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Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;

Languages are elastic realities of ages
Going beyond political and historical chauvinism
That selfishly blends into exclusive nations
The European languages we slavishly speak
In diversity of the world is a ****** testimony,
Ostensible Afro-American cultural civilization
Are mere protégés of transplanted tongues
In forlorn position of knowledge
That derides cultural Darwinism
Unto this last that Language
is born and grow from the native soil,
Nurtured by facts of history in timbre of altruism
Where misfortune of history ***** my stature
Planting unknown and unnamed language
In my ****** soil of pristine times
My conscience not yet passively accepting
The changing misfortunes of the transplanted English
As they are at current times
The negations of vicious cultural Darwinist
Condemning me a victim of tonguistry.
this is how it works-
what i focus on        
                                                  e   ­         x         p        a           n          d         s
fills my life with its presence
the positive or the negative-i make the choice.
victimhood or victorious-i choose how the world remembers me
                                                              ­                                                                 ­             the one i reject shrinks
                                                         ­                                                                 ­          ignored, it is dissolved, bygone
                                                          ­                                       positive or negative it disappears if it isn’t minded
call myself a failure - the world will agree
call myself a success – still they’ll cheer
you see, its always me who decides, what i want to be!

of course, it must come with a big dollop of humility

i can only start with me-change begins with me
can influence only that which lies within-inner peace
focus on my strengths, help them be
inflate them in my reality

- Vijayalakshmi Harish

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
a sudden Bonanza viz ****** abuse among
faux Green Acres within Mayberry RFD
now spells showtime for The Avengers, Batman
and Robin to Get Smart
take to heart (what haint no new bob bing beast),

those perpetrators to forsake their Good Times
yet, who determines what constitutes, and how to differentiate
mere kibitzing from unwanted overtures
though most people would concur when
definitive, tangible, verbal assault occurs,

spoiling future Happy Days, yet numerous incidents (*** hide
from clear cut serious offences indeed)
rather when details appear nebulous, sketchy, vague,
et cetera defy categorization, giving benefit of doubt to
females or males in question claiming harrassment,

especially when minors testify as adults, asper
major gross indignties (such as pedofilia, date,
incestuous, statutory ****, ******,
et cetera committed), that occurred years or decades ex post facto

sans molestation, said time delayed contention
must be taken at face value without fail informing
a jury retroactive justice must be must be handed down
to the accuser blatantly, flagrantly, flaunting illegality,

hence fair sentence accordingly adjudicated
insync decreed capital crime abrogated child welfare,
defiling and permanently affecting emotional well being
of said underage youths, as best one  

to compensate aggrieved subjects must purge
abominable categorical imperative
asper deliberate wanton (I soup pose), tricked, mislead,
forced to participate unwillingly
risking mental, physical and spiritual health of innocent kid

imposing unforgivable, horrible, execrable misdeeds
irrevocably damaging Lassie or laddie,
which indelibly foisted battering, whereby
even Doctor Marcys Welby M.D. unable to mend

condemning sufferer to psychological Mash pit
triggering  Maude lin while Knot's Landing flooded.
Alan McClure Aug 2016
See her,
skinny lassie -
so aware,
stood there
at the counter.

The eyes
lifted from papers,
hooded and guilty,
under sunglasses.

She knows nothing,
she's in charge.
Bless her.
Whatever's going to break her
hasn't happened yet.

Makes me shudder,
the thought.
The painful innocence.
"Just a fruit smoothie, please!"
she sparkles
at the man.
Thinks his approval
is unloaded,
worth seeking.

No eyes on me.
Glances fall off me.
If I catch a look,
I see it turn
to embarrassment,
or scorn.

Firing blanks, guys.
I'll take those
over possessiveness,
crawling promises.
Over saccharine
strangler smiles,
over violence, veiled
as love.
Your attention is toxic.
Better show it as such.

"Chips and cheese, please,"
I wheeze,
and his sneer
is a klaxon
of cruel jokes
he'll share with colleagues later.

are the tiny victories
of victimhood,
as the twirling girl inside
stays protected,
Thomas Lawrence Oct 2011
falling to pieces
does not make you a victim
falling to pieces takes courage

'lashing out'
(as you called it),
at what they did
or didn't do,
or said
or didn't say,
or thought
or didn't think,
or whatever you expected
and didn't get,

and you wear victimhood
like a seething samurai's honed sword
raining relentless, remorseless
flesh wounds of projected guilt

