quo
Load up your magazines
With ball point pens
And sharp edged writing nibs,
Strap on a belt of aerosol cans
Reclaim your right to free expression
In public spaces
Join the rag-tag army
Of intuitive
Self-knowing men
The End: is well begun,
George Orwell
Should never have written
That blueprint,
‘1984’
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
Bang! Bang!
The sounds of gun shots mid-day on Thursday,
Sirens getting closer to the crime scene,
Just two weeks ago a man's life was terminated for a cellphone,
More thugs and more gun fires,
the tragedy so bad it even appeared in the news.
But today i can feel fear creeping in my vains,
Another man shot dead today,
why do i have to live in this community?
For i am afraid.
Few months ago
it was just like an action movie,
people running and rolling
while the loud sounds from the police guns aiming over my
roof top kept on going
Bang! Bang!
I see the police patroling the streets by day,
having picnics in the park
while they watch their horses eroid away the soil.
They feast to some take away outlets
filling their sagging bellies by night.
While they letting the just go unpunished all year long,
Oh! It hurts.
I feel a bullet on my chest,
Oh! It hurts
for i cannot look through the dark
night anymore.
I sit on the side of this wide classroom window,
And i wonder,
What if one bullet comes straight to me. (God forbid)
Oh this township that i loved,
you are not safe anymore.
Where can i run to for i called you home?
There is no distance further gone without any loud sounds;
Bang! Bang!
Oh mam' ngiyalil'
ngililel' labo abangasek'
ikakhulukaz' imphil' yam'
umphefumul' ongenacal'
kungab' sewabayin' wena dolobh' lami.
I called your name,
with so much pride and bragging,
but now i cannot even say your name
for you have groomed thugs,
gangsters,
vindals,
drug addicts and drug dealers,
harlots... And what else that we do not know?
Could it be blood sacrificies,
are these the 'EndTimes' proclaimed in the book of Revelations,
Why should i bother trying to think when all i hear in my head are ecoing sounds
Bang! Bang!
All i need to do is to find a way out,
Nyawozam' ngibeleth' !
Ngob' inhliziy' ayisahlalisekang'
qobo
when will that day be,
when crime will be stopped for good,
and police do justice to the community?
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 8:32 AM UTC
We use to be Friends with Benefits
We use to go to the bathroom
With one waiting five minutes before going of course
For three minutes of Pleasure
We use to not talk at all only when needed
To set up meetings
I felt like we were spies in a movie
and with every meet we trade secrets
Down each others throats
With every touch thoughts ran through my mind
What if we got caught ?
For this is no ordinary Friends with Benefits
it was one that would be considered Forbidden
Two guys enjoying each others company
In the bathroom
Two guys moving and thrashing about like beasts
to satisfy their thirst
It lasted for weeks, months, and years
Friends with Benefits
Savoring each time they came together
Each time their hunger for lust was fed
But we are no longer Friends with benefits
I no longer require lust to quiet my growling stomach
I don't need you to take my every inch
To make me move about in ecstasy
No I terminated your services
For I want to save myself for that one person I will love.
I know it seems dumb
since I have already gave myself up for three minutes of pleasure
Time and time again.
And even though you want more
We can no longer be Friends with Benefits
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 5:16 PM UTC
There is sea salt all over my hands, and I know I'm not the ocean.
So let's drink tea out of mason jars,
with cold porcelain shards instead of ice,
and let's cut our mouths on every argument we've ever had.
I hope you don't mind if I make a home out of you,
and I'm sorry if my spirit doesn't fit so well inside of yours, you see
I have been carrying dead weight with me like a terminated pregnancy,
and mourning the emptiness inside of me like a miscarriage.
Now it seems like I'm only giving birth
to the sorrow that my heart cannot hold.
Now I'm starting my mid-life crisis early, stating over, starting with you.
I'm writing my past into the sand, waiting for the tide to clean my slate.
So just wait a little but while I hold my breath hostage,
and I will wait for a ransom to come,
and I will pray that it doesn't come barreling down my door, looking like you.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
I feel you constantly each second
You are the one thing I breathe, the one thing I cling onto for my dear life
What did I ever do to you?
I am in debt to you?
I work hard, pay my dues and respect the world
What did I do to deserve such persecution?
Dear pain I think our contract has to be terminated
But then again if you leave me who is left with my dark soul
Who is left to keep me company at my lonely dark grave?
I am tired of being used, dumped and stepped on
Haven’t you had your fun yet? I think I have reached my dying limits
I give up! Then pain, please I beg!
Lend me a dying wish!
I think in this game of cat and mouse you have won
I think I am now brave enough to accept defeat
I am strong enough to handle the fact that I am nothing!
Dear pain, I have nothing but tears to shed
Dear pain, lend me a dying wish!
If you do come to my funeral, don’t be sad
We were good friends, the best of the best
I would have not wronged the world if I say I enjoyed having you
Dear pain, please keep away from the ones I LOVE
Lend them the opposite of my imperfections
Dear pain my partner in this emotionless crime
PLEASE! DO LEND ME A DYING WISH….
By: One Pamela Pusumane.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY THE COPYRIGHT HOLDER AND AUTHOR.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
I’m lying down in the ground
as the sun shines its rays
right inbound
on me.
hounding me
(surrounding)
Without a sound
Or is there?
A ringing
or dinging
a pinging
maybe a constant stinging.
I wouldn’t know.
Could be the blood pulse
or the sea dulse wrapping
the seashells doing their sins
or
a pair of siamese twins
trying to
dance and
lance and
advance on my grave
(how brave! how brave! i hope they cave)
germinated spouts
and terminated doubts
with exterminated outs.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 3:16 PM UTC
I see the sad color of racism not every other day
But every second of the hour, all minutes of the day
I see the serious mental and physical damages
That this cancer has done throughout the ages
And is still doing to our beloved human beings
The others treat our People like they are leftover beans
On a petty pet's plate. Our people deserve respect
Fairness, justice, equality, acknowledgement
Compassion, credit and better treatment
Our sisters are tired of being left out on the deck
Our siblings are often harassed senselessly, persecuted
Falsely accused and relentlessly prosecuted
At one time, they were hunted and hounded by the system
At other time, hindered and haunted by an organized medium
Created to attack, destroy, burn, ravage and annihilate
To embarrass, marginalize, ridicule, punish and discriminate
I see the color of racism, when the police for no apparent reasons
Stopped, frisked and handcuffed our homeless, our elderlies
Or our law abiding citizens, like it was open seasons
To hunt for mule deer or bears, who behave like enemies
Of the civilized society. I see the sick color of racism
When our people are not hired not for being unqualified
But because of their skin color; they're quickly disqualified
Dismissed, fired or terminated. I see the monster of cynicism
All golly minutes of the day. The arrogance is unparalleled
Beyond belief. The racists forgot that God only created one race
One human race, one human race, one **** human race.
Their false pride, their fake supremacy, their ignorance is unleveled
And their audacity is incomparable. I see the colors of racism
Not that I want to search for them, not that I want to find them
Most of the time, I simply cannot elude, evade or escape them
It is not easy to ignore the litanies of bad or negative mannerisms
The bigots easily function like virulent or venomous vipers
That **** out the emotions, and that destroy all positive characters
Our lives, Black lives, like other lives, are sacramental and important
And our contributions to the world are significant
I see the ugly and surly color of racism not every other day
But every second of the hour, every minute of the **** day.
Copyright © February 24,2015, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 1:07 AM UTC
T-The gift of life is oft stolen away
H-Horrid weaponry does the affray
E-Endlessly casualties will parlay
G-Gleaming soldiers eyes gone for rest
I-In unforgiving battles so harsh of test
F-Fighting at a land's utmost behest
T-Terrible the deadly toll is to attest
O-Over and over munitions have terminated
F-Flagrantly thieving any quietude generated
L-Loved sons of kinfolk seen to weep
I-Infinite this sadness ever so deep
F-From a beautiful benefit the cost steep
E-Extinguished by war's insane keep
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
*Freezing cold, a strange night of rain and thunder,
it got registred deep in his consciousness,
as a squiggling liquid presence;
an abstract painting, taken in, with layers of meaning,
a deluge, the result of injustices heaped against the female principle.
The rain lashed out, in the flashes of lightning
in between, through the window sills
when the curtains where swept aside
by a subversive wind, painful face
of a frightened girl was visible,
at the window of a highrise building,
shameful secrets kept concealed peeped out
yelling out "HELP"in the shocking words of silence.
That night was difficult for an exile from life like him to endure,
subconscious echoed terror filled cries;
sewer water flowed, towards oblivion,
carrying embryos, not fully formed from terminated pregnancies,
he heared tree toads speaking in strange tongues,
like jilted women seeking vengeance,
coyotes hunting in packs with blood thirst howled in delight.
In his nightmare, blood dripped from wet trees,
"who will rescue our bloodied orphaned planet?"
his heart with a collective guilt , beyond words wailed.
From denuded mountain slopes, muddy red water
copiously gushed downhill, nature's menstrual flow
out of cycle, devastated hillsides cleaving gashes,
like scorned woman's fury baring long sharp fangs-
landslides opened gaping wounds.
Liquid's rule took over the space of night,
lying awake on his bed,
he became conscious of the burden of women,
who moved around with invisible bridles
pretending free, nervously smiling.
Swimming in the amniotic fluid of the past
he is forced to recount the past sins,
nature and women have endured and ask
for forgiveness seeking salvation.*
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
Exams over, friends dissolved and school also told bye,
Holidays commence; time to wander and to fly.
The first day of holiday-I woke up like an early bird,
Mom preparing stuff for breakfast,
And dad busy with calls and hurrying fast.
I stare at my room window and take a glimpse
Of people rushing their cars past the traffic.
Seeing everyone in routine makes me terrific!
The birds chirping daily without any holidays
And the sweepers taking away the dust without any leavings.
The gardener has arrived, the maid had come
In almost each person’s home.
People terminated their morning walk
And grabbed the car.
I’m still at the window spotting tones of people departing out very busily-
The merchants and vendors shouting noisily.
All the work is turning on without distraction,
Everyone at their workplace in attention.
After some time, my neighborhood turns out to be calm
The tranquil and the ready floating breeze blow past my face.
This assures me that everyone left their houses
And reached their respective places.
I take my eyes off the window and sit-back.
No more to-do lists, no more writing the home works,
And timetables on the calendar looks.
No more wearing shoes at the sound of the school bus
No more books and things at mess.
I see the clock-it’s only eight
Same time yesterday I was in an exam fight.
Spotting everyone at their routine work-
I feel so much desolate and forlorn.
And yet at dusk I watch people returning home from their day’s work.
At twilight, I see the firmament fading into a thick sapphire loom
And ask myself-“What have I done today?”
The obvious answer is-“Watching people drive and return from work!”
I see the calendar-Two more months for school:
Two more months for my homely eyes to twinkle
Two more months to shut the windows
Two more months to mess my table
Till then, my homely eyes-weak and feeble
I just need to nurture and make them twinkle…
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
I had a scary dream once
But it’s a dream that makes sense now.
In that dream,
The government set up a “program”
Where when you reached the age of 50 you were “terminated”-
In that dream, I was trying to hide my “loved” ones
As the government soldiers came to get them.
Every day after school, I go to Barnes&Nobles; to study
And read up on books I can’t afford to buy. And every day around
4:15 PM, these two old retired couple come in to read
And eat. The same routine every time; the wife points out where
They’re gonna sit (9 times out of 10 it’s the same table as yesterday).
The husband then goes to order their small size drinks and two cookies.
When he comes back, he grabs a stack of magazines and they just flip em’-
Sit there with a dull look on their faces and read for hours.
Amazed, I ask myself silently each time when I see them,
“so this is what life amounts to?”
I now see the government’s point.
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 1:48 PM UTC
As I walk down the street
That looks nothing but normal,
With pedestrians walking on the sides
Mothers calling sons after school,
Teenagers writing their dreams with sweat pants and converse shoes
Trotting down the pathways with their personalities
Compressed in their back packs;
I like to play a game called
“What’s behind the steering wheel?”
A bomb;
A wired representation of defeat
An open gate to oblivion,
A flower with pedals of fire
Pollen of political tyranny
With ignorant humans for bees
That “spread the word”.
“What’s behind the steering wheel?”
A kid reading a book
Forgetting the world outside
For the worlds in fairy tales
Seem real;
And as soon as his eyes start rolling
He envisions himself a leader of a striking army
A great protector of truth,
Or even a little girl dancing her way into the forest;
Busy being a child
She never thought about the monsters waiting on the other side;
And all those characters are despised,
In a world where innocence is put aside
Where dreams are confiscated
Like phones in elementary schools,
Where minds only follow
And hearts are black;
In a world,
Where reading a book becomes a threat
Only terminated by something louder than life
But nothing is louder than words.
“What’s behind the steering wheel?”
Afraid tyrants,
Calculating their reign
In seconds
And seconds are all they leave us
Before we leave us,
Before we start making martyrs of our names
And memorials of our pictures,
Before we write elegies
Before we write poems of anger
Before we cry down our thoughts
Screaming the names of those we lost;
Afraid that one day,
No one will remember those names
Afraid,
That one day,
Our name would be among them.
Ow martyrs who left us a world to fix
Our hands are tired of typing,
Our eyes are drowning
For the more we write down your names on our souls
The heavier are our tears;
Our thoughts are crumbling
Into posts and statuses
But who are we posting for, if all of you are dead?
Ow martyrs who left us with more spaces to cover
We cannot cover all this by ourselves.
Our trials are self-destructing,
Our memories are filled with images of you
Hoping that our memories stay memories
As we revolute towards our future.
Our flowers are wilting,
Our candles are too close to burning out
We have read all the prayers that we know
And as the journey prolongs
I ask myself…
“What now?”
Our rage is dormant,
Our eyes are open as we observe
The post traumatic epilepsies the world is coming about,
Our minds,
Once fooled
Are now base lines for our attacks;
Our hearts are filled with images of you
In an open chamber
Easy to access
For one day
All these images will appear on the surface of us
And that is the day we avenge you
Ow martyrs who left us,
You left us with a world to fix and a nation to create.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
Boyfriend number 1
Moody, tall & grumpy
Heard he's got 8 kids
****** glad he dumped me.
Boyfriend 2 & 3
Interchangeable, doing battle
Fighting for my affections
****** tittle tattle.
Boyfriend 4 heartbreaker
Mastering his art
Olympic flirt, lothario
2 timing man **** ****
Boyfriend 5 flash Harry
A ladies man, so he reckoned
Metallic Ford Capri
He was gone in 60 seconds.
Boyfriend 6 & 7, Hammer Horror
How the **** did these begin
Beer goggles and cocktails
UGH! Just let me catch me skin.
Boyfriend 8 from Down Under
Bit angry, bit thick
James dean Lookey likey
Married him too quick.
Boyfriend 9, pious
Quiet nature boy
Once married grumpy ****
Terminated contract, lack of joy.
Boyfriend 10 professional
Public Sector, comprehensible
Politically correct lifestyle
He thought I wasn't sensible.
Boyfriend 11 is The Man
Mild mannered rampant ram
Sizzling hot attraction
He accepts me as I am.
Now the chase is over
Got him, Bingo, I've won
Hellfire he's got 5 kids
******* glad I've been done.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
And so time has flown
And in my memories it all remains
The unbreakable bond that once was
A friendship.
Terminated on one end but
Very much alive on this end,
Yes,
Very much alive.
And as the time goes on
The memory becomes more precious,
And as the time goes on
The loyalty from here resides,
Very much alive.
A friendship that no matter how damaged,
It is still very much Alive.
-Kathia Mariana Landeros
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 2:00 AM UTC
It was a cold night,
I was coming home,
And I didn't inform her,
As I wanted it to be a surprise.
War was over and I was going home,
The terrorists had been terminated.
I had stopover en route,
At a distant town I paused,
Famous for its winery,
I had got the finest ***
For both me & my wife.
Obstructed en route by a blizzard,
I thought about my wife at home.
Waiting for the way to be cleared,
I slept because I felt so very tired.
A dream sequence started,
It was so bright and warm.
I was basking in the Sun,
My wife accompanied me.
Holding hands we're in the backyard,
Not a cloth shielded us from the Sun.
Composing poems we were,
Warm and hot ones as well.
I had said:
***"Oh my honeybunch,
My buttercup,
I love you,
From the core,
Of my purest heart."***
She had replied:
***"Oh my sweetiepie,
My bigger baby,
I love you too,
From my heart,
And even my body."***
But then the dream ended,
They had cleared the road.
The driver again started driving,
At a slow speed fit only for snails,
Still my rifle rattled inside the bad.
Now I reached my town,
I expected her in nightgown,
In the velvety green one she had.
Edging closer on foot to my home,
I observe incandescence in the hall,
Glimmering through the curtains,
I thought she was waiting for me,
Basking in the heat of the fireplace,
After a tiring day's work at the office,
She should have slept peacefully,
But here she was, I thought,
Waiting for her man to be back,
From the neighbouring state's capital.
With these positive thoughts on my mind,
I parried forwards in the snow,
And I thought I'd surprise her,
Telling that my work was done,
Earlier, much earlier than I had expected.
I produced my copy of the key,
And silently opened the door,
But then I heard some sounds.
Totally unexpected sounds,
Like the intimate ones in bed,
I wanted it to be some teleseries,
But then I noticed an overcoat,
And a pair of oversized boots,
Neither the overcoat belonged to me,
Nor the huge gumboots were mine.
It dawned upon me,
My wife had been cheating,
She was in the hall,
The indecent incandescence,
With the noises of it,
Filled the home after issuing,
From the main hall.
I immediately stepped back,
Closing the door silently behind me,
Then I went to the bus stop.
I entered the lodge nearby,
Took the bottle of *** out,
Drank it full slowly but surely,
Then I took the gun out,
Sank the *** in & pulled the trigger,
BANG!!!
The bullet dug under my chin,
It pierced me through my head,
Shattering the lamp overhead.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 11:40 PM UTC
The 3 am twilight blues his sandpaper skin
A beast-like hue
she feels down
So he lifts her spirits
By the neck
Like a Heineken
“DO NOT call the cops”
His words sharp objects
He speaks machete fluently
I freeze
He ice skates on my childhood
Blades figure eights on my frosty irises
His face switches from blue to red
Like 3D glasses
I think of alps in the summertime
Defrosted mountains unveiled
Scooby-Doo villains
The much-awaited unmasking
One time he shoves her
And murders a generation
Her run-ons have become clauses
Short.
Incomplete.
Terminated.
I smell miscarriage on her breath
Now her voice carries
What her stomach cannot
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
Deadened
I was terminated, today.
It foreshadowed a phone message of my father's demise.
Penniless on a reservation, I am deadened.
What are aspirations?
I am lulled by my rich heritage to live imprisoned in this space.
Like a broken and discarded snow globe, I feel irrelevant in this place.
The familiar has become the mundane.
Without enough cash to collect my Father's remains,
an estranged childhood friend pays for our one way tickets of escape to a place more barren.
Father, I wonder why you fled to such a desolate land.
What were you seeking? What was your plan?
Flashbacks of childhood dreams unfulfilled flood my mind.
Longing for our ancestors' way of life, realizing but not admitting it will never be ours.
Not belonging to the outside world, we return in my father's beat up truck, unchanged.
I promise to acknowledge my friend,
but we both know we will remain estranged.
Life on a reservation renders you reverently passive,
and without aim.
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 9:48 AM UTC
Surrounded by obscurity without gloom:
the depths of calignosity suffocate every speck in ebony ink.
Yet, every molecule breathes with ease.
It is the crushing, bewitching hour of eternity in nightfall.
A sigh exhaled is impassively terminated by the midnight dusk;
sound is silent here.
Emptiness gapes as the leviathan's gob
thick with gelatinous mucus,
vast, however jailing:
closed and unknown to the living universe.
The saliva sparks in a moment, as a release of static charge,
even though no solid is sensed, never-mind two touching
loaded with electric friction.
And then again, as a sparkler of summer's independence
now holding for just more than a whim.
An explosion.
Flecks of bright stains scattered within the physical aura breeze past;
they ripple like wave crests under a kaleidoscope moon.
Colors arc in the resistant free current: endless lightning.
The vacuum is an overpopulated city
of which the blind could never take census
and the ignorant believe to be mute.
Visual speech fills the void of sound.
It is the starlight of a body.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC