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Babu kandula Jul 2014
133 billion pounds in America
4.2 million Tonnes in UK
50 million kilograms in Australia
230 million Tonnes in Africa
1.3 billion Tonnes in Switzerland
222 million Tonnes in Malaysia
580 billion Rupees(Indian currency) in India
33.79 million Tonnes in Saudi Arabia
What are these numbers?
Amount of food we are wasting per
In Tonnes, Kilograms, pounds
I was shocked knowing about
These figures
Really if we can save this
There will be no
Hungry stomach in the world
What you say?
Zani Jun 2017
Welcome to the feast
We all come here for the hunger
Come and take a seat a while
Lets talk of friends
Lets talk of style

Elizabeth Squires
She is one to admire
Connecting the dots
So that love may transpire

Kim Johanna Baker
By God’s blessings and grace
Makes this portal
A magical welcoming place

Then there’s Temporal Fugue
Who’s magic awakens
With his humour
Much of my time he has taken

TSPoetry is a royalty
With his noble voice honours me
How much sense that I make
From the words that you’ve choiced

Donna Jones
The three line queen
Pure joy through her literature
Now I’m forever dreaming Haikus

Ouise Godsent Abode
He knows
With five lines he unravels
Then tickles your bones

z-blossom your stanzas
Are so pleasing to the eye
How the vivid words ring
To my ears as sublime

CGY Your haikus
They have blown my mind
To collide with Benji’s
Beautifully long, flowing write

Ghostwriter and Mykayla shea
Even though I rarely see ye
I’ve read through most your poetry
And hope that there’s loads more to read!

As for Clark Dave Hitchens
I just read him in my kitchen
This way I found a witty rhyme
But not to undermine his brilliance

Janae you are on it
Red Flag, Daydream,
Magic Kiss, Invisibility,
Brain *****

Vlassis I will quote you
When I need to charm a woman
Otherwordly Wanderer
When some hope I need to summon

God bless to Tyler Mathews
He is posting every day
I hope the universe conspires
For us to carry on that way!

To learn of freeform prose I can
Take a scroll to SR Millan
And if I want a treat dessert
Ellie Graves has tonnes and tonnes of work!

Zhanuary Arielle
So much passion your words tell
I feel I understand them
Natural imagery does us well!

Marie James Alexander
I pandered to the thought of you
When I put Ramen in my soup
I chuckle at some words you choose

Daniel Steven Moskowitz
Your poetry endless
Your writing is phenomenal
Your arguments relentless

Camiliamhd I wish that I
Could read what you are saying
When I read your pretty poetry
I feel like I am praying!

Vanessa Gonzales
She has got the attitude
With Fredrick Njoroge block style
They push onto higher altitudes!

Kesha You have peirced me
With your double barrel stanzas
I had to go read SoulSurvivor
To practice on my Mantras

Now that the round is over
It is time for us to feast
I thought that I'd invite you
So that we'd have a chance to meet

Thank you all for being
Thank you all for caring
Thank you all for sharing
Thank you all for reading

Bon Apetit!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
my brain has a priority,
i could endeavour to do a Soviet
sleep experiment,
but, to be frank, my liver can
become knock-out mush.

