"uncivil" poems
On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
One Michael Magee had a shanty.
Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,
Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest
For the youngster had never been christened.
And his wife used to cry, 'If the darlin' should die
Saint Peter would not recognise him.'
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.
Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',
And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,
'What the divil and all is this christenin'?'
He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,
And it seemed to his small understanding,
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,
It must mean something very like branding.
So away with a rush he set off for the bush,
While the tears in his eyelids they glistened —
''Tis outrageous,' says he, 'to brand youngsters like me,
I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!'
Like a young native dog he ran into a log,
And his father with language uncivil,
Never heeding the 'praste' cried aloud in his haste,
'Come out and be christened, you divil!'
But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,
And his parents in vain might reprove him,
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
'I've a notion,' says he, 'that'll move him.'
'Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;
Poke him aisy — don't hurt him or maim him,
'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,
As he rushes out this end I'll name him.
'Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name —
Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?'
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout —
'Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!'
As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head
That was labelled 'MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'!
And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,
And the one thing he hates more than sin is
To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,
How he came to be christened 'Maginnis'!
3.1k
the curling smoke
from warming fires
rise into the slate
gray sky of the
Beqaa Valley
sheaves of
rising prayers
expire in twisted plumes
dissipating into the
gloom of an ever
looming winter
overcast
refugees from
the Arab Spring's
uncivil wars
gather for warmth
around waning embers,
smoldering in the underbelly
of the lowliest bottom of rusted
steel drums, tended
with scavenged debris
some thought better
suited to fortify the
faltering hovels of
last resort
the fires
join us in
communal rings
straining the
tenuous links of
brotherhood, the
politics of men
assiduously tear
asunder
we count ourselves
among the fortunate,
blessed exiles recused
from the acrimony
of desecrated cities,
welcoming the
residencies of
bewailing lullabies
of colic infants, the
searing hunger of
stunted children and the
incomprehensible babble
the elderly eloquently
speak in tongues
of a desperate
exasperation
our nagging impotence
swaddle us in ambivalent
inabilities to master circumstances
profanely denigrating our humanity
privation is
our daily bread
the bitter manna
feasting on the
animosity the banquet
of rancor generously
prepares for
peace starved
pilgrims
in these
refugee camps
the cold cuts deeper
hunger pangs
grow sharper
our blighted dignity,
vanished livelihoods,
and the presence of
recently interred
loved ones trudge
through our mean
encampment as
fully enfranchised
citizens in our
distressed
kingdom
what was lost can
never be recovered
our homeland leveled
yet doors still stand open
silently pleading all
to cross a new
threshold
the full restoration
of our hope,
the reconstitution
of our flagging
humanity, the
spark of the
holy spirit
willfully uniting us
in the salvation
of reconciliation
is nigh
we are
the divine children
stoking the embers
tending the fire
that light pathways
through the cold
darkness of a
broken world
Oh come
Emmanuel,
dwell among us
Oh come
Emmanuel
ransom once
again the
poor captives
of Israel….
Selah
Music Selection:
L'Accorche-Choeur, Ensemble vocal Fribourg
Veni Veni Emmanuel
Everywhere
Christmas
2013
jbm
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
I love a woman,
who's not afraid to speak her mind
who ain't afraid of the up-shots
In 1960 women burnt their bras
protesting and debated for equal rights
I have no time for women with weak links
they could loosen the chain
before they could really think
If you choose to be strong
stay strong, be confident:
Do not let your fears choose your destiny
Never let anyone senses your fear
or even drove you to the verge of tears..
I have no tolerance for a strange brew
idealism and self-interest
it defies me, and somehow
it make me uncivil,
but I am a woman of dignity
However, if you want to rolled with me
You have to be strong,
no wee, wee ,wee little crotch -less *****
Heartless.. for heaven sake I am not
I am just a ******** notch from the block
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 9:29 AM UTC
Darkness sets in with mankind,
throughout time words will transform the inferior man into the superior man.
The age of name calling will emerge.
Barbarian,
savages,
uncivil,
Let me stop for a second...
Telling the world another man is unimportant shouldnt take away the fact that he is still a man.
Name callers need peace while overthrowing others who also play a role in mankind by dissecting their own consciousness.