grasping to the hilt
the illusion
that your self-satisfying slashes
are self inflicted suicides
Vernarth says: "ideal of our consciences, we will open the channels in Kímolos, before our subtle bodies, in which they will be opened to us, and how we parabolize, before this pretense of Saint John the Apostle, in the head of mediumship to reach the longitude wave to Hellenika. The interactive vibrational ones will go with the expression of deep reasoning, to pontificate the Mandylion with the Vas Auric, for the effect of the iconification of the idiomatic monologues, for such edges of  Saint Jude Thaddeus and Veronica, and for such an event facing alien forces before the Messiah, that they are like a coherent gadget before the intermittence variants. Channeling to the Cyclades, they will go from east to west wading the waters of the Aegean and Mediterranean, through the channel of the Universe-Duoverse, for inter-consciousness between the Hexagonal Primogeniture in Tsambika, and the triad of Etréstles, Kanti and the Archpriest in Hellenika , with high degrees of awareness of light and the conclaves between both homilies synchronous. Of great drowsiness before the Anemoi winds, they will go through near the voyages of the Trojan chthonic ships, and before the ominous chthonic divinities, for such deities in the Mediterranean substrate, identifying themselves more obviously with Anatolia, which from prehistory has continued to the site of Troy, in a cheesy plan to unite loyalists of Agamemnon, to defeat Hector, between farmland and agricultural revolutions and Akkadian worlds BC, in peripheral outposts, to influence the central regions of Greece and its maritime trade. Hydros influences, for the cycles of the solstice and nature, with those of life and survival after death that is at the center of the concerns that are not translated. In Crete, the supposed cult of great Gods was transformed during the II millennium BC. C. as new actors appear: various animals, plants, etcetera. Given consciousness, the light will be channeled, in the three courtyards of alabaster and between the cinnabar by bending the re-fertilization of the retro channels of the Cyclades, which go from Rhodes and Kímolos, for the discernment. Sometimes it is more gratifying to listen to what you want to hear and not to the real message, the egoic mind that does not come from serials of daunted egos ..., prays with signs of technological shamanism, intervening artificial intelligences, from egomaniacal administered consciences, being strident and iconoclastic for worlds of appearances and illusions. I Vernarth with our own Khaire…, in my mind I go towards the vessels that navigate the andurriales of the elusive identity, trapping it in the totemic animal stratum, in its tracking psychology, but seer of its present ego. Today I will use my Leonatus cap, to separate the anger from the large shadow that clouds my sadness, and from my own victimhood of reduced meekness, which spews violence, blaming it for a ruthless sort of depressive shame and exclusive of everyone's own fear for everything . I will blindfold my eyes against illnesses that will heal in three days, to straighten the ecstasy that grows thicker towards the guillotine, staying on Golgotha without Golgotha, I will create the framework of cinnabar for the pain of the skull, which trembles in my hands, until the Dream becomes vaporous with anger and harmless destruction before your egos, which throb rozagant towards the host entity and the scarified madness. Awakening my nuanced, subtle and anthropomorphic subconscious dreams, with sorrows that hurt my worst self-destructive amorousities before the new memorial, on the veil of Theoskepasti, with his science sheltering itself when yielding over the defeated springs and inaugurating new miraculous courses where I will surrender, full of sorry and more distant from the veil that does not act as a viewer.

Duo time, Duo space, in one I get excited, in the other I retro project, in unreal worlds of epistemic and channeled images ignoring them, in free astrolabe when decrypting my Duoverse, between the Tsambika templets, with the decoded and mutated annelids in trisomy , in ancient trees of plain doors of the Bern Olive Trees. We look at what gratifies and weaves together what weaves the positioning of the approaching stars of the universe, like leaves in psalms, worthy of all-powerful serials, in redoubled humors on the encompassing intraterrestrial chthonic tridents, in tricks of intuition, before skewing my sword Xifos, as an original replica of a night's dream in Tel Gomel, full of alerts that make me laugh chew it in the middle of my mouth on the jerky and the strains of the bear, towards the counterweight of the message of light and lag of the high astral as a bear less. Bustard and angelic breath in withdrawal and in dissolution ... unfinished planet ..., now if I see you channeled and incarnate! Diva emotion, here I analyze my audacity and courage towards being fed up with my omniscient prosopon, such an omniscient telepathic. My soul lies, and my emotion also, because in this way I will treasure the courage of panic, by surrounding myself with the fears of carrying the universe that is resting on the underside of my back at a cost "
Harassment of psychological channeling, against the horns and sights of a peaceful energy confrontation, will make them in Rhodes and Kimolos channel with the stark human finitude of life and finite and non-eternal existence, ad portal with their Aspis Koilé. Unconscious they will continue halfway with their bouquets of flowers for Walekiria, without ever really taking the time to tell her, what time of eternity will make them more crowded for her and her reliquary poem, from deflagration in flame, to insidious break of commitment of fear by telling him that if they revive, they will be others, but if Hetairoi extra Hellenic towards the light of the incarnate vermilion ..., and in a state of loop as "Being of Light". Oh phantom phenomenon that does not scare me ..., rather it disenchants, clinging to my skins that die in the unexpected female muses in Gaia, with my burning and hypertensive ballast, still frequent in me ... As conjecture and presence of Greca life ..., having to promote the matter and atmosphere involved where the valuations, should be tempered in the pressure regulators and the contribution of biodiversity, of the species for the insular life and its chemical balance in the Aegean. The theorem will state in the image of Vas Auric, as sounds of homeostasis, in classrooms, properties of the intervened annelids are consistent, capable of keeping them in a certain internal and stable condition, compensating for the changes in the noise of the intervened patios, towards an environment through the regulated exchange of matter and energy with the outside towards your (metabolism), trying a form of dynamic balance with the sparkling properties of Cinnabar. As a self-regulating biosphere in the conditions of the planet to make its environment of physicality (especially temperature and atmospheric chemistry) more noble with the species that make up life in the compass of two islands unmanned by beings from Gaia, rather as an entropy in magnitude physics for a thermodynamic system in equilibrium, inhabited by intra-dynamic beings that nobly associate, for adaptations of worlds that are not born. It segregates them towards a departure, measuring them in numbers with Gold in their population, from high numbers in states of zero, compatible with the laws of external physicality, for the purposes of watchful guardians, if Gaia's engine is turned on, before this psychic and spiritual combustion?