where else would you find a flag of red, white and brown?
where, if not in the toilet - god, i hate people lying -
it gets on my nerves -
             it's not like we ate the fruit
of Eden and came up with
not knowing anything -
          what became the ultimate
poetic canvas, has, truly, expired
under my watch -
          it just became too much of
a tedium, than a source of inspiration -
   all they ever did was recite
the safety-net passages of a ******
affair - and yes, i do have a memory
of a specific thought, on of them being:
  what will be the last song i'll ever hear...
i started pondering:
              King Crimson's *epitaph
   or Madonna's material girl? i couldn't choose -
so there i was, sitting on the throne of
thrones reversing the pleasure of ****,
Frank O'Hara was there,
            and my book was there,
apart from the odd typos, it actually
felt pretty good reading some of these poems,
for the first time, a perfect environment to
read my own poems: on a toilet.
                flush!         echoing            flush!
sounds about right...
             sure, i enjoyed them,
but what i did enjoy more was wiping my ***:
hence the title: red, white and brown...
blood from my ****... if this is pain...
sign me up for more...
              that's what i don't understand:
he lied about the lie (you know
who the protagonist of Milton is) -
       we learned to lie -
   people always bemoan toothaches,
now... toothaches i can understand,
no one lies about toothaches -
   but the rest of our bodies?
those ******* molluscs and oysters?
i don't even think they are able to conceive pain...
bones... sure, i get it...
teeth especially... but those soft pouches?
they either harden up, or die off...
people just lie about pain...
they love the crucifixion scene they
want mourners to stabilise them in
their bed-ridden-riddle -
          if i'll tell you it hurts... i'll tell you
why, perhaps i was wiping my *** too
vigorously, proclaiming: now, those
pederasts really know how to write a poem...
    i can't imagine the major organs
succumbing to more pain than the usual
pain someone chooses to attribute them
through abuse... i see death and think:
you're the right odd cheater in giving out
anaesthetics... aren't you?
                  it's when it goes to the bone...
i can imagine pain in bones to be like anything
above the soft-tissues turning into
snails and some child-sadist pouring
salt on snails... or smearing frogs with
lipstick and setting them alight (i have seen this
being done: ******* freak-show,
that's all i thought)...
              as one man said: death comes slowly...
or in all honesty: death comes painlessly -
          but i don't know if the red on the toilet
paper is equivalent of impeding death,
   or merely an optic impediment that i have
no solution to...
         all in all... i rather keep that cranium
canary of mine content with synthetic sleep
than keep my liver toxin-free -
                     sure, i wish i could
experience analytical sleep these days:
  analysis, i.e.: we shipped 10 tonnes of x
                          we shipped 10 tonnes of y,
                          we put into storage 20 tonnes of z...
i know what manual labour is like,
   i mean, roofing isn't exactly doing a manicure...
the whole: doin' it for 20 years argument
doesn't really matter... i have one complete
roof under my belt: Scottish Widows' HQ (St. Paul's
on the Central Line) - and if you think,
for a moment, that i wouldn't rather be up
there, on the roofs, winter thinking about
long ships and the wind, and
summers and jeans and frying ******* -
           then you're sadly mistaken -
    all i have for entertainment these days
is a few women, who have a secure life,
                bake, vacuum, all the 1950s stereotypes,
****, throw 'em in! and in their spare time
write poems... oh sure, me the fiendish brute,
the ogre - the whatever that comes from
a woman's arsenal of - because being puppy-eyed
and sopping, just doesn't do it justice enough...
            in that respect, Philip Augustus (the 2nd)
of the Capetian monarchy was a woman...
  yep, had a ***-change and manipulated
               Henry II, Richard I and John
                          like a woman might in an ****:
three holes... one has to fit to adequate pleasure.
oh soft sweet death... why are you languishing
in the worded furore and taking your time?
this is getting, a little bit... too ridiculous:
all those abstracts of feeling, idealists everywhere...
but never from personal experience:
   and just because you read idealists across the learned
spectrum... doesn't necessarily make you one...
        sometimes you turn into a realist -
and what most people can face up to:
            exhibit a. angry man
exhibit b. pacifist man
                exhibit c. a stick
        exhibit d.                               a riot scene.
For the lonely,
for the loveless,
for the forgotten and overlooked,
for the discarded and trodden on,
for the neglected,
for the ignored and mocked,
for societies weeds,
for circumstantial weeds.
For you outcasts are weeds
the flowers nobody wants,
weeds are resilient.
They persevere where others can not.
Often mistaken for weak, but no,
weeds are strong
and tough enough to break through tonnes of concrete
and metal.
Clever enough to find growth in places
others perish in.
Adaptable to every habitat and
brave enough to exist on barren wasteland.
Weeds need only the tiniest of a chance to flourish
For the unwanted,
for the unclaimed.
You are beautiful.
You are equal to every other flower.
You are the Charlock, the Buttercup, the Clover,
the Pinapple-May-**** and so much more.
Next time you see a **** by the roadside,
or peeking out from a crack in a wall,
or between paving slabs in a busy city,
or overgrown in a garden,
or weaving through rubble and debris,
take heart
lonely ones.
You are not worthless
You are magnificent.
I've always loved weeds and have been one for so long. We are many, mo cara, we belong
Raihah Mior Jan 2016
Oh ***,
you and your puns
I've had too much fun,
laughter- tonnes and tonnes

Happiness to me
is like sticky toffee buns,
bubble-shooting guns,
or late night cartoon reruns

But with you,
it's like a thousand splendid suns
Ben Jones Nov 2013
Outside an average sort of house
Upon a quiet street
There stood a man of honest heart
All grim and weather beat
His face awash with bafflement
A letter in his mits  
With Lots of Love from God himself
And golden twirly bits

He'd read it over breakfast
Then read it on the loo
Considered re-addressing it
For number forty two
Within the silver envelope
In angel script, embossed
Were plans to build a massive boat
Materials and cost

It seemed, he'd have to build  it
As the letter looked legit
So off he sped, to B&Q;
To show the holy writ
The manager was confident
The price was mighty bold
Delivery on Saturday
For every item sold

So late, on Friday evening
He popped out for a walk
Upon his road, he drew a boat
In vivid yellow chalk
When morning dawned, a knocking
And some paperwork to mark
For a thousand tonnes of timber
For construction of an ark

He set out with his hammer
And he smote the nail and tack
By afternoon, the road was blocked
With traffic tailing back
A keel was just discernible
Beginning to take form
By evening, the media
Was whipping up a storm

Up marched a bold reporter
From the Three Times Weekly Herald
He said "So you'd be Noah then?"
"Not me" said he "I'm Gerald"
"I got this 'Oly telegram
And God has chosen me
I fill a boat with wildlife
And sail the salty sea"

By night he was a laughing stock
On YouTube and the news
But a sturdy man, was Gerald
And most vehement in his views
When asked to show the letter
He graciously refused
"Just have a little faith" he said
"We'll soon see who's amused"

The church were being skeptical
And held the press at bay
The Council sent him letters
At a rate of four a day
The hull was soon completed
And he laboured on inside
Constructing some amenities
To house them on the tide

A swimming pool for waterfowl
A wall of rodent wheels
With bowls for every kind of fish
And a big one for the seals
A filing box for butterflies
To stow them all away
A pigeon hole for pigeons
For the bees , a large bouquet

A puzzle for the monkeys
A wardrobe for the moths
A lion for the antelope
A jacuzzi for the sloths
A fully fitted nursery
For when the ewes had lambed
The wasps would have a picnic
And the beavers could be dammed

Through night and day he toiled
He relieved himself in shifts
In time, he built a sauna
And a pair of turbolifts
The council grew impatient
And the neighbours were in fits
They begged him to remove his boat
Entire or in bits