They have a need to
belittle,
discredit,
transform,
transform into something greater,
even though it's all in the mind that one is greater.
Truth be told wars are pushed forward to the masses by name calling the enemy,
Imagine looking a man in his eyes and calling him a cockroach,
for whatever reason one will feel like he is now squashing a bug,
yet no bug is present.
History will tell a story about mankind no matter the name.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
Eliza! what fools are the Mussulman sect,
Who, to woman, deny the soul’s future existence;
Could they see thee, Eliza! they’d own their defect,
And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance.
Had their Prophet possess’d half an atom of sense,
He ne’er would have woman from Paradise driven;
Instead of his Houris, a flimsy pretence,
With woman alone he had peopled his Heaven.
Yet, still, to increase your calamities more,
Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit,
He allots one poor husband to share amongst four!—
With souls you’d dispense; but, this last, who could bear it?
His religion to please neither party is made;
On husbands ’tis hard, to the wives most uncivil;
Still I can’t contradict, what so oft has been said,
“Though women are angels, yet wedlock’s the devil.”
This terrible truth, even Scripture has told,
Ye Benedicks! hear me, and listen with rapture;
If a glimpse of redemption you wish to behold,
Of ST. MATT.—read the second and twentieth chapter.
’Tis surely enough upon earth to be vex’d,
With wives who eternal confusion are spreading;
“But in Heaven” (so runs the Evangelists’ Text)
“We neither have giving in marriage, or wedding.”
From this we suppose, (as indeed well we may,)
That should Saints after death, with their spouses put up more,
And wives, as in life, aim at absolute sway,
All Heaven would ring with the conjugal uproar.
Distraction and Discord would follow in course,
Nor MATTHEW, nor MARK, nor ST. PAUL, can deny it,
The only expedient is general divorce,
To prevent universal disturbance and riot.
But though husband and wife, shall at length be disjoin’d,
Yet woman and man ne’er were meant to dissever,
Our chains once dissolv’d, and our hearts unconfin’d,
We’ll love without bonds, but we’ll love you for ever.
Though souls are denied you by fools and by rakes,
Should you own it yourselves, I would even then doubt you,
Your nature so much of celestial partakes,
The Garden of Eden would wither without you.
1.8k
Sad commentary on society
**** of the earth
Killer of innocent children
His ugly mamma gave birth
Same as a quack
Sells dope and smacks on
I ask you kindly
Where is Michael Jackson?
Take a walk through the forest look up at the trees and hills
Show me one tree that grows pills
Bring back the guillotine
Abolish civil rights for uncivil wrongs
The 8th amendment is a shield
To the drug dealer we must not yield!
© In Perpetuity
(Opinions vary)
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 4:50 AM UTC
By: David Wayne Clare
Sad commentary on society
**** of the earth
Killer of innocent children
His ugly mamma gave birth
Slime dog is a quack
Sells dope and smacks on
I ask you kindly
Where is Michael Jackson?
Take a walk through the forest look up at the trees and hills
Show me one tree that actually grows pills
Bring back the guillotine
Abolish civil rights for uncivil wrongs
The 8th amendment is a shield
To the drug-dealer… we must not yield!
(Anagram: MANIAC PRIDELESS FOOL = MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL)
© In Perpetuity – All Rights Reserved By The Author: David Wayne Clare
In Asia on the airplane embarkation card it reads... Death to drug dealers in Asia!
I lived in parts of Asia many of the drug dealers get caught and shot...see YouTube
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 2:05 PM UTC
Questions asked—
Answers evaded
Questions asked—
Churlish responses
Questions asked—
Reality revised
Questions asked—
Dangerous denials
Questions asked—
Squeaky clean!
Questions asked—
RED HERRING!!!
Questions asked—
Deny FBI
Questions asked—
AD HOMINEM!!!
Questions asked—
Boast, repost
Questions asked—
Uncivil snivel
Questions asked—
Snide asides
A question asked:
Where are we?
Scary judiciary?
End times?
Revolution?