The laws of this system of closed circuits and channeling will tend to maximize entropy, expiring inhibitory reactions, for the traces of oxygen and nitrogen from the worms, making an express signal of the levitant carbon dioxide, to carry it from Tsambika, in a sigh of two converged energies of Leviathan and Saint John the Apostle, for the clouds in mole of carbonate dioxide, battling over the surviving necromancers and their conditions of activity and reproduction, maintaining these habitable conditions for many and many, in classes that did not enjoy of the life-death-life cycle. Greece, as it will now look like a turbo generator and appropriate laws underlining the extensive fibers concerned, a mole of molecules, in said of equality, of said hypothesis of Vernarth as sub-mythology, rather resting on the growing ivy  to its setbacks, and strangling the signs of satiety of life with properties of open skylights, and properties in tune, with the severe penalties that hurt, even the tolling of the bells and their pain as the millennia pass! Fear, insecurity and frustration will not fit because in the cavity with them, they will cut the abenuz Diospyros, with its stamens usually in sixteen plus its hypogines or inserts at the base of the corolla; like those of female flowers, being greenish or being converted into staminodia. Diospyros with ovaries generally tetralocular, or with eight locules due to false divisions, will make us channel inseminating demigods, under the staff of sub-mythology with Zephian of Horcondising, before the vibrational migrations begin in Hellenika. Just as in this pact with silence and meditation and burning toxic flames, under vulnerable high frequency insolation ..., waking up in Gaia like a sleeping fairy, and invested with extra light shaman, with degrees of synergy and with the simple science of blizzard ... , with low puffs of air of bread and cinnabar burning in the first hosts of hummus, as the homily began.
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?
then may ye also do good, that are accustomed to do evil.*

                              Jeremiah 13:23

We’re tired of your feline past
predatory darkness cannot last
your claw and tooth, your fangs, your youth –
they get old fast.

Your sullen, incoherent style
has grown intolerably vile.
After the ****, your prey is still
in pure denial.

Leopard-phantasms feed the flames;
the thing that spawned you whines and blames
although we could call Motherhood
by harsher names.

Jungle law enforcement should
stop crowning you with victimhood
erase your spots, connect the dots –
we wish you would.

Then lambs with lions shall rejoice
while lines with iambs raise their voice;
spotted pards play wiser cards.
(A better choice.)
RJ Days Nov 2016
must recognize our Form
in the mirror,
see our Face, and make our reflection
as we kiss it, though it regularly sickens


We are still Us, though
that probably means little if it ever did;

We have been amended beyond recognition
from centuries of lobbing
off limbs, appendages, stitching clauses
like bandages then forgetting about them
if we ever shower,
disfiguring the pale torso of our Body
politic, naked and middling before posterity
grotesque genitalia dangling
hopelessly, and useless
between marble columns
unable to unite in congress assembled
erasing pluribus unum;

We're our Legs, buckling under obscene weight
now cloture’s invoked, the question ordered
on history with yays and nays,
discourse long reduced to the nuances
of blusterfuck;

We're our Buttocks, passing gas
bills, denying a snowball’s chance of
melting in frozen hell or on house floor,
and our Brain, lobotomized
better half yearning “Yes, we Can…
…ada” beckoning the coasts, blue dots
on blue dot ever browning;

We're our Fists, clenching gavels
while advising Mother Earth to **** up
because even without her consent,
reality’s adjourned;


We're our Skin—yes, our Skin—, thin-
ly veiling contempt insufficiently concealed
by layers of spray tan and unmarred
by blood sweat tears of our foremothers
and our Brow, not sweating more perfect
when it's so easy to turn and follow storybook greatness,
when our Fingers, callused from tweeting
Little Bits of *****,
which though once again retitled
and re-released, remains a classic,
completely unrevised;

We're our Ears, nostalgic for the crack of doom
and we're our Tiny Hands, unable to help themselves
from popping a Tic-Tac and grabbing
onto those titillating, dusty buttons
on the hydrogen jukebox;

We're our Eyes, heavy
as a defeated queen
with makeup running, blessing us
all for this operant foray into madness,
ever observing how our Arms, which
(torches now extinguished)
flail in confusion amid incalculable darkness
still hoist our pitchforks low and
our Tongue still grievously petitions
for more deplorable words amid
hallucinations of victimhood;

We're our *****, *******
on progress, except
which—failing to rise to the occasion—
nonetheless manages
to flop over and strike once more: a dis-
chord in common defense of
fragile white male privilege
always showing, never growing,
general welfare and tranquility flushed down
the toiletbowl of history
hoping those old turds never
resurface, still ignoring the stench of injustice
and the chipping of gilded porcelain;

We’re our Lips–which neither Broadway hits nor
newspaper clips nor high minded pleas alarmed,
and with Dr. Franklin’s warning notwithstanding–
We are our Lips on treacherous steps which will be
all executive power herein vesting;


We're our Palms, grasping rope amid air
saturated in deathly vespers, which tugs
down-up toward unearned heavens;

We’re our *****, pretending to be
our Mouths which chide & otherize, while
our Shins expose their cuts to ****,
bullet-holes welcoming the swift infections
in what dank sewage now pours from open
Overton windows, broken along with
any pretense of civility; ultimately,
the only thing we could shatter;

We’re our Holes, shamefully enjoying
the prodding and poking caresses
of anarchy, be-
moaning un-
Equal Protection law & order bestows,
depriving life, liberty, property
when our Hearts, weary of
the long hard due process, supremely
malign centuries’ holdings;

We’re our Immunity, sovereign it be
fighting all insults foreign and domestic
and our Voices rising in lamentation
for what we’ve lost and what we’ve barely kept;

We’re even our Hair, unkempt, distracting us
from enduring corruption of our Blood;

We’re our *****, too. No, never mind.
We never had any. But She did,
and class despite the strength
of glass;


We’re all that still, and our Souls'
politic too, fractured much asking
what Un-
ited States we’re in;
September 17, 1787 – November 8, 2016. Not a bad run, I guess.
ConnectHook Sep 2015

Offended by your victimhood
while victimized by your offense,
you hurt so bad that I felt good;
my guilt was sweet – your pain intense.