Then promptly, after dinner
As he sat upon the deck
There called a suited doctor  
With a badge around his neck
There followed many questions
With a host of funny looks
While outside went from 'fine and warm'
To 'just the thing for ducks'

That night, began the deluge
So Gerald found his crew
He robbed each local pet shop
And attacked the nearest zoo
Collected every animal
And fastened them in tight
The waters coursed along his street
As dawn replaced the night

'Twas then a thought occurred to him
A kind of mental swerve  
His road was more a crescent
So his ark was on a curve
But just then the currents took him
He sailed off along the bend
For six weeks, going round and round
To land at home, The End

Marshal Gebbie Oct 2010
Written in the language of the hard hats and dedicated to each and every one of us who have endured this horrible ****** Winter weather*

Rain in gouts from June till now
There's blue clay mud forever,
Orange excavators ply
With sturdy tracked endeavour.
Lakes of water, turgid brown,
Are Swirling  with the flow
Of four inch pumps in overdrive
With ****** all to show.

Streaming rainfall day by day
As dogged men press on
To concrete saw and generator's
Screaming, nearby song.
Welders, under shelter, flash
Their lurid silver light
And ghosts of reinforcing bars
Reflect like day is night.

Mightily the ironwork
Descends by crane to trench
And snaking snout of concrete pump
Disgorge their load to bench
The magic of the bentonite
Performs it's subtle dance
And the concrete locks for centuries
As thunderous skies advance.

Knee deep in the morass
With perplexed furrowed brow,
An engineer is pondering
A sticky problem he has now
How to isolate contaminants
From mud to water flow,
How to guarantee the purity
As seaward tonnes of it does go

And still the deluge thundered down
Relentlessly it poured,
Day to day and month by month
Despite the plea's implored.
Relentlessly the hard hats
Bent their sodden backs to task
And forged a mighty work of progress
.... More than anyone could ask!

Amazing the endeavor,
Just amazing how they work
How men can face adversity
And simply will not go beserk!
How bounteous camaraderie
Generates between ranks.
When the hardship is shared
And the boss smiles... thanks.

For the roof beams are settling
And those deep holes begin
The tunnel takes shape
As slanting rain whistles in
And the big trucks do loiter
To idle there for a bit,
As the loud water blasters
Clear the clogged wheels of ****.

And the public all clamoured
To wait and queue in the stall
To watch and to witness
A quite remarkable call.
For the old Birdcage tavern
On that grim cloudy day
Promptly lifted her skirts
And slowly scuttled away.

All the glue and epoxy
And the rivers of nails,
And concrete trucks queuing
As the ******* flails.
And steel by the megaton
All rusted and twitched
And worriers worrying
Till the problems are fixed.
And the augers are drilling
In a great tandem arc
And nobody knows
Where the **** they can park!!!
Then the bright sunshine breaks
And the smiles all appear
And the work rate accellerates
For the way is now is clear
To inter that  dear old Vic tunnel
Down deep in the sod
Then you'll hear us all chortle
"We've ****** done it ...Thank God!"

Victoria Park Tunnel
3 October 2010
C-wolf Mar 2014
My head is full of words 
But they cannot pass down  the streams on my face,
to the waterfalls in my neck,
to the steady river in my arms,
and explore the 5 sea-fingers
around the oceans of paper.
To battle the waves of rhythm
and dramatic pauses,
cliche's and stanza's with an ending of finesse.

My head is just a mess;
No real formation ofright nor wrong
of care or apathy,
Days go by where i mix the two like sweet and sour,
The casual joke comforts the bitter gloom.
My head is full of ****;
Tonnes and tonnes of it,
I cant even begin explain its contents or describe the frustration it brings.
I have no sense of rhyme,
no sense of time,
no sense of form.
My words turn from sadness to glee
in less than six words.
No sense of anything.

My head is an empty pit;

I write more about writing poetry than poetry itself.
(Edit) finally sorted the terrible formatting, hopefully it's an easier read now.
Shiv Pratap Pal May 2019
Let's **** Gandhi
Let's **** Gandhi

Again and Again
Multiple Times

Gandhi Must be killed
He deserves to be killed

Because he killed no one
Neither human nor animal

Collect all your weapons
Load missiles and guns

Get some good Gun powder
Quintals and tonnes of it

Make sure to **** this time
Be sure, you mustn't fail again

But can you really **** Gandhi
No you can't, I bet you can't

You already tried and retried
But Gandhi remained alive

Gandhi Never died
He will never ever die

Gandhi is not a person
Gandhi is thought

Gandhi is Philosophy
Gandhi is Lifestyle

Gandhi is Liberation
Gandhi is Struggle

Gandhi is Courage
Gandhi is Peace

Gandhi is Gentle
Gandhi is Strong

Gandhi is Treasure
Gandhi is Heritage

Gandhi is immortal
You fools are mortal
You don't have the right to assassinate even if you cant agree.