Not in this Kansas.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 1:49 AM UTC
A broken lock equals an open mind. An open mind equals a temporary peace of heart. I constantly write in riddles and lines that will never rhyme, that most will probably never read. In my subconscious I relentlessly attempt a Resurrection of civil engagements with an uncivil mind. My internal demeanor never abandons a detail, a key worth remembering and a lock that will always sway to and fro in a shanty boat that is inconsistently worthless and valuable. It will never dock, it will never be entirely worth the stress or the time it would take to tie and secure a ship of that size and quality, or lack thereof. There exists ulterior motives that Miss blonde esteem is seemingly not even aware of, or like her prior, accepts ignorance as a temporary escape until the uncivil mind returns civil. The fact is this. The uncivil mind was never civil, and may as well never be. Locks can be repaired, even when the thief begs for no replacement. What makes the thief the uncivil enemy? Has it ever occurred to any soul, that a thief is only stealing away precious moments that are rightfully his, that circumstances and uncivilized minds have locked away in a pitch black that they cannot call their own night? There surely has been an uncanny instance when the locksmith swiftly turned about to find his prior gazing at him in the golden grooves of the trap. The thieving of one’s own mind, to break a lock enchanted by the uncivil mind, should be easily empathized and understood. But alas, curly blonde esteem will forever submit under the spell of the uncivil mind, who will only cast a shadow upon itself and its priors. It will be remembered in the scent of cigarettes, where it will also be displaced. It will be avoided in the unrighteousness of a friend’s bed in another family’s house, where a respirator and the oxygen tubes intertwining the threshold no longer exist; neither do the white sheets. There will never again be an absence of music behind the actions committed between the uncivil mind and the civil heart.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
his beady eyes track me down from across the motel parking lot,
making a perfect triangle between
me, you, and the car that stands as the only means of escape
the motel is humid, dumpy
it is clear a young lady from suburbia Georgia does not belong in these neck of the woods
he knows that.
on me like moths to a flame,
but more viciously
an aggressive beast in the early hours of dusk
(this is where I see the primitive side of men- the man attacks, while I am still deciding to fight or flight)
I can choose to keep walking, disregard his uncivil pursuits
but I was Orpheus in the fire pits of Hades' fortress
this only provoked him more
licking his lips, he was on me
...
..
.
Mom?
Mom can you hear me?
Mom I don't know where I am and
and it's so cold
I can't feel my legs, I don't know what's between them anymore
I'm bruised, I'm bleeding
No, I don't know where I am
it's all
dark
and we're moving
The stars don't shine here, it is all rough and concrete slums
I can't find our northern light to find home
no, there is no batman sign projected in the sky to assure me I will be located soon
Mom, the night is endless
If I am not in this realm anymore, you know who took me out of it
I can only hope you can find my empty shell that once held my spirit and energy
i'm by the grasses,
I spoke to the night owls through the screams that startled them
but they were not too upset, I would only feed them later on
my fingers are holding onto the grass like a tiny blade of green can support my 119 pound body
i'm in a shallow area, I just want it to be morning
Mom, I wish I was a kid again
because mom, look at who I am now?
who the **** have I become?
my face swollen, chopped into bits, the literal, physical definition of scatter brained
and i'm sorry you had to read about it in next week's paper
you couldn't catch me in time- tag i'm it
but the line was cut short,
phone connection dropped
and now i'm gone.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 9:15 PM UTC
A torrent gushes from the serpent’s mouth
wave upon breaking wave; it’s ALL fake news
swiftly eroding what is left to lose.
Democracy’s waterlogged corpse drifts south,
a bloated mess; all waters to infuse
with putrefaction, thus to breed disease
uncivil war invades our fantasies;
the polarized extremes now pay their dues.
Propping things up: it’s what they do the best—
business as usual, pawns all occupied
in scaffolding facades upon the West
and sculpting the friezes of fratricide…
but underground, the currents cave away.
Media will fail; God brings a brighter day.
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 3:03 PM UTC
When you give someone or something up, it doesn't mean to put it/them on the proverbial shelf to look at every now and then when things get boring.
It doesn't mean you should keep them in the background of your life so you can wander out to them when there's nothing going on in the foreground.
There's nothing uncivil about removing people or things from your life.
I'm not going to give any more of my attention to certain people and all the vices of my past.
Holding onto a piece of them builds the bridge to bring them into my present, and I don't have time to be tempted or distracted from the things that matter to me the most.