I lacked your lack of self-esteem
yet shared your sense of wounded pride
while sleeping through our waking dream -
the Inner Light left on outside.

Your suicide invades my space –
your death insults my lifeless life.
Your omnipresent cryptic face
beams forth, as dull as any knife.
su·i ge·ne·ris
ˌso͞oˌī ˈjenərəs,ˌso͞oē/

adjective: unique.

reflectionzero Sep 2014
I talked to a friend today for the first time since I've been back from Arizona. It was interesting. I tried to start off cool, calm, collected... all of those things you should be in public and with strangers-- but only in private among friends. Eventually he started asking the hard questions, as I knew he would. It's a simple formality that defuses so much stress for me. Listening to someone's problems is like making eye-contact with a homeless person. You still want to treat them like a human being, but you'll end up regretting it later.  

So he asked me how the relationship stands with my dad since summer. “Has it improved? Did you two talk?” “No, no.” I say. No, it hasn't improved at all. My father still feeds of his perpetual guilt as a muse and mentor in every sale he makes and AA meeting he attends. If you cut him open you'd find an empty bottle of Jameson. “That's alright,” I tell him. I don't chase him down anymore to have a heart to heart about the past, or his feelings, or his mistakes-- no, we're adults now. We use each other as a means to an end. This is the way males bond. Instead of getting angry at him when he's a ****, I just ignore his phone calls for five days until he's saturated in his guilt long enough to actually be proactive. When I call him back It's expected he'll send me money, even if it's unwarranted. It's so easy. I don't have to fight with him, and he gets to avoid looking at the loser in the mirror. Nobodies emotional needs are being met-- but, hey! At least we can spend the 100$ drinking long island ice tea at the layovers on the way back to my life away from hell. Thanks dad, really.  

“And how is your sister?” he asks. “Oh, she's loosing her mind,” I say. She asks me why I don't try harder for the family. She blames me for leaving and emotionally severing myself. “It's like you don't give a **** about anything but yourself,” she says. Well she really hit the nail on the head. I, apparently, am the patron saint of reassembling ravaged family units beyond repair and squaring the circle. I am fully aware of how angry she is that she can't do the same emotional distancing for herself. She wants so badly to grow out of that child that's still locked inside of herself begging for a functioning home. So there she is, Atlas, holding the weight of the world and I'm the one that put it on her shoulders. No one can advise her because we're all to blame, are her victimhood is a virulent strain infecting everyone but me.  

“And hows your mom?” he asks. “Oh, well she's just a silly goose, you know?” “Sillier than ever,” I say. Making her rounds to the ER quicker than she rebounded from deciding to leave her boyfriend and live off my sister in Seattle. “At least this time it's from the aftershocks of her attempted suicide and not the actual act of doing it, you know?” But there still runs the potentiality of getting that phone call-- “Hey, your mom's got a tube running into her heart.” It's a fun game of Russian Roulette we like to play in our family-- nobodies winning.  But she made the time to come to Flagstaff and spend some quality time with me for my birthday. Forked over a little bit of Xanex for me and my girlfriend, bought us *****, drank with us. “You know, what are moms for?” I say.  

I tell him, "My life is like a Modern Family episode directed by Quentin Tarantino."

It just makes a person a little rough around the edges, you know? And with insight comes a bit of cynicism. Like, yeah. I dissected and tore you apart yesterday-- but it's only because I love you. Your imperfections really make you shine. It's that feeling you get when you try to jam the wrong shape through one of those Fisher-Price toys-- it doesn't fit but you force it anyway.

But you're alright, you'll muddle through.
Amethyst Fyre Jun 2016
Right now, I’m on like the Sun
My 1000 watt smile burning in my core
Shedding heat and light in all directions
But, most importantly, spreading to me too
And with a burst and flare I take on my tasks
Spewing heat and passion in all directions
And far away, hanging in the vacuum of space
I watch the things I’ve touched flourish

Let there be life

But this is only half my story, because I am not the Sun
Much as I pretend to be, I am not a creator of energy
The amount I have is finite
Life is not in my orbit
Rather, I’m pulled in by its gravity
It’s all I can do to influence the tides

See, there’s a dark side to the Moon
Those days I go missing from the skies
That you never seem to notice
You only ever care when I’m giving off light
Those off days, this is what they’re like:

Force the corners of your eyes up and fake a smile
The light and heat are draining from you, but you keep giving
It’s always this cold on the dark side

And you compliment and do favors and get assignments and don’t yell
A puppet being yanked through the day
Each time you interact with another person,
You wish they could read the sadness on your face when you turn away
But when they ask, “How are you?”
You say, “I’m okay,”

By the time you’re done with the day’s giving
You’re so tired, you can’t think of what to do for yourself
I takes all your effort to click next episode, next episode
Or bring the chocolate to your lips
You feel a strange mix of gratitude for the numbness
And self-loathing for what the little time you have on this planet has become

At bedtime, one flutter of your heart makes you worry you’re about to die
And a sleepless night later, you promise yourself you’ll ask for help
That you know you never will

That’s what off days are like

But the thing is, I can’t even claim victimhood here
Unlike others who suffer these feelings rightly can

I chose this life

I chose to be a vessel for the Sun’s light
There was a point in my life where I looked in the mirror
And understood what would happen if I kept thinking and acting the way I did
Always give, give, give
I may not have known how deep emptiness and fatigue truly cut
But I knew they were weaved into the path I was set to take
I read the fine print and signed the contract anyway

It’s worth it, I think, in an ends justify the means sort of way
After all, in the end, none of us will really matter
But humanity will, if we do our jobs well
And with on days, that’s more than enough to keep me satisfied

But with off days, I sometimes wonder if I would have been better off never having opened my eyes.
Sorry so long, thanks for reading to the end!
poetryaccident Aug 2018
Mortality is the closing fate
promised by the watching gods
for those mortals on the face
of a world all will escape
sad casualty of many fates
each with the same end result
taking all from the souls
arrayed at the finish line

finality that none shall avoid
hence my focus on the now
taking arms to make a mark
not play the martyr in response
by a pen or the sword
drawing blood in last resort
fighting back against the dusk
while the sun is lost from sight

stones reside on the hill
some exclaim the consequence
of laying down before the end
already placed in victimhood
look to the others that inspire
beneath the stones their arms are ******
a ******* to the sky
still the warriors as in life.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180817.
The poem “*******” was inspired by the lines “I am not only a casualty / I am also a warrior” found in the book  "I Am Your Sister: Collected and Unpublished writings of Audre Lorde (1985)"
Pain is awakening: the expansion of consciousness.
There is no half-way mark:
ignorance in sleep, health in full waking,
bound the gulf of hallucinations we call life.

In that Abyss of lies we deceive ourselves
until at last Truth annihilates the deceived,
unveiling the hidden Glory of the liar.

In the mantle of victimhood, Identity accretes
like a pearl on the tongue of a mollusk;
and a narrator, lost in the telling,
comes to mistake the story for reality,
wounds for tragedy, scars for harm.

Identity forms about Chaos,
a shell of experience that shrouds
a kernel of Truth.

A pearl is but a grain of sand
made beautiful by pain.
reflectionzero Sep 2014
I know
that you got into a relationship
with a guy who only married you
for your money
and your huge ****.

I know
that you're branching out of the dead gardens
of your relationship
to sew seeds in my field,
and they keep dying.

I know
that you know how I feel about about it all
and you know that I think you're a great guy.
I am not the liver transplant
for this liqueur-derailed
dance you're doing.

We're all sorry.

Your victimhood
is a virulent strain
infecting everyone

JB Claywell Nov 2017
The doors to the office
are locked up tight.

The receivers are off
their hooks tonight.

We’re out in the streets
practicing our long division.

The time has come;
gotta make the hard

Which side are you on?

Why are we choosing
to glorify a man or
woman, in their
victimizations or

Doing so,
it doesn’t do
anyone any

We allow or encourage
victims to swim in the
**** of their victimhood,
never to come out on the
other side clean?

Am I the only one
who sees this as mean?

More than that,
I find it obscene.

We are making nobody

This is just another
spike in our collective,
divided skulls.

What makes this
all that much worse,
like a ******* curse;
is that the culture wars
are the only battles
left to be won.

Sow what you wish
to reap.

Reaping kindness,
and willingness
to treat each other
and ourselves like
sons and daughters,
mothers and fathers;

there’s no place more
for this culture war
cannon fodder.

Fox News, god-dammed CNN
pointing out everyone
else’s sins.

They quit looking for any
battle to end;
Hell, they just push the buttons
and the next one begins.

Stay offline,
don’t feed these *******

Don’t use Face-crook,
they sold the book
a long time ago.

Feeding junk food
to our minds.
Fueling our egos;
leaving us to wonder
where all our time

The **** bluebird’s
not much better,
defaming our collective characters
in less than 140 letters.

Read a book instead,
lean into the pages
return to your own
exit these New-Millennial
Dark Ages.

We are one people,
we’re of all colors,
of every class,
maintaining our
collective humanity
shouldn’t be such
an unknown

Here we are,
trying to
feed one another
our own rotten fruit.

Check your personage
at the gate,
it’s already too late.

Or, is it?

“We The People” will
sell and buy us
like cattle going to

They’ll buy the mind
of every son and daughter
in the name of the mighty

Taxes, student loans,
medical expenses,
freeloaders or front-loaded
*******, killing ourselves
with AR-15s outfitted with bump
stocks designed to bump stocks and
bonds, gluing our politicians hands inside the
pockets of the NRA lobbyists.

(Look what I did! I’m part of the problem!
Long divisions?
There are other ways
to solve

Ban it all and band together,
go to the party with the ugly
Christmas sweaters;
instead of badges worn by elephants
or *******.

No more.

Say it loud.

Say it now.

No more long division.

Care and carry the one.

Lift each other up,
enough is enough.

Sign the letter,
the petition,
the promissory note.

With Love,

The Remainder    



© P&ZPublications
Victor D López Mar 2019
God's second greatest creation is man,
Formed from clay into which He breathed new life,
Then perfected His creation in Eve,
Not from base clay but Adam’s flesh and bone.

On Adam God practiced His creation,
In Eve perfected it tweaking its flaws,
More heart, less hubris; more sense, less muscle,
More love less hate; focused on “us” not “me.

Sacred texts written by men disagree,
With what is only a most obvious truth,
God's truth whispered in men's ears only proves,
None are so deaf as those who will not hear.

Thus women have been blamed for all men's woes,
From Adam's fall to every earthly sin,
Marginalized, objectified and scorned,
As easy targets for men’s jealous rage.

Mankind is so much less than womenkind,
In all the ways that count save in brute strength,
Brute strength served tyrants well six thousand years,
Alas, serves tyrants well still to this day.

Barefoot and pregnant, subservient and poor,
Unschooled, unheard, and too often unloved,
Their primary role a breeding vessel,
To pleasure men and give them healthy sons.

No voice, no vote, no power and no hope,
To this day blamed by some for all man's ills,
Victims of **** ****** for their victimhood,
Honor killings from men most honorless.

The miracle of life was gifted you,
Men plant the seed and then their job is done,
They can wander away to plow new fields,
While women nurture life--cradle to grave.

I am in awe of all that you endure,
And all that you accomplish throughout life,
Diamonds treated like broken glass by fools,
Whose brilliance shines only in their own minds.

I am a son of Adam, share his flaws,
And know full well women have their faults too,
Yet for me hope for all humanity,
Rest with Eve’s daughters, not with Adam’s sons.
Death, at arms length
Made to fit in my hand so sweetly
The black steel grip
feels like I mean something
The slave for my anger
A powerful blame
A home for my victimhood
An outlet for my pain
at muzzle velocity
I don't even have to touch them
I can simply squeeze - just lightly
To **** them
All of them
Even the ones I don't know
They're collateral damage of my hatred
My anger is big enough for anyone to die for
Even myself
And this piece, will be my release
At 30 lives in a clip, I'll release so much
It will be over so fast. BAM!
They won't even know what hit them.
Neither will I
KM Abbott Sep 2016
What’s the statute of limitations
        on my obligations
                as a son
        on my victimhood as a
        on my blamefulness as a
When does it end—these yet-to-be-seen effects of the mundane
        I make now?
When do I not carry them
        the strings
        of the yarn map tracing
my endless encounters and tacking
        not into cork but
        into my soul stretched pulled
in four dimensions.
Length times width times depth times time. I coexist
         in every manifestation of
myself simultaneously.
        All time all me, all tacked,
        All pulled, all stretched by
more hands than my own.  Vibrating
        into my marrow reminding
of the inescapability of the
        contracts I didn’t sign.  Most of them.

Each day the threads move.
They swirl and choke or puncture
        taut and pull. pull. pull
        me back, back to them.
        To early morning and late nights
        every day
        That old house of repressed
memories and façade bonds
        of newspaper-wrapped electric
circuits waiting for the
        to finally incense the
        old aged kindling of other
        string maps of
        other pasts of
        more and more disappointment.

My heart is a prism. a rock.
        set in the stone of my
chest compressed
by pressure into endlessly
        juxtaposed edges of glass.
        An edge: a time a place a person a me. Surrounded
        onyx black
but yet
        Reflecting.  It’s deep
        but shine deep enough
        yes, go
        and it will reflect
        go on, go on
        yes yes yes go
        myriad colors of spectrums
                of me
torn out of the mine of
my own construction of
        the muscle memories of
        the past pains of
        the unceasing variations of
the crude black **** I’ve
made before.

        How long
                        will I be responsible for
For you?
Was I ever?
Am I at all?
Cadence Apr 2018
Boys will be boys, will be men, will destroy
Will take and take what you create
Will shame you if you deviate
Will make the rules they proceed to break
And after every encounter, you're a little more shaken
A little more autonomy from you has been taken

You rack your brain to find the words to demonstrate just how it hurts
Time passes - and the moment is gone
They were staring at your ***, and you know it was wrong
You know you don't belong
You are an object for observation
But that's a whole different song

So does it make it any better when you play along?
Are you simply playing victim in a manmade system?
A child of the Fight, how do you extract from that mode?
In a world full of players, you let yourself be taken
How is it that you manage to let the simple words break in?
The glass ceiling is surprisingly sharp
And the burden on your back gets heavier as you approach
The child in the closet didn't make it this far

There's a fine line between honoring your wounds and hiding in the dark
This is the line I walk every day
On one side, victim and healer, I tend to my wounds
The other lives in reality and makes the right moves
But duality is a falsity
Of course one can't be two
And the structure I see in the world I perceive brings out the fight
**** the patriarchy
**** the Right
They're not right
Their vision is just limited

There are so many issues I wish to address
If I cry through the fight, does that make it worth any less?
Does my brokenness somehow discount the rest?
The weight of my burdens change by the day
And yes, victimhood is the easiest way
May I be the last to place blame
This glass house holds no shame
And if you won't throw the stones at the broken and stuck
Pass them around and throw them straight up
Let's all make the ceiling shatter and fall
And watch now as the shards rain down
And this can happen when we're all ready to be active
And act as protagonists in our own play
So **** the patriarchy, but do it in your own time, and in your own way
Mike Essig Jul 2015
It is difficult
to find anybody
who hasn't been
with something
and seems
to wear their
alleged affliction
like a shiny
merit badge.

People seem to want
to be rewarded
for being troubled,
as if falling into a hole
is the same as
jumping down
into it.

I suppose
they want sympathy,
but put sympathy
in a shoebox
and see how much
it weighs.

the new disease
of our time.

Prognosis: poor.

AJ Cox Jan 2017
When it happened
I was already dying
and then

and I fought
but even if I hadn’t
I would still be to blame
for the shame
i ran from
that night

so now I’m a dead girl-woman
writing to you from the other side
just to talk.
about this

Well not really talk
just describe
a story that


Until we were
as damaged goods.

that people
look at you

you're catching
“well just don’t walk alone tonight.”

As though somehow
you would be to blame
if it happens again

but this time
you're sure
you’d just *******
**** him


because at least this time
else could
PK Wakefield Sep 2015
"People love being weak. They are in love with with their weakness–flaws. This is due to the twisting of their own egoism: when they see someone strong and free of flaw or worry they must invent some way to justify their own value by contrast. They take those traits which define the capable, noble and powerful and redefine them; make them into hallmarks of stupidity and shallowness. They make claim that what is truly good is what is weak, flawed and incapable–what is like them.

What is most noble is what suffers the most. Who is the greatest victim is the greatest good, superior to all others. Thus you can see them in action: arguing for their victimhood, trying to be the weakest and most pathetic. Busily inventing with creative fervor new statuses of being to which to cling.

What is more profound, more deep and compelling than one in pain?

The irony could never be more clear in that the weak grow strong in their weakness to justify their secret longing to be superior to the strong. Are they not after all damaged, and yet still surviving? What is more brave than that? What is more laudable or commendable?"
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
you might ask: why does he seem semi-sober, almost every night, after gulping down 70cl of whiskey? well, it comes down to a certain type of rage - i was never the one to play the victimhood tarot card - it's a celebratory rage, best summarised by the sort of rage mingling with pride with bruce spingsteen's born in the u.s.a.

mind you - i do have distance relatives over there,
my maternal great grandfather emigrated there
during world war II, leaving his son (my grandfather)
and my great grandmother behind -
lost contact with my grandfather because
his brother smeared **** against him:
how he was misfit, stole & drank & what not...
****** spoke 7 language, was in the MP
(military police): just like my grandfather was...
my mother managed to make contact with him...
original surname? i think it was *żak
and like my grandfather, so too my father were
in the army - i sometimes wish i was also forced
into the army - rather than joining the ***** brigade
of university: might as well castrated myself
with some humanities degree - thankfully
i wasn't *****-slapped so much... then again?
i was -
            hence the title, mea culpa, my *** -
the most sadistic mantra in any religion -
        and that was the last time i trusted women -
who the **** does that sort of thing?
         i mean, it's the upper tier of the **** concept:
who rapes a man by stealthy managing both
    contraceptive pills and invoking an impregnation?
i thought we had a deal, a loose contract between us?
my fault? mea culpa?
    no wonder i'm annoyed -
         wrath-riddled -
     after all, she did give me back her engagement
ring -
           unless i don't have the full picture,
and have some sort tenacious pair of ***** where
my ***** has built up an immunity to contraceptive
pills, like a virus out-competing antibiotics...
   otherwise... my my, it's ******* shining pearls
and diamonds up my ***: so i stuck my tongue up
a *****'s **** and *** to compete with my own
      indeed, the mysteries of performing oral ***
on a *******: the puerto rican in amsterdam
was confused ever so slightly -
      but the bulgarian cohort in goodmayes?
            well... 2nd in command of providing the O
with one of them;
and i'm serious about the army regret,
   i regret the notion of there being no conscription
in place...
            british army adverts barely tickle my toes
in terms of wants: mandatory would have been
                  at least you'd have rigour & discipline
drilled into you, and made you a less whiney *******
that i've seem to become...
victimhood? hardly: just ******, numb-nuts...
but it is a form of ****: can i have my ***** back
before it starts forming into a foetus?
   hey! that's private property too!
                 i have a slug of rubber ready to flush
it! ah, whatever, talk to me another day:
today is not a good day,
     it's sultry and i'm sweating like a pig
                                            in a slaughterhouse;
one of my earliest childhood memories?
         watching a cow being towed into a slaughter:
the shrill cry of that dumb animal:
  would certainly contend with Clarice Starling's
memory of the sheep: in the silence of the lambs;
yes, i asked her impromptu to have an abortion,
then i obviously came to my senses,
but by then: the fickle mood swings of women
already erased the past: and thereby the future
with it... now? it simply belongs on a page.
Viseract Mar 2020
It lurks below my consciousness, the beast beneath the bed
Tortured by imagination, vivid in my head
Strikes without notice, the world is dark and blind
To all the ****** massacres that play behind my eyes

Victimhood held hostage, convinced manipulation
Sickly soul so serpentine, saboteur salvation
Left within the grimaced grin, of tormented left demented
Suffer so, these chains and ropes, you'll never be accepted

Amusement starts to linger, maybe mould, or rot
Decaying internally, for he feels the hope is lost
So smile, smile, smile, and learn to love the sinner
For all that will remain is this twisted, Grim Grinner
jeffrey robin Aug 2015

and look !

See !

Here I am !

So CHRIST like in the purity

Of my love !!


crucified for the purity of my love

Given so generously

So freely



Such a deal !




Look at me now


******* !


and so I can only say


The donation box !

( the no strings offer has been rescinded )


I know you know how that goes

Don't you

My little " loving "

Boys and girls !

Offering yourselves  "freely "

Until the time

Move in

For the **** !


ITS LIKE 9/11 !

Once you create the illusion of victimhood

You may



in your



Like me






The victim




As the poets say

There is no love without pain !

( or is it

There is no pain without love ? )



I guess both are the same

//: //


Dess Ander Dec 2018
Illusions are the new reality
Victimhood the chosen mentality
Opinions lead to fatality
Common sense is the new insanity
Marsh Orian Sep 2019
I cried my eyes out on our double bed as you yelled, cursed and threatened.
I gave in.
You know me better than I do. It was a mistake, you’re right, you’re right, I wanted it. I’m sorry, I’ll do better, please forgive me for my victimhood.
I will never forget the taste of narcotics and the touch of his hand on my thigh, or the smell of alcohol and so much worse.
Hold on. I can barely remember this. You’re a liar, you scream, I know you wanted him too.
I froze.
Well, you were there. You should know. I’m a cheat, you’re right, you’re right, I had a small crush on him. I’m sorry, just please stay, you don’t have to believe me.
I will never forget your dead eyes as they bore into me, all passion gone, as was all trace of the love you had for me.
You hated me for something I didn’t do, you’ll never forgive me. Eventually you leave me, you tell all your friends.
They all think I lied, a wolf in sheep’s clothing who cried his own name
Howling at the moon that I didn’t do it, I didn’t want it
As our black sheep, that’s you, whispers of the wolf that I was.
There is no happy end.
River Jul 2017
When did I ***** these parameters,
From which I can't escape
Since when did I hem myself in so tightly
That I can't breathe, that I refuse to let myself be
I made rules for myself
To deter myself from getting hurt
But these rules are suffocating me,
Suffocating my autonomy
What happened to the days when I proclaimed boldly
That I would grow up to be just like Amelia Earheart
Fearlessly flying beyond any limitations
Until I am boundless,
Beyond the limitation of my body
Why has the trauma of adolescence and the uncertainty of adulthood
Made me such a calculated, cynical being,
Begging the ineffable for meaning?
Digging for the answers of what I'm supposed to be
Can females be forward and pursue their dreams?
Without the fantasy of a man who would provide stability
I guess the world has made me scared
Of the reality of being a woman
That wanting a man
Feels like a necessity, like a security blanket,
Or a gun
To ward off these crimes against womanhood
But it's really a flaw in perspective,
Women may be the victim of ****** oppression,
Being used as flesh mannequins to penetrate and beat,
A weaker vessel on which to release the pent up rage of the patriarchy
But I shall persist, nonetheless,
For when the whole world is against me
I rise
I've been a victim for too long
But in my victimhood I have found that I am strong
And that the only security I need
Is this relentless heart,
Living for a cause
So that maybe oneday, more people's eyes will be open to see,
And soon we'll just be able to breathe
Without all this trauma and worldwide unease
Death has become defeated,
So, I must live without parameters,
I must be fearless.
Ellis Reyes Feb 2020
When you are free, you will fail
When you are free, you will offend
When you are free, you will be offended
When you are free, you will get lost
When you are free, you will fail
When you are free, you will make stupid mistakes
When you are free, you will hurt yourself
When you are free, you will be challenged by others
When you are free, you trade subservience and victimhood for independence and responsibility.

Are you tough enough to be free?
MAYUR Aug 2017
There be no other falling like this
You see pleasure in this victimhood
This person that becomes your all
The escape you sought from solitude
Your heart in the palm of her hand
To her assertions you're no more inert
That leaves you most vulnerable
Should she choose to exercise hurt
Tara Jul 2019
My bodies soaked in victimhood,
like a holy bath,
I am baptized in it,
you can smell it on my tattered limbs,
and on my crumbling bones,
blood stained on my hands,
I can’t seem to wash it off,
I’ve scrubbed my body with satan’s hands,
to get the evil off of me,
but I’ve been tainted by my own insanity.
If I could start from scratch, I’ll rage war earlier in attempts to conquer my own flaws, in order to be pillar and make something of myself, be a blessing to those I dare open up to, as some have been to me, growing pains is in retrospect, but I guess a contribution to youth is always adjoined to learning. If I could start from scratch, I’ll celebrate my 18th by vowing to stay clean, showing up to recovery and never saying a single to word any other in those rooms. If I could start my life from scratch, I would learn about death, growing my learning thoughts to its definition and learn how to die. We all die one day. And I’ll open up death’s fade. It isn’t a crime unless if they catch you. If you live for yourself, you’ll die in shame. If I could start from scratch, I’ll hug every person who is kind enough to say hello. If I could start my life from scratch, I’ll value reading poetry, for the sake of the poet, who had spent their entire time, articulating the world’s thoughts that are mixed in with emotions. I’ll respect the Devil, because truth doesn’t change and faith isn’t required when it comes to it. For now, if you get too close, I’ll clap you. And wouldn’t reside to victimhood when I got to leave home, because they had no money and the lack of understanding others leaves room of void, no one will truly know until we all trade places. Life isn’t promised, I’m still blessed to every dollar I’m getting. And I’m still being guilty of being anxious. I’ve given up on getting a fair go. Reality demands something else to what society gives back, the duality of humanity, breeds fair go to those who develop originality. To soak up pain, is to understand, but I wouldn’t dare to sing gospel, I’ll sit quite, because I heard that when one weeps, you’re alone. I heard a blast. When I die, I want to be a living legend. For they try to **** me. If I could start my life from scratch, I wouldn’t prevent myself from falling down, I’ll come to grips with it.There’s no other feeling like getting up and trying again.  Than again, I could part from my past, but never to replace it, so coast to coast, before going broke, I’ll ****** their wallets and run. Than focus on dying without a whimper.
(knowledge variable)

— The End —