Whether Mahatma Gandhi (Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi)  needs to be assassinated again and again? Will he really die?
Lalit Makker Mar 2013
i know it today,

life is a short stay,

amidst all wants and desires,

of which one never retires,

desires for self and self ones,

greed together of million tonnes,

such things though many times,

force me to think of crimes,

betraying someone's trust,

for things less worthier than dust,

seeing death every other day,

still thinking we are here to stay,

for and ever till,

our pocket affords the bill,

but no thought is given,

wether we go to hell or heaven,

our debts money won't pay,

karmas will be counted for each day,

during our life's course,

when we did things with force,

which was given temporarily to us,

to display whoz god and what he does,

acts of humans should be such,

giving an estimate of how much,

greatness would be in the one,

who owes such a nice son,

who loves him and all,

whoz values are infinitely tall,

whoz presence inaugrates all ethical energies,

whoz work is beyond all intelligent strategies,

who realises god's omnipresence,

and make him his life's essence,

remember all my dear friends,

when all of our life ends,

our powers won't accompany us,

as in life's course it does,

what goes with thw soul then,

is all of those times when,

we have made someone smile,

and loved some other for a little while,

laughed in someone's good times,

cried in other time of destiny's sad rhyme.

I know it today..........................
JAC Sep 2017
I like to call you
when I'm not really awake.
I only leave you messages, of course.
For I only let myself call
(I only allow myself
that poisonous release)
when I'm alone on the subway,
which happens very rarely.
So whatever I say gets lost
between forty-three thousand tonnes
of the strongest, sturdiest concrete
and the sky.
Sheldon Dsouza Jun 2017
There once lived a boy young of age,
Candy he loved so much his teeth had caves.
Not one or two could satisfy his urge,
Tonnes could go down his tiny throat.

This one time to the market he went,
His mother holding him firm in the grasp of her hand.
Seeing him sad she saw him standing then,
"Go get some candy" she said putting two pennies in his arm band.

Off he ran to in search of candy prime,
His eyes moving vigorously from left to right in search of the candy store.
Then he saw it, that glorious gleaming colourful shop,
His one and final destination, his stop.

It was small yet filled with people from all over the city,
Every one, young and old wanted a piece of candy.
The little kid pushed and pulled with all his might,
A piece of candy he craved like the elders craved shandy.

The din and crowd couldn't lower his spirit,
His eyes set on this sugary treat, his favourite.
But till the time he could get to the counter,
The last treat the man in front bought for his little daughter.

The kid got all teary eyed and walked out of the store,
Standing outside he watched all the other kids happily walk out of the door,
Drops started falling to the ground,
The girl from inside watched him all along as he cried and frowned.

The little kid's world had fallen apart for a minute,
Till this cute brown eyed girl decided to do something about it,
She went up to him and asked him if he wanted some?
All she wanted was for him not to be so sore.

The teary eyed kid looked up with a smile,
He nodded in cheer as he wiped his tears.
A huge bit of candy he took as he reached for his arm band.
Searching for the two pennies to repay the little girl.

To his dismay only to realize,
The money had fallen down somewhere in the struggle.
Gulping down saliva he dared to let her know the truth,
"I have no money to give you", he said.

"Its ok", said she with a beaming smile,
The boy nevertheless decided to give her his favourite arm band.
That day those little kids exchanged more than just candy and a piece of cloth,
They exchanged smiles, kindness and pieces of their heart.
Geetha Raj Nov 2011
I hear you are getting married
I don't know what emotions it yield
I am numb when I think of you
Or is it sadness that I feel?

I'm reminded of the times together
Whether good or bad, I can't gather
I remember I was told that we had no future
But why exactly, I yet do not know...

Your sister compared me to a ****
With whom no man could have a future
For what erroneous sin of mine,
That mystery, I am yet to unveil!

To your family - we were not compatible
Or was it more to do with the dowry and sorts?
Compatible indeed, in monetary terms perhaps?
But did you not fall for me, to pursue more than worldly dreams?

Your reasons too, were beyond my reasoning
And your tears at times seemed forced to me
You said I was a fairy, placed high on a pedestal
Who could be worshiped but to the world could not be revealed.

You soon let go, marking the end of 'we'
A year gently passed and it was an ordeal
Yet I thought when I move out, you would feel
That we were the best, that was and could ever be!

And that with time life would bring you back to me
I wonder why I had cringed at being set free
Longing to be with someone, who'd never stand up for me.
And a year was gone before your call woke me from my dream

You said you had missed hearing my sweet, lovely voice -
And remembered clearly that I had a **** toned body
Gently reminding me that our love was dead and gone -
You told you did think of me, though you were over me long ago!

Numbed by tears, I heard you ask me to fall in love again
And claimed that my man would be the luckiest of them all
And assured he would be dead, if a tear to my eyes he brought -
For as a 'friend' you would guard me against all odd!

Convincing that you too longed to see me again
Promising me to meet up the next time you'd come
Leaving me, like the previous year, completely shunned
You hung up, leaving no more strength in me to summon!

Now, I'm frankly done
I have cried enough without cursing you
Lied to myself, trying to cheer all
And held myself steady, in spite of all that dreary!

And one day you walk into my house
With my man, as an uninvited guest
With caution I welcome, trying to be courteous
For I know your ways, your ease at getting flirtatious.

You claim you are visiting, you have come for a wedding
I wonder why after years, you do not choose to go home
To your ailing father, nor to your aging mom
Nor to console a sister, over whom you had cried tonnes!

Or to your beloved fiancee - who was yours
Even when you'd called to tell me I was hot!
To that pretty face which had been waiting for your arrival
And will be betrothed to you, within a month!

Your ways have always left me awestruck
And yet I have tried to treat you with respect
But now, you have left in me no more emotions -
Than to despise a name that was stuck to me by birth!
Written on 17th May, 2011.
Sometimes I think, it is better to write. Than to have it all in me.
Let me see if I will live longer this way!
Anyone Sep 2018
.                         I was born with a defect.
It has a great impact.
One testacle, one less
Than everyone else.