If that's cruel, so be it. Some bridges are meant to be burned.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 8:53 AM UTC
Dear diary:
Land sakes! Leofric cannot believe I carried through with it. But indeed, today I rode naked along the sparse, meager streets of ye old Coventry.
And whilst my long hair, let down for the occasion, did provide me a jot of modesty; alas! a strong breeze I am most certain granted uncivil eyes to plainly see my top half is much ado about nothing.
Nonetheless, an even more discomfiting fear shall be if some peeping tom espied his fair countess to be no natural blonde at all; just a fare-thee-well lemon juicing, miracle bra wearing charlatan.
On the plus side, I did achieve quite a lovely, even, 'no-lines' tan!
Jul 2, 2020
Jul 2, 2020 at 2:33 PM UTC
The Day Trump Tr-i-ump-hed
Trumpeting, he ******* and triumphed…
Did he, has he?
Thumping his way forward,
Jumping through the hoops of word and phrase,
Razing those that blocked his ways,
He dazed the lot.
Crazed, ablaze – or not. But hot,
He took a stand,
But didn’t seem to understand (and may not still)
That energy attracts a gangland:
Thinking not that crowds could form,
Become a throbbing, clobbering or bombing mob:
A swarming army.
Young we heard,
You can’t take back the caustic word
Once in the air it’s there!
So rather than lie down
Crowds gather,
Drawing to themselves an anger,
War uncivil,
Civil war
once more,
And monies that he’s vowed to earn
Will burn in costs for crowd control, police patrol.
The day that Trump was voted in
May not, in fact become a win -
For reasons manifold and sundry.
The Day Trump Tr-i-ump-hed 11.11.2016
Our Times, Our Culture II: Special People, Special Occasions,
Arlene Corwin
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC
Rattlesnake
Boom is the gangly
Doberman at the door
When it opened I froze
And she did as well
One too many fingers
Bashful stew of gashy meats
Pulsating, squirting, blood spurting and flowing back
I take a deep breath
And my joints lubricate as if by magic
Doom rakes a killing
And yet grave is my slumber
Low, humbling, thundering
I push too hard and it collapses
In is where I belonged, now I wept thrice
Buttoned up tight
You tilt as a broken table
It was so and it creaked longingly
Crept up from under somewhere
And never looked back
Mal was indeed
Trickling once and twice and thrice borne
Diurnal my beloved
Of once and twice and thrice borne kind
Of seaweed and ***
Out of a split dome
A gashed most dastardly
One of the cloaks covered me well
Under a lock with no keyhole
Filed my nail that files the chain that files my nail that files the chain that files my nail that files the chain that files my nail that files the chain that files my nail that files
One too many mirrors in this madhouse
For all the blind to see
Conjuring spells with a swollen tongue
Heard the pacing and followed through
The left after the left and the right after the right, hi-ho
I take from myself
And be no thing
A rumble creeps and wakes when not tended
Forlorn sensitivity
Starving tumbles a hoom, a waan, a rushed impregnate
Words birthed in barren plains
Some one thing creaks and hums and cracks
A dwarf dances in by a jazz darkly
Limbless jig in two movements
Jeaned out weens and them spurts one big black whale up up upward
Time is a flat **** stain
El amor de mi vida
A misery of cheese
One of loves, one of lives
Gargles reflowed uncivil
Leave white and follow through
Break my bones pulling in
Kicked inwards nervous gaseous porous
Corked out flesh see one lick two
Rumbarumbarumba
Off a wonder land
Bane is my juice
Soon follows rot
Tender, sweet rut
Shadow tongued drips and wets
I don’t need to recall the melody
It left a map so large it became the land
By the name alone I find a way
Of a one off beat and two rushing in, tu-pah!
