Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
SassyJ Aug 2016
My easel, has been asleep
for a while, like a whale
on the lost deep seas
finding a prey
to victimise
to sate the belly full.

Your easel, sees in my eyes
the robbers on the blink*
of an unruly end
finding recognition
in social media
to favor ego
to sate the belly full.

Your easel, is a mellow fine lens
Hands in line holding a gun
set a trigger, to silence the crowds
the doom in the public cruise
trollers and vipers with wipers
to sate the belly full

What have we come to dear friend?
we seek fame and lose our self
to the shadows of the masses
who denude our dignity
to gain their sanity
to sate the belly full

What have we come to dear friend?
in the spaces of the contours between
dehumanised by the social media
the medium of the century voice
the armageddon of currency
*that sate to fill it's belly
The poem is an accompaniment to an art piece called "Robbers". The piece is a two composition hue, with shadowy effects of a teenager holding a gun. In the shadows and the in-betweens, the dark streak of social media dehumanisation strikes. The art piece 'robbers'  is the work of "Joshua Ingram" aka Ezra Warhol. Thanks for inspiring me artistically, I am swapping walls for the canvas. Your artistic hand is beautiful and ethereal dear poet, musician and painter friend.
http://hellopoetry.com/atlasmarker/
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
today i realised i will never truly
and fully integrate into english
society, thanks to the irish,
i have to hear of the racism on
the building site, i was there once
too, brave racist slogans in toilet
cubicles, first the polish,
then the romanians, brave souls'
anger on the toilet seat, strange
kinship to the current retardation
of american culture, back to
the time of blank panthers,
when i hear of the racism against my
father my blood boils and my
stomach swells with fire...
like that one boy from liverpool
who asked if the poles had any
famous people... copernicus,
chopin, marie curie, john paul ii,
mickiewicz, tatarkiewicz, kolakowski...
but i guess the dyslexia obstructed
finding that out...
basically a manager of a site
was told to take down the cranes when
the roof wasn't finished,
and the mobile crane wasn't adequate
for the job... it's this irish thing...
the irish are supreme concrete layers,
but they're in the stone age with the motto:
well, the concrete skeleton of a building is
up... people can live there...
this fierce post-colonialism of former
colonies playing the bullies on other nations...
two nations are currently writing history,
the re-emergence of poland and israel,
the unlikely twins of historical matters...
so the crane debate:
it would be easier to spread the 1 tonne bags
of soil with the bag dangling rather than
using spades and wheelbarrows...
but not... leaving 11 one tonne bags on the
ground level, 4 labourers will apparently
shift that volume to the ninth level,
and then throw it over a 6ft2 wall onto the roof...
after one hour of this impossible task
they'll just say **** it, and leave it...
it's like the irish have no ***** after the i.r.a.
failures of killing people, they want to
victimise someone else because: trump moment:
they're just drunk *******!
mozart feared his father, the prodigy who
never made it back to the heart...
i don't fear my father, i'm in solidarity with him,
i'm halfway between integration and
keeping my ***** dry...
after what i've experienced i don't think i really
want to, marvel at a bonny lass or an english
rose or a welsh turnip...
the irish spoiled it for me, the subtler form
of racism and all that passive aggressive ****
is getting to me...
might as well follow suit with the olives of
the middle-east, drink nine pints of guinness
and blow up a pub in dublin;
i'm still adamant on the point about how
the english can't philosophise...
but the thing is... they're superior at history,
actually excelling in history is an english thing,
hence the populist usage of darwinism,
it's a historical debate, not a theological one,
the basic concerns of using darwinism
is to exact the range of historically relevant events
for a dinner party... smocking and pipe
and all that highbrow crap...
as i said, the english can't philosophise
but they can definitely boast of having a piquant
palette for history: england is a nation of shopkeepers
(voltaire) - yeah, and historians (mathias conrad)...
because when i look at it, on joy by tatarkiewicz
was slightly tedious to read...
but bertrand russell's history of western philosophy
was a joy to read: in summer on a balcony.
Aisha Ella Feb 2017
It was Boys Like You,
That used to push me around on the playground,
That chased me down dark school corridors.
That became the catalyst for the scoldings I received from my mother;
Over browned shirts, torn skirts and ties, pulled chokingly tight.

It was Boys Like You
That when I grew older,
Gave me sweet, chocolate covered compliments laced with poison.
That hooked me on the addictive drug of 'fitting in' and 'being slim'
And trying to get 'lighter skin'...so I could be pretty like all the other girls.

It was Boys Like You,
That at first glance seemed to be kind
Then threw cruel words into my open mind,
Which tore down what little confidence I had,
And made me wonder what I did that was so bad.

It was Boys Like You
That made me believe that I was hideous,
That told me my reflection was a crime against humanity
And that if beauty was skin deep and no further,
There was no way anyone could ever, love, me.

It was Boys Like You,
That pushed me into the darkest corners of my mind
Turned off all the lights so I'd be blind.
Locked the cell and threw away the key,
And left me there to slowly lose myself to insanity.

It was Boys Like You that made me feel
As though there was something innately wrong with me,
That I had an endless list of faults that even I couldn't completely see.
It was Boys Like You that nearly killed Me...

Well not really.

I mean technically I didn't die.
Maybe only on the inside, as those rotting thoughts infected my crumbling mind
And I begged for someone, anyone to
Please. Help. Me.

It was Boys Like You
That pushed me to the place of contemplating suicide.
As I sat, wide eyed tears in my wide eyes,
Wondering if maybe I stopped breathing
Then I would stop feeling all these feelings,
Being this human being that was drowning in her own self loathing.

I blame Boys Like You.
For the tears of young women and girls all over the world.
For slit wrists, and bruised fists, and beauty addicts
That nit pick and victimise everybody else,
Just so they can criticise what they don't like in themselves.

So I vow to raise my daughters to never listen
To your hollow, deadly words, that ring untrue.
And I vow to raise my sons, to be better men.
To be nothing like Boys Like You.
Disclaimer: This isn't a 'all men are ****' rant at all. Thats why the word 'You' is in the title - its only meant for the boys that did do, or still do these kinds of things. It is not a poem meant to be generalised; and if you feel just a tad attacked - maybe take a closer look at yourself first. In all honesty though I'm not here trying to say men/boys are the bad guys.
Too many whys
Running through my mind

Like why o why
Do we live our life
Searching for things that never wanted to be found

Why do we shy....
away from our real purpose in this life

Why oh why
do our Politicians lie
Telling us things will be fine
beguiling us with few cups of rice
Acting like we the people blind

How oh how, do they expect us to thrive
When the only thing they subsidised....
is our faces filled with joyful smiles

Why do they connive
to bring sufferings to our lives
with the politicking vice they devise

Why do fathers die
Living their kids orphaned

Where are the real mothers and Wives
When wishy-washy women keep tiktoking their pride.

Why wont our elders understand
That the life we in now is different from the past

Why oh why
Is it so hard to find
Someone to keep close to our heart
When all they do is t mess up our mind

Oh why Oh why
Do our youth put on guise
guise of lies' just because they want to survive

Why do our boys sell their soul all for that luxury life.
why do our girls dress bare; to impress and advertise.

Why do our clerics keep weponising our mind
Building partition in the name of the most high

Why do those terrorist thinks they're doing it right
When clearly tis not jihad

Why oh why
Won't God listen to our doleful cries
Forgive our past; filled with sins and crimes
Guide our leaders right....
and liberate us from the powers that victimise our lives.
What things I've written
over the years, I wonder
what will they remember,
What image will be left for
those I leave behind? A few
weeks ago I had an intense
realisation. What would I do
if I were terminal?
I'm still wasting time trying to
come to terms with my question
and to find some strength from it.
I remembered to breathe today
(so often I forget). I had a couple tokes
and got a little ****** but I don't miss it
as much as I thought (though I miss the times
and the humility of tripping). I avoid work like
an expert, lapping up the sun while it shines and
buying synthesizers; I did just finish
8 months of therapy.

Another realisation, or rather
the application of knowledge
I already possessed, a cause is
merely something we construct.
Supposing how and deriving why
are a useful set of fictions to abide by
yet they cease to serve when I assume
it's my fault and I should be able to make
a change or difference.
I persecute and victimise, recuse myself from
my own life, wondering whatever could rescue
the person I was
as a child.
Music might.
☮ <3 ☯ & 尊
Lexie Sep 2017
You tried to make it about yourself
Saying that I was attacking you
But I didn't even call you names
How could you be so selfish

You tried to make it about me
Saying that I was throwing a hissy fit
But I didn't even victimise myself
How could you be so blind

You tried to make me feel crazy
Saying that it was all in my head
But the proof was in the paper
How could you be such a fool

It was about their safety
Big no matter what I said
You invalidated every word
My entire childhood a lie

Sisters, I could not love them more
My trust in you, could not be so lacking
My heart, broken with your response

It's not about me
And it's not about him
It's not about them
And it's not about you

It's about saying the right thing
And doing the right thing
No matter who you are
No matter what you face

But still you chose
To punish the victim
Not the assailant
******* **** culture
Khushi Apr 2020
Lets change the angle...
The seeds of society
Are rooted deep within the soil of our perception
From there germinates the fruits of stereotypes
Building bondages around your dreams in its every bite.
With a vision to foresee and growing science and technology
We cover our far sighted vision with a pair of glasses
Which do not render you with a clear vision but instead turns you blind....
It turns you blind to every **** growing in your mind
It turns you blind to all those sufferers who being victims are still criticized
So, why not we being intellectuals
Tilt our head a little and change the angle
And let's see the world with a new sight
A sight that is free of blurred vision
Which no more needs to eat those fruits of stereotypes
A sight that is fairer, unbiased, and no more waters those catastrophic seeds.
Lets change the angle and neither see a women shy and weak
And a man violent and devastating
But lets see both of them as sons and daughters of almighty
Meant for spreading love and affection in the society.
Lets not title them as mummas boy and not too macho mans
But just as humans
With a pair of eyes, a mouth, limbs and a heart which is yet beating within longing for a tight hug.
Lets forget all those concepts of man chauvinism and feminism
Lets change the angle and build up a concept of belongingness and compassion.
Let them not be just bodies carrying privileges of ***** and insecurities of a ******
But just let them be souls
Dwelling in the nature, blooming like flowers, flying like a bird, ready to shower their emotions like a heavy cloud.
Lets not mark the foetus in a mother's womb
Boy or girl, male or female, gay or trans
But just as elements of art
Unveiling their beauty in their every little bit like a star.
Lets not symbolise our men as mountains
And our women as diamonds
Let that mountain shedding his tears in a waterfall
Be as pleasurable to you as it is being covered with snow, cold and numb
Let that raw piece of coal black with soot be as beautiful to you as it is being a shining diamond.
Let's not just build political or religious relations
But lets build relations between hearts pouring down love,between the shimmer in the eyes, between the two smiles,between all of us between the moon and the sun, between the sky and the earth.
Lets not divide these seven colors in pink or blue
But lets mix them up and set them free to paint the vacant sky
Lets not draw the irrational lines of division in a garden where there are flowers and even weeds which blooms in their own way.
Lets not victimise the wings of dreams with the expectation of society.
But lets just tilt our heads a little, change the angle and sow the seeds of compassion in a world where there are no boundaries of religion, caste or gender.
But just human fulfilling the needs of their humanity.
Big Virge Jun 2021
So It Seems To Be TRUE... !!!

Lies Move QUICKER Than The Truth... !!!
From Boardrooms To Media Newsrooms...

And Of Course They Move...
Through... “Secretive Crews”...

And Now It Seems...
That... CERTAIN Peeps...
No Longer Believe...
That This Corona Flu...
And Distancing Measures...
Are Policies Levelled...
In TRUTH With PROOF...
That People Should View...
As The Thing To Do...

You See Lies Are USED...
To Keep People Confused... !!!

So That The TRUTH...
Is What People Choose...
To REFUSE To Believe... !!!

So That FALLACIES...
Can Be Spread SWIFTLY... !!!

Into Minds That CONCEDE...
To Hold On To Beliefs...
From FALSE Histories...
That Are Those That FEED...
... Lies And Deceit...

From Slavery Themes...
To... Colonial Chiefs...

Who WEREN’T All White...
There Were Some Blacks...
Whose Skin Was LIGHT... !!!

Who SOLD The LIE...
That They DIDN’T Profit...
From... Slavery Ties... !!!

And It’s Clear That Some Whites...
Have LIED To Tribes And Used DEVIOUS Vibes...
To VICTIMISE And... DESTROY Lives... !!!

Because of The GUISE...
And Veneers That They Like...
To Use In Their Lives...
To Make Them RISE...
Faster Than Dark Knights... !!!

Who Deal In TRUTH... !!!
Which SLOWLY MOVES...
Because of Misuse...
And The Type of Abuse...
That’s Used By Those...
In... Political Folds...

Whose Secrets Hold...
Relationship Woes...
Because of Lies Told...
That Go To Show...

That Lies Move QUICKER...
Than Men Who Figure...
Themselves To Be Slicker...
Than Government Tricksters...

And Then There Are Men...
Who Cause PROBLEMS... !!!
Because They’ll Lie QUICK...
To Get Between The Hips...
of These Foolish Women...
Who’ll Believe ANYTHING...
That Comes From Their Lips... !?!

Just Like Women Who TRICK...
Like A... LYING *****... !!!
Who Wants A Man Who’s RICH... !!!
To Look After Their Kids...
And Finance How They Live...

You See Lies Like THIS...
REALLY DO Move SWIFT... !!!

While The Truth Exists...
But Is NOT Something...
That Moves So QUICK... !!!!

Now It’s CRAZY To Think...
That This Set of Lyrics...
Were Inspired By Words...
From A TV Script...
For … Peaky Blinders...

Where It Seems That...
... White Liars...
Were NOT Retired...
But Instead Were HIRED...
To **** And Use VIOLENCE... !?!

Because There Were...
NO Righteous Good Friars.... !!!

Just A LOT of CROOKS...
Who ROBBED Like HOOD...

But NOT Like Him...
For The Peoples GOOD... !!!

So It REALLY Is TRUE...
When You Think It Through...

When It Comes To LIES...
And How They Move...
Much QUICKER Than Truth... !!

There Are Three Words...
That CLEARLY Are TRUE... !!!

And They Are These THREE... !!!

.... “ They REALLY DO !!! “....
An interesting show, that... Peaky Blinders !!!
As i rise from the ashes,
I dust myself off the dust of the ashes
Although im the son of the soil
And so shall i return like the soil i am
My journey's wit trying not to wither away
I may trip and fall on this trip of ego
I have to still stand and proceed
This i have to do for my seed
Noone knows to what extent life is continuous
So arise the need to always be victorious
To an extent  have become vicious,
Although not to victimise victims
The vices i employ from advices hath maketh me devise malicious advances
Anticipating the day i will be flying high like birds of prey such as the Phoenix
Still i have to be patient as the Sphinx
Take time with every step to step out of the paradigms of pyramids and theorems
Pharaohs are my ancestry,
Dynasties is my accendence,
The world is my kingdom
My baptismal of fire has given me rite of passage to the throne
Lust, greed, evil, in my empire i do not condone
For like a mason i have built myself to be the temple of the creator.
By power of the creator,
By advocacy of ancestors,
By my discipline
FDTA Dec 2020
****** bricks leave a stain that
A name does not face.

At the ledge
Standing on the edge
To where he will slip.
A sand stone iceberg, admittedly superb, leans, gawks and disturbs.

It is absurd,
To preserve,
----------------
Imperial fever.

It only leaves us weaker
In a time growing bleaker
We are our own Grim Reaper;

Oil black cloak woven in smoke, tokes on poison and the fickle scythe sharpened with spite and the alt right. Choking out the light.

With each stroke.
But shoulder to shoulder, folk to folk, we are also our chance
at defiance.

A wedge of skin and paper prys open the street.

Drips have become puddles, puddles streams, all feeding the glacier of bodies, humble in size but not in spirit, tight ****** at the pulpit, of such an obnoxious ***.

It is Czar, Tsar, Sir, Emperor

It is them, in the stony carcass, concrete bones.
The attitude, the glare. Somehow warmer in rock than in person.

To humanise beasts is to victimise.
To sympathise with monsters is to despise their targets.
He, it, that, is enemy.
But it is not seen. Though day by day and night by night, it was my plight to stroll on by, not keeping an eye on that man half in the sky, not spitting at his step or flicking a cigarette, at where his legacy does rest.

All Rhodes lead to Rome.
All roads fall when the empire is lost, for they go nowhere.  

What is beneath will be aloft
And what is on top, will be brought down to sleep, for no we are not sheep.

Our pack is strong now and angry.

Though cardboard toothed and picket armed we wolves will shout and tear your name down.
If only you could jump, if only you slip now.

You could have made a very happy crowd.
Inspired by my time at a BLM protest in Oxford, 'Rhodes must fall'.
Eshwara Prasad Jul 2020
Everyone is not a victim of
the circumstances.

Some victimise the
circumstances.

— The End —