I can't tell my partner.
She'll think less of me then.
Aren't they supposed to be a symbol
Of manliness? One less thimble

Of mass, results in a loss
Of ounces of courage,
And a weight of tonnes
On my shoulders.

I've been led into
Believing manhood is paramount.
Without it, I'm less of a person,
Less of a reason

To be whom I should; to be desired.

It's hard to stop thinking it
When it's you yourself telling it.
External influences become internal doctrine.
Inescapably real, incessantly there.

Loss of masculinity,
Yet retaining functionality.
It seems people never notice something's wrong
As long as you appear to act 'normally'.
This isn't my story to tell. I am still on the fence as to whether I should have written it.  But it helps me to understand the people close to me when I use their perspectives in poems I write. Either way, here it is.
Joe Cole Jun 2014
T Rex thought he was the king but truly he was no such thing
he was a bully sad and weak who prayed on those to young to speak
Then came the day when baby Trice
got to close to Rexies lair
Rexie thoughg his luck had changed and now would play the Rexie game
Which was to take the young and weak
so soft and tender, good to eat
Rex thought I will have some of that
the baby trice will be quite a snack and fill a corner of my tum
But Rex had made a big mistake, oh dear a grave mistake
For round the corner came trice's mum weighing a bit
more than about three tonnes
Three big horns upon her head
One jab from those could leave Rex dead
She gave poor Rex an evil stare
said "Bite young Trice if you dare"
Then I will deal you a mighty thump
and I promise you your bone will crunch
Poor Rexie backed away in fear and in his eyes salty tears
People thought for many years that Rex was king and had no fear
But they didn't know Triceratops,  the bravest dinosaur of the lot
An un edited bit of fun
Daniel K May 2013
I'v a sick stomach
Aching through my lungs
There's pain burning within me
I'm always feeling down
Why can't I just feel up
I mean just this once
You are weighing down on me
Tonnes of you are keeping me awake
Your smothering me
A wet blanket in my sleep
You toil deep within me
And I am nothing to you
Only a drop in a sea
You don't even care
Your just in your mind
You just hurtle around me
You just hurt me
Sink within
Slip around
Leave it be
I'm coming apart
Oh god I think I'v lost my mind
One more time
This page is therapy
I'm going to rant it until my fingers fall from me
But the pain just will not leave me
I'm falling apart
I'm losing my mind
I am angry but I just can't channel it
Break me down
I am broken finally
Adam Childs Nov 2014
I am honey coated
In the dawn yellow sun
As I walk softly
Through the glazing savanna
Intimately married to
My body I feel all
Her strength and power
My low center of gravity
Pushes down 2 tonnes
Of my power house weight
Almost buckles the ground
It is as though the earth
Beneath me becomes concave
As I stand on a spongy soil
As the landscape rolls up
To a brand new sun

If the rest of me forgets
Where I am going submerged
In flaky doubt my hard horn
Points the course through the
Clouds of apposing forces
As even the Gods are forced
To part the way like the red sea
As I plough through space and time
Nothing dictates to me
As I chase away darkness
And carve out doubt
Breaking spells while proceeding
All ghost will run from me
Possessed by the devil
I will DRIVE  him out

Careful where you step
Because I hang over
The savanna like a
Silent volcano
Run and hide if you
Ever hear the huff and
Puff of my disgruntled being
As you better get out the way
Without any delay
As I blaze new pathways
Showing you a brand new day
As I smash through obstacles
You or the world

I feel my center speaking
Opening , EXPLODING into
Inside out spaces
Multiverses are vibrating
As I ride on a wave
Of infinite forces
I am fired forward
With rocket fuel
As I reach new places
Expanding into worlds
Of high and far out spaces
Greater than I know

Hesitation and procrastination
Will be trampled on
All those blown over by life
Jump on my back
And I will stampede you
Through this world
So dare you attack
Or cover my track like weeds
With feeble words and excuses
As they strangle my future path
And my lava filled belly
Will blast them with fire
Melting and molding
My internal landscape
As I imprint my freedom

How I love you Black Rhino
You have my attention
So can you please point
Your horn in the right direction  
Forward and up for me
As I ride with the BLACK RHINO
I unwittingly wrote this today while someone in a zoo was being attacked by a Rhino , guess there is some thing in the air . I hope he is OK
Penpal Mar 2017
World is given through her womb
Life by her love
She's a shooting star
Fulfilling the dreams of others
Forgetting her ones.

We don't dare to appreciate her
We don't care to her feelings,
Nor her dreams.
She swallows her pride
To serve us might.

Love her, she loves you tonnes
Ignore her, she loves you loads
Ignores our ignorance
And tolerates our flaws
Complaining never

Her cries are often unheard
With tears invisible,
Trauma a smile
Patience at infinity
With words unspoken.

She's a ocean
Vast to explore
Hard to understand
But plain as river
With thoughts deeper.

Her self respect
Often misspelled as ego,
Society mocks her down earth
And she raises like a tree
From a buried seed

Her every move
Is judgemental,
With several eyes poking her
And so she became unpredictable.
Never try to understand, rather love her.

She gives life. She is a mother.
She makes home. She is a wife.
She is a sister, a savior till the ends.
She is precious because she is a daughter
She refuses to retire because she's born a woman.

And do you feel she deserves just a single day!?
Deyer Mar 2016
My landlord is renovating the neighboring room.
I inhale, eyes closed, and I'm faced with God. Unable to speak, I listen as he tells me that life is worth living and that love is worth loving. He says that I'm doing pretty well despite the circumstances and that often an ounce of a smile is worth ten tonnes of agony.
I inhale, bleach and other cleaning solutions siphoning reality from my extremities, replacing it with a calming alternative.
Josh Morter May 2013
Eyes feel heavy
Lids weigh tonnes
Counting sheep by the dozens

Pillows not soft
Beds not warm
Quilt lies rigid
Curtains not drawn

Of course at first when I layed down
It was for the purpose of sleep
Yet it has not come to take me
So at midnight I'll a creep

Make my way to kitchen
For a late night snack
Open up the Milk
Take a swig from the carton, then put it straight back.

Creep back quite slowly,
licking my lips
I do love a good midnight milk trip
Treading careful over creaky floorboards beneath
After all I don't want to reveal that
*I'm the milk thief
Written on 01/05/13 by Josh Morter ©

Another night of failing to sleep, atleast I found something worthwhile to do with these forgotten hours
H Phone Mar 2018
I wish I was strong
I wish I was strong enough to get out from under the comfort of my sheets
Or the warm water washing over my body in the shower
I wish I was strong enough to open my books,
Instead of listening to the same five songs again
I wish I was strong enough to get over a loss,
Be it a failed exam or a boss I can’t beat in a video game
I wish I was strong enough to help my friends
Because that's the person I strive to be
I wish I was strong enough to keep that job

I wish I was strong enough to like my own works
But it’s hard to when they look like this
No rhyme scheme or metaphors
Only thing this poem has got going for itself is that repeating stanza
Real clever or whatever
You call it slam poetry
But you might as well call it sham poetry
Slam poetry
Because you need to be slammed drunk to enjoy your poems
And don’t even pretend like you didn’t notice
How no one seems to give a **** about this
This series of ‘works’ that you’ve been putting out
Where all you do is ******* swear and shout
At yourself
******* hell

I bet your last line would have been
“I wish I was strong enough to love myself.”
Boo ******* hoo
Too ******* bad
Because you’ll only love me the moment you realize
That what I say is true
I’m not gonna say that I’m only rude
Because I love you
I hate your guts too
much for something so…
You’re a bit of a sentimental, right, boo?
If sentimental meant pushover

Sorry, didn’t mean to scare
Oh wait, no, I don’t really care
Because even you’re aware
How you’ve locked yourself in an echo room
And the moment someone tries to break through…
“Don’t worry, I can take it.”
And then you write something edgy like this
You can’t take advice for ****
Because that’s your ******* deal
You’ve got tonnes of people giving you the advice that you need to heal
And you ignore every single one of them
Acquaintances, friends, family
And what about me?

But It’s pointless anyway
You’re on auto-pilot already
Just cut the act and write your cringy addendum poem
We’re done here
jobeth Apr 2017
i am one to talk
in my head i rule galaxies
glitter glimmer shimmer
carrying tonnes to spare the time

i pardon the satchel of hopes
like a pendulum
swinging and swaying
waltzing back and forth

tick tock tick tock
mimics the hourglass,
its contemptuous spine of granules
are close to burying
a hole on the ground

oh crystal skies
you were once so blue

now i face the darkened hall
air filled of hunger for time
and i take the final cup
of orange, purple
and blue.
Seema Jul 2017
If you rock me down from a mile,
I'll still be smiling like a crazy fool
It might hurt me for a while
Coz I am not made of sheep wool

The hatred you flare from your gaze
Shows your inner most reflection
The invisible flames that blaze
Has burnt all my forward affection

Chuckles a voice, only eyes could read
From behind the screen
Someone has planted a poisonous seed

I can feel the evil smiky grin, hissing
And your eyes fixed reading the fake
I purely feel your emotions, missing
For you've been long awake

The delicious words spoken in tongues
More like a ******, pretending to be God
The enmity loads darkness in tonnes
And slithers you, with a lizard tongue sword

I've never seen you in such a state
It's now visible whose behind it all
You're just one of its bait
It's just fishing, from the otherside of the wall

The attraction is quite magnetic
As the devil now, sounds more like God
Making lives his slaves as pathetic
It doesn't seem, like it's bored...

Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
what of nature is eaten by the mouth of man,
      so too eats the genitalia of
woman with as much ferocious gluttonisation -
   no serpent of eden care more
for the reality that's bound to tempt the choice:
either know or be known -
     below the standard equator of the body
as the point of disembowelment and Cesarian birth...
   spewing toward a heap of two tonnes
of sardines with a stench that can't classify
**** for the scent of strawberries...
               proof of solipsism? a man sitting
on a toilet for an hour with a newspaper...
   disproof of solipsism? a man easing a **** out
on a crowded train... ****** expressions?
piquant... yonder! the lustless ******! or what
would be said when the gyroid was out of place
when anything concerning sine and cosine
      reflected the one plausible coordinate of
tangens... namely 0... so in whatever algebraic
form interweaving sine x with cosine z + + +...
you'd still get the tangens either side exponential,
and your own summary, bound to that
infamous biography of never reaching fame...
     and that myth of Atlantis and the serpent there?
  more like an octopus that fiddled and slobbered
the **** than said: of this fruit an addition
to your "natural" duality - to encourage your number,
replacing dualism with a dichotomy...
           rites of passage for the ceramically fainting skinned -
ivory and squint, then
           diddly-and-piglet-or-flamenco-skinned-squat -
wide-eyed... or listening to how the Bulgars settled
in Europe and became ethnically cleaned with
     neo-Cyrillic... or as some say: proto-Greek revisionism...
       some words are familial... i can actually attest them
a phonetic synonymous that's familiar to the ear...
but the little words... remain with origin bound,
rather intact... only nouns get ***** to assimilate...
it's the little uh huh and um and om and
      so many in between that never reach cleansing
a tongue fully...
                  to be said: kinda slavish,
             archaic ***... *** that also said:
Commodus was one of the 5 good emperors...
    and was falsely depicted in gladiator (2000)...
and the *** invented stirrups to shoot arrows with
while quickly moving and suggesting a Mongol to come
along with the perfected idea of that: and pure stink
   of forgotten hygiene... memorised by
        the inflamed library of Baghdad and the pyramid
                 of Iraqi skulls...
the Romans made use of the calvary by employing
only eunuchs in their ranks... well... given no
stirrups... you're bound to make scrambled eggs
   along the ping-pong gallop...
       could ever a modern woman become a Helen?
perhaps a yacht might sail... instead of a thousand worries
to contest her husband's pride: a thousand quid...
  but it would never be such a gesticulation for
making worth of a woman to discredit a man...
            Kant said: i'll marry, only if i marry what i am
already married to... which is a transcendence of
what a man usually is married to... a woman...
  a man can marry his work...
                  it's either:
a. arbeit macht frei... or it's
                                   b. frau macht knecht...
well... it's sad... does it matter whether it's a universal
truth that has no guiding concern for
particular applicability and therefore a non-statistical
verification that splinters off a pathos of
  idealism all too readily accepted?
          and slogans avoid the details, i.e.
a. work power free
                          work empowers toward a freedom...
     is that the irony of suggesting
                                 that the Nubians built the pyramids
    and weren't the original air-coolers with their
   duck-feather fans and that the Jews profited from this?
as in
          b. woman power slave
                   women empower toward slavery...
sure... patted on the back and constantly bridging
gaps and licking lesions of man's struggle...
                       work "sets you" free...
                      and in that "      " bubble you can also have:
sets your apart from...
       sets you against....
                                  settles... the notion of freedom...
                   sets freedom... against you...
                                     so many variations of slogan grammar...
      well, akin to the 20th century shogun snail whipping
you into: ya, mein herr...
                                   and of course, there are the lucky few
that sorta revel in what otherwise are told to do:
            let me shove that remote control up yer ***,
and i'll make it less painful... i'll smear some lard
around your **** and you start pampering a bottle
of johnson & johnson baby powder...
      for a quest into averting the extinction of snow.
The rule of law

There was a storm over Sahara; waves of sand flew up, up, up
– I wrote "up" thrice because my grammar checker tells me I can't
it tend to be intrusive,- transformed into white dust it mixed
with indigo clouds, drifted to Algarve and shed tonnes of dust
layers of dust everywhere the morning village looked like
a ghost town, we scan the sky hope for proper rain the type
that clean and makes you wet, but it is a perilous wish, a deluge
can last for days inundate the basement and drown a family
of mice that live in accord are so discreet I have not seen them;
more than can be said about the eleven million illegals in the USA
that with the blessing by rancorous Democrats that let them rules
the political agenda and give lawbreaker a safe heaven, where  
they are free to insult the president and the rule of law

Rizna M Rameez Jun 2018
Too shocked for words,......
A scream....  Blank.
Under. Murky brown? Pitch black?
A hand.... Water? Tonnes..... Waves..
Slamming into me..... Drowning...

Breathing? Gone?
A hand... Two....

Confusion. Screams. Terror.
It was all too much. Waves....
Too strong, The water was too strong.
She was gone .... going....
We couldn’t get her out
Two hands. Not enough.
Have we lost her?

Water beating against me.
Two hands? Six?
Air squeezed out of my lungs.
Pitch black.
Stay strong.

Air. Light.  Life?
Dazed. Shocked. Petrified.
Sprained ankle? Twisted leg?
Who cares,
I’m Alive!

Weak, but breathing.
Shocked. Tears of shock.
A dream?
No, the feeling’s still there.
Still wet. Had I let go?

Alive. And breathing.
Had I let go?
Trying to capture the horror of a traumatic incident that I experienced first hand.
An 11 year old girl, was drowning, believe it or not, in a drainage, because it was raining heavily and the drainage was overflowing, and then she went under the drainage cover with the only part of her out was her hands which her friend and I were holding. But we couldn’t pull her out because of the force of the water. We thought she’d drown, she was completely under sewage water. Luckily, parents came by and pulled off the drainage cover and pulled her out of the water, head first. This sort of thing can easily happen in Sri Lanka because we have heavy rainy seasons and incompletely covered drainage lining the streets.
The authorities refused to do anything about the open drainage in front of our school, which is where this happened. They even said “We cannot do anything even if a child DIES”. Which, to us, as the children they speak of, can be very traumatic.
I was shocked for days, and that’s when I decided to write a poem.
Neeve Mar 2014
The laundry is piled to the ceiling,
The first layer of paint is peeling,
There are mud-prints all over the stairs,
Am I supposed to care?

I have eighty-nine tonnes of homework,
My mother keeps yelling to "get up!
Put away those dishes over there!"
Am I supposed to care?

The teacher is mumbling and teaching
And suddenly now she is screeching,
"Pay attention! Sit up in your chair!"
Am I supposed to care?

I lie awake most nights crying,
With idle thoughts of dying.
Reality is my nightmare,
I just wish somebody would care.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
we use these symbols,
                                         a              to             z
to either invite our lives
into the silent affairs
to conjure images lived out
and forever twirling
as ballerinas on the river
to no known circle,
overly sentimental i guess,
and if, as if a donkey
over-laden with technique
on the steppes on Mongolia
we can recognise no such
experience taking place,
and sometimes, tooled boring
like a hammer's menial utility,
when we don't overly use
technique -
                  a digressive first
               a bit like beginning
a sentence with a conjunction
by way of misusing punctuation -
some of us enshrine reality
with the a                  and         the z -
it's almost a personal geography
rather than a history,
but maybe both -
these peeps never escape reality,
they build shrines, buddha statues
of salt -
               they utilise these shorthand
symbols where ******* mattered -
but others utilise these symbols
for, a, complete, and, utter, lack,
of, activity - we've seen half of what
we'd like, we've experienced a quarter
of it to care - a slack of imagining
a fulfilment and a will to do so missing.
the higher tier is there with technique -
doubly un-experienced will
uses technique for a passport to claim
that the country POETRY exists
and you're a citizen of:
        we begin encoding sounds
because we see ourselves in a reel of
unfathomable non-suckling images,
obviously certain things are purely
inert and given ourselves there's the
inertia - we move, they don't -
but still we escape reality by encoding
sounds, kindred we are to
stage a conversation with tonnes of stones -
painters can hardly confer on
a realistic escapism -
we escape encoding sounds because
we didn't see a wish-fulfilling sentence
of images -
                   all muscles on board -
we did see a word / an image -
but we saw it without a sentence:
an attractive woman became so isolated
that the sentence or relationship are
passed by... by now i lost the plot
of how to continue / innovate -
there's hardly a reason to brush-up /
polish the table, given this article that
undergraduates hardly read of or if are found
reading are bound to never finishing books
on the readers' schedule - cinematic
practices took over... no one would watch
a movie where the only action was staged
centred around a man alone
in a chair, in a room, reading a book -
action sequence: a page was turned,
silence ensued - as bird-man said:
people want action!, explosions!,
yeah man... people hit the rock bottom
with existentialism having escaped the zenith
of the coliseum... then faking out morals
exposed by isolated cases of the continual brute
mingling with repressed sadism at the Bastille
being written.
ryn May 25
He stands -
his waist propped against the rails.

Who knows what salt from his skin,
would see the dawning sun
as the storm in the dark stretched
into forever.

He’d called out to her before...
Yet never against howling winds
and thundering bolts.
Still he calls to her now,
into the towering waves
and blackened horizon.

He doesn’t hear her like always...
Not this time...
For his heart is pounding in his ears,
and the heavy marble droplets
pelt him from the ocean and sky.

Overwhelmed with exhaustion,
still he fights - with tonnes of steel
beneath his feet,
the memory of her voice in his head
and the love in his heart.

He grips the the railing tight
and lets out a final cry into the night -
a last display of rebellion and resentment
to the gods.

He sees her...
He smiles and concedes defeat
as the vessel roars and creaks
before finally disappearing
into the ravenous belly of the ocean.
A mirror piece - read “Last Stand (Her)”
Steph Aug 2014
i’ve been locked behind a brick wall for seventeen years
i’ve painted every inch of it with dreams of freedom
i’ve filed away centimetres of mortar
hours after I was ordered into bed
i've slimmed myself down before I was noticed
until i could slip through the cracks
“it must be her fault if she’s trapped.”

people hear me singing. they must think i am not captive
people see me smiling. they believe that i am free
but most days the tonnes of concrete around me are just too heavy.
some then tell me i do not need to destroy myself -
i tell them that otherwise i cannot breathe.
i always sleep with the windows open.

i’ve been locked behind a brick wall for seventeen years
i’ve painted every inch of it with dreams of freedom
most days i want to take a hammer to my painted wall
to hell with the iron chains.
i want to take rainbow shard and chipped mortar mixed with tears
to build my own **** house
one with wide open windows and wide open doorways
to hell with the bolts on the gates.

i spent fourteen of seventeen years trying to climb the wall
the next three trying to outrun it
i haven’t found where the bricks have stopped to catch their breath
i am not in the habit of giving up.

and when the bricks, one by one, do lift from the wall
and the shackles slowly rust away
i suppose i will be told to shudder at this thought
i suppose i will be expected to thank the gate-keepers
for making **** sure I wasn’t allowed to live
until they decided so.
They rise as if in glory but there's no praises to a god in this,
this is the kiss off big goodbye to the peasants as they touch the sky and a pauper stands in awe at what he saw,
a million metric tonnes of concrete, chewing on his gums he thinks,
I'd like to meet the architect.

Some paupers are much more than all the rags they ever owned or wore and carrier bags they swore allegiance to, an oath on his lips as the ghost of him slips into awareness.

The blocks that block his way also block the light of day and nothing lives for very long, the weak die off, the strong lie low and the harsh winds of a harsher winter blow.

Up far above him to where a kind of gods love is owned by the few and the higher it goes although the winter wind blows they sway to a dance sound that only they hear and like scorpions in season it's the stings that I fear.

But when these blocks that are buildings are locked up they're filled in with more fear than I can imagine or could comprehend  if the means are a justification of the heights that men will go
who makes the loading that loads the loaded dice?
it would be nice to know.

— The End —