Drum the ear and work a sweat
Oct 15, 2024
Oct 15, 2024 at 7:23 PM UTC
Silvine Blockster
had a book
which it seems
everywhere he took
and thus as is
always the case
as when such books
are ferried in open space
it was not unusual
for folk to ask
if they could look
inside Silvines Blokcsters book
But upon not such uncivil pleas
he would become incenced
and wobble most peculiarly
at the knees
rant and even rave
shout and squeal
but he never would reveal
the pages of the books appeal
so once upon a dark and dreary night
when Mr Poe was real and truly out of sight
some citizens upon themselves they took
a vow to knock Silvine Blockster on the head
and steal his precious book
but alas dear reader
the blow they cast
caused poor Silvine Blockster
to breath his last
all fled in panic but one
who stayed fast
and stood there to the very last
he took a furtive look
inside the book
his knees buckled
his face turned white
and from head to toe
was filled with fright
but the book
he could not let go
this brought a smile to Mr Poe
who was not there
as well you know
now Mr Rephil Pad had a book
which it seems
everywhere he took
and when citizens
begged to take a look
his face whould turn green
and he would puke
and dear reader
please beware
for I do not mean to scare
if you encounter
Mr Rephil Pad
under no circumstnce
ask to look
inside his book
or enter into confederation
with those, who for just one peek
would crack his skull
and watch blood leak
for upon this crinkled parchement
fited and forgotten ink
tells of a curse
of which you must not think
a death note
you must not read
on this very subject
Mr Poe and I and of course the Raven
on this subject are all agreed
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 6:42 AM UTC
We parted ways
it was uncivil , uncaring ,
unclean cuts still linger in my body
the wounds have seared open and snapped shut at the mention of your name .
it frustrates me , still .
how you were ,
how I was ,
and who we are now .
neither of us comprehend the damage done to one another
our mouths open when our backs have turned .
You are still beautiful to me though ,
But I will not admit it .
And I am still your best friend
but you don't hear these words when you read them
to know they are wrote for you .
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 9:50 PM UTC
Some went West
and others went East.
The ones in between
found they liked South the least.
The traitorous winds
carried news from the mouth
of a stranger who wandered
the dreaded South.
They said:
"Glory and war in the West.
Peace and sacrifice in the East.
The North holds freedoms and complex rules.
The South has no time for such duels."
Those of the West,
those of the East,
and the Northern inbetweeners
listened with incredulity.
But the Southerner just repeats:
"Glory and war in the West.
Peace and sacrifice in the East.
The North holds freedoms and complex rules.
The South has no time for such duels."
"If we fight not for glory,
then why fight at all?
War is a necessary evil!"
Those Westerners say, how uncivil.
"Peace cannot yield
without sacrifice.
Someone always has to lose their life!"
Easterners cry full of strife.
"Freedoms are protected
if you follow the rules.
Speech must be regulated, calm, and cool."
Said from those under Northern rule.
But the Southerner repeats like a record loop:
"Glory and war in the West.
Peace and sacrifice in the East.
The North holds freedoms and complex rules.
The South has no time for such duels."
Then the wind finally stopped
spreading its message.
But the lofty seeds that traveled with the wind,
planted themselves in places they've never been.
And they started to grow into something more.
Freedoms and rules.
Peace and sacrifice.
Glory and War.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC
How fun it would be
To fall down a hole into a far away place,
Full of creatures unknown,
Stories untold,
A universe away from the human race.
How fun it would be
To be able to think all day.
Mad as a hatter,
Crooked as a caterpillar,
With no one to feed your head except
The whispering winds around you.
Oh Alice, dear Alice,
How I do envy you.
Up here, surrounded by malice
Violence, and ever-vacuous people.
Every day we feed our heads with
The words of crooked politicians
And mindless, uncivil movements.
Oh Alice, dear Alice,
This world's time is ticking closer
To the end.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 10:58 PM UTC
♛ ♛ ♛
Martin Luther, righteous King,
made the Reformation sing.
Popes and peasants, out of key
turned it into misery.
German beer and Roman crimes
made for most uncivil times
much like our own. We must confess
rights and wrongs we yet possess...
Half a millennium later on
a Baptist pastor and his son
took this noble Saxon name
and furthered the Reformer's fame.
Some revisionists deny
St. Martin Luther's role, and try
to minimize theology
in civil rights chronology.
The second Luther of my song
inspired—but did not last as long.
Social Justice notwithstanding,
King's successors need re-branding.
Politicians steal his mantle,
cloak their lies in his example;
agitators claim his glory
pushing God out of the story;
educators sing his praises
but some people's conduct raises
doubts about that dream of King—
and hope... and change... and everything.
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 9:05 PM UTC
Shots have been fired
Confidence seeps from my bleeding heart
As my mind uses it for target practice
Bullet holes puncture my mended walls
But my heart will not fight back
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
this debt, this book, this tort,
so overdue, uncivil wrong demanding reconciliation,
that the librarians sent the hoodlums
to remind me of my obligations
there must be unfinished, three or four Gebbie precursors,
lying about awaiting further final definition
unmarshaled me, unable to see them through to completion,
but my hindsight, my guilty plea, aided by an assertive,
rear self-kicking, offers me some motivation immediacy
When I see the Auckland Sky Center in photos,
a hard hatted man with softest heart always,
is on top, doing his native Aussie global
(in place) walkabout, better to see,
the cubature volume of the global poetry underneath his feet,
the poetic underworld, needing a
Gebbie supervisory drilling read down
Enough!
unsatisfactory above this ditty notation for one who
tenders unto me comforting words that
drill down so deeply, keeping,
"the night shall not disrobe you,"
that only a single rhyming word
is satisfactory but yet too,
is insufficient to capture
the audio of innards weeping
surely aware, the nighttime, is when I best my own analytics,
disrobing in a room of black letters on a white background
for all who stumble by moonlight on the bards of "perchance,^"
giving pieces of me to the those who not only read my verses,
but those who ken
that the unspoken spaces in between,
containers of what is not writ,
but only modestly well hid,
is where lies oft the more important script
and he gets that...
where the skills when most needed?
his precision will deserves artistry, not sophistry,
and I am flailing, failing inadequately to pay my overdue
it is early morn in Taranaki,
perhaps he will see this lackey's lacking insufficiency,
before he goes climbing man-made towers
that bear witness
to mens bigger dreams,
perhaps when he returns later tonight,
in a snifter of old malt scotch,
his "last one for the road"
he will see it floating,
and think of me,
this time, happily,
disrobing mine soul's own nighttime,
trusting him to keep all safe,
entrusting it to him,
and to Janet,
my best,
red and black,
sweetest dreams
<>
https://hellopoetry.com/marshal-gebbie/
9/5/17 13:55pm
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 1:53 PM UTC
Oh Juliet, my Juliet, where art thou?
i have searched and searched fruitlessly for you
yet i gain no reply, no response to my increasingly pitiful cries
until that one moment, the blossom of light, fire on
cold, wet wood, shedding light on a beautiful world
only to be extinguished oh so cruelly, not with water, no
at least then there is smoke, an intricate pattern of memories
but no, dirt was tossed, and there it shall remain,
stultifying something beautiful,
and his uncivil blood will make my civil hands unclean
i have been banished from my personal fair verona
in search of another life, another love, a spark that will grow,
slowly, steadily but always held back by the ash from fires long before
Oh Juliet, my Juliet, where art thou?
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 5:36 PM UTC
When you're left with only a bullet
I'll be the barrel you're gazing into.
I'd rather be your itchy trigger finger...
the deciding factor; not the cause of death.
If we swapped positions,
I guarantee you'd choose to be the scope.
Watching,
aiming,
waiting.
I bet you prefer ****** rifles
with the distance in between us.
I prefer pistols
because you're too close for comfort.
Every time the walls echo,
I hear explosions and gun shots.
Sometimes I hide under my pillow,
like a soldier in the trenches...
but your memory is between my sheets,
and you know exactly where to find me.
See... I feel like you're cheating,
But nothings fair in war
or love.
And did you even love me?
I'm in a skirmish with myself,
and the ghost of you is on the side
of me that I don't recognize anymore.
The scariest thing in the world
is to be haunted
by someone
who's still alive.
Whisper to me that you hate me
so I'll leave the window open.
Come and go as you please.
I beg pardon for the invitation
but if I can pretend I have a choice,
maybe I won't be the one
with the barrel in my mouth.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
I aimed enough to catch lilies
My precious hope through ages
But I forgot them, I lost it on the cement
It faded away along with its remainders
Nature is not free, it is for free
Thus it costs life itself
Blinded by greed and ignorance
Uncivil under this spell
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC