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Yenson Jul 2018
A while ago in East London, in an area called Poplar
a black man lived with his wife
Quiet, hardworking, law-abiding they both were.
never courted a scandal, never committed a crime
Just went about their business, working for  better tomorrows

Then next door a Scottish family of five moved in
and immediately started borrowing from couple next door
Do you have sugar, do you have bread, can I borrow a fiver
till our Giro arrives next week, please another tenner for Jim
He has to pay a fine.

Empty beer cans littered their doorway, they all drank like fish
fights and arguments rang late into the night
Police visited twice, thrice weekly and it was known Jim burgled.
and was always doing time, when not drunk and fighting
Joan eldest girl was pregnant at sixteen and Tom fourteen had
done two stretches in juvenile detention
Last daughter Kelly was also to end up in the duff at sixteen

Amounts borrowed was now sizable, the odd fiver repaid
stolen items regularly offered and rejected by quiet couple next door
Invites to the black man to visit while Jim in jail politely declined
Come and have a drink with me and my young daughters
No thanks, got to go and cook, my Mrs would be returning soon.

The family from hell has turned the neighborhood to hell
constant break-ins all around
strange men coming and going, fights and noise, beer cans
for carpets, stairwells reeking of ****, Tom and friends and
Marijuana fumes graced the stairs and veranda.
Mrs Scottish and two young daughters constant smiling invitations
to black man next door, duly always deftly rejected.

Black man and Mrs decided to stop lending money
it was all going on beer and smoke and never paid back
By the end of the week, their car had been vandalized and four
wheels removed, racist leaflets started appearing on veranda.
No more smiling coyly invites, now just loud music and loud
intermittent bangs on walls from next door.
We must complain, we most report all this to the Landlords.
No, lets just ignore them, not worth the hassle.

Then it happened, black man arrives home one afternoon
and finds his front door ajar, they had been burgled.
Seething with anger he stormed next door to be met by Mrs S
'you ******* thieves have robbed me, how can you be so low,
after all we've done to try and help you. None of you work, You are a bunch of lazy
workshy, welfare scroungers, you are pathetic lowlife. why don't you go and get a job instead of burgling houses and getting drunk all day long
I will start a petition to move you away from the neighborhood.
You no-good non working class scums'  a disgrace and an affront to the hardworking working classes. You ******* racist bullies, I will show you, you can't
mess with me'

Mrs S smiled wickedly and said, you will see
'character assassination, public humiliation, we'll ruin your life and you'd wish you are dead by the time we finish with you and your chicken legs wife. I will show you who runs the manor in East London.'
You can't do that, black man replied, I have done nothing wrong, you are the bare-faced thieves, you shameless woman. We have had enough of you and your anti-social behaviour. You are not going to mess with us no more!

OH, YES! they can and by jove, they did.
Mrs S retorted' You are the foreigner here, you are the one that would be leaving the country
and going back to your Jungle'.
Black man called wife to tell her, she came home immediately
the police came, no evidence, here's a crime report, get your door
fixed. How about searching next door, we can't, no witnesses.
And then Black man's life changed FOREVER.

Should I write about the intimidation from other white families
in the neighborhood, should I write about how the Local Socialist
Party got involved, and launched a propaganda campaign about a black Conservative member dissing the Working Classes,  should I write about how one of his beloved dogs was
killed, should I write about a rumour campaign that black man was a wife-beater, a ****, a con man, a greedy parasite, should I write about sudden hostilities and bullying at his work place, how his wife was also sacked, about being randomly insulted and abused in the streets, about kids spitting on him, about being shunned inexplicably by locals
he's known for years. Should I write about outrageous fabrication, smears and humiliation.
Should I write about political victimization, about the black man 'who thinks he is better than us all,' about how a wedge was driven between him and his wife, till she broke and upped and left without warning,
should I write about how strangers shouted 'solidarity with the working Class' at him, should I write about daily torments and constant harassment everywhere he goes, should I write about Criminal gang stalking,
should I write about being informed they were going to ruin his career, ruin his marriage and ruin his reputation, check, all done. S I write about how they said they were going to chuck mud at him everywhere he went and blacken his name forever, should i write about pure isolation, about being made a target and being  hounded and stalked and disrespected everywhere. Should I write about how they stated they were going to drive him insane and drive him to suicide.

If so, WE WILL BE HERE ALL DAY.
Just  know that somewhere in London, a decent, law-abiding progressive, and innocent black man, is now on his own, broke, in debts and on Welfare benefits, unable to find a job, friendless and isolated, discredited and shunned.  He is still being stalked, harassed and hounded, round the clock. All for daring to stand up to CRIMINALS.

IS THERE JUSTICE IN THE WORLD?
IS THIS WHAT ENGLAND HAS BECOME?
Classy J Oct 2018
Sentenced to the hygienist, because I got that Indian virus.
Wish I was more like Leonidas, for my warrior self was vanquished.
Got a sense of anguish, as I don’t even know my own people’s Language.
Why did I get banished from my own land, and these immigrants now hold thee advantage?
Feels like they on a witch hunt, ain’t life a ***** huh?  
Can’t even make a quick buck, because I’m seen as a stupid ****.
Feel like a sitting duck with the ****** locked, **** is this the feeling of a cuck?
Stories always end up sad but Afterall I’m just the ******* of the brady bunch!
Brown skin cursed kin and a desperate sin so I gotta eat outta garbage’s for lunch.
Trying not to use victimization as a crutch,
but it’s like I’m a kid who got tricked into a game of double Dutch.
Crazy braided brain, deranged rabid rabbit spewing train going down a road of pain.
Come on yawl don’t you want to see the freak from cirque de soleil?
Trying in vain to wash away my shame, but the colour of my skin just won’t go away, oh what a shame!
So, I’m left crying and thinking about dying, hoping to be anything…
that may stray away from my family name.
For I’ve realized that I’m stigmatized by the whitened eyes:
that be educating lies of me being the one to blame.

No more will I be ok with this forced recital!
No more will I sit idle!
No more patriarchy, and **** the curse of ham nonsense used to justify you being spiteful!
**** your racist sentiments man, my colour doesn’t make me homicidal.

Brown clown, Down syndrome gnome!
Torn men, torn women left in prison zones!
Burn them, **** them, **** them right in they home!
Don’t frown, don’t make a sound, just stay on the ground.
Hands behind heads, then shot with lead, like a dog from the pound!
Lost and never found, but this just the curse of being brown!
What’s this now?
Nothing but wards of the crown.
Just a *****, just a glitch, that live in some crack towns!
Or reserves doesn’t matter what the word
Or what the place is when one puts on war paint on top of their savage faces.
Here’s the thing *****, I’m not scared of staring ya down #okacrisis!
For as see it colonists are no different than isis.
I know we deal with vices,
But it’s just the effects of dealing with your hepatitis!
And I just might be bias,
But at least I’m not a delusional racist!
It doesn’t matter if it’s Past, present or future violence,
I think it’s about time to end the silence!
The screaming
children of Gaza
torment the sleep
of a troubled world,
and remain a real-time
unending nightmare;
anointing The Levant’s
fevered brow
with a diadem of
incessant grief.

Gaza is a burning
ankh that sears the
madness of sorrow
upon Egypt’s skull.

Gaza,
an unblinking
third eye
of shame,
peers into
Lower Egypt’s
closed window
ever reproaching
it’s turbulent
conscience;
chiding fellow
Muslims with
the ugly memory
of abject affliction,
the endless images
of a living Guernica
suspended in the hell
of indefinite imprisonment
all Palestinians are forced
to suffer.

As Zionists ***** the
steep walls of Apartheid to
extend its occupation
of Palestine, it
condemns the youth
of Gaza to a life of
incarceration with no
possibility of parole;
hardening the hearts
and steeling the resolve
of a new generation of
militants to demolish the
walls and the wardens
that imprison them.

The Zionist jailers
bestow upon
Ishmael’s Children
phylacteries of shame,
wearing the rolled
prayers of wailing pain
scribed with bits of
dust from the
the broken walls of
demolished buildings
and desolate homes
beyond habitation,
now housing grief
of trampled souls,
forcing recitations
of deliverance
to Allah while
davening an
incessant drone
of anguish at
the Wailing Wall
of Resentment;
decrying the
blood lust of
undying acrimony,
victimization and
the slaughter of
innocents, carried on
with the imperial license
of state sanctioned impunity.


Father Ibrahim's
feuding children may
share a sacred paternity
but remain the
divided brothers
of different mothers;
stoking a sibling rivalry
more bitter then
Cain and Abel.

Our anguish
never dissipates,
the gnawing
impulse of empathy
to assist the distressed
of Gaza is dashed
by omnipotent
powers recusing
the ability to act.

Sympathy is
embargoed
in the black
obfuscation
of religious
partisanship
while timely
assistance
to aid the
distressed
lie netted in
blockades of
realpolitik
affinities.

Gaza, where
Hashim is granted
his eternal rest,
restlessly inhabits
his unknown grave
from the destitution of
his profaned homeland.

Ghazzat,  “the stronghold”
countlessly conquered,
falling to Roman Emperors,
Lionhearted Crusaders
Ottoman Caliphates,
and British Mandates;
slipping from Egypt’s
geopolitical grasp as
as a casualty of
The Six Day War.

Gaza is now a stronghold of
resent and desperation for a
desperate conquered people.

Ghazzat, the prized city of
the western Mediterranean,
a four star Phoenician port of
caravansaries now unable
to trade with any partners
due to ungodly blockades.

Gaza, has grown wholly
dependent on the largess
of UN aid and meager
subsistence portions
doled out by well
meaning NGO’s.

Gaza, the foot stool of
the Levant and surely
the pathway Father
Ibrahim, Jacob,
Joseph and Jeremiah
traveled to escape
Canaan's famine;
finding at the close
of their sojourn
a table set with the
plenteous bounty
the Blue Nile
unconditionally offered;
the veritable feast
of abundance,
the generous yields
of the blessed delta
that sustained the
Prophets of Judah
and a thousand
generations of the
Nile’s Children.

Gaza, the Achilles
heal of Middle East
peace, land of the
Canaanites, Philistines
and Old Testament
heroes.

Gaza, a fortress for
Philistines who
imprisoned the storied
Sampson, revered for
breaking the chains of
imprisonment and righteously
destroying a pagan temple
in a suicidal act of heroism.

Gaza, where the myths and
legends of rapacious
holy crusaders captured
the western imagination
with the chivalrous gallantry
of religious warfare and
valiant last stands of
Templar Knights employing
the tactical imperatives
of terrorism in service to their
higher God.

Gaza, an oasis
by the sea now
lies dry and brittle
as the precious Hebron
waters of Wadi Ghazza
are diverted to serve
the agriculture of
Judah; condemning
a dehydrated Gaza
panting of thirst
to an imposed drought
and a war of
self preservation
to remove
the dammed rivers
of justice controlled
by intractable powers
laying upstream beyond
Gaza’s mean borders.

The Qassams
lunched by Hamas
are desperate
expressions of
exasperated people,
eager to call
world attention
to the growing
insufferable plight
of a people living
in a perpetual
state of siege.

Its a modern day
David slinging rocks
against an armor
clad Goliath.

Each Katusha
serves as
a justification
for Zionist
intransigence
and condemns
any possibility
for peaceful
coexistence
of a Two State
Solution.

The pointless attacks
invite massive
disproportionate
retaliation and succeed
in prolonging and
increasing the
measure of Gaza’s
agony.

The mystic grace,
the divine power
of satyagraha
-a non-violent
response to the
cruel enforcement of
Apartheid- is Allah’s
way to secure the
moral high-ground
and the surest way
for Palestinians to
expose it’s unholy
adversaries innate
contempt for civil rights
and a refusal to
recognized the
shared humanity of
all of Father Ibrahim’s
wayward progeny and
recalcitrant prodigal sons.

Mubarak’s fall
has allowed the
Rafah Gate
to swing open again.

The concertina
wire that separates
Gaza and Egypt
has been removed.

The prisoners
of Gaza have
an open portal
of freedom.

It is a Day of
Jubilee, a day
of pardon for
for the inmates
of prisons built
for victims.  

It is a day of
possibility for peace.  

It is a day to declare an
Exodus from the land
of bitterness.

Humanity is
offered the hope
of escape from
the prisons of
acrimony, to
freely move across
the staid borders
of intractability
and exclusion.

The hearts and
minds of Palestinians
and Egyptians
are free to connect
and unite once again.

Liberation is
possible only
when we uphold
and honor the
affirmation
of all humanity.

Music Video:

Silk Road
We Will Not Go Down

Oakland
2/9/12
jbm
a poem from the epilogue section of Tahrir Square Voices
Lawrence Hall Aug 2018
I.

         “No doubt they’ll sing in tune after the Revolution.”

                      -Kamarovsky, Doctor Zhivago (film)

Everyone seems to clench his fist these days
In solidarity with ephemera
While setting fire to green recycling bins
Hurling someone else’s bicycle through a window

Armed with their undergraduate degrees
The comrades liberate a coffee shop
Wifi-ing the revolution of the day
Empowerment by beating love to death

Loudsplaining authentic victimization
Posing for selfies with a stolen ‘phone

II.

Their inhumanity seemed a marvel of class-consciousness, their barbarism a model of proletarian firmness…

                         -Doctor Zhivago, p. 349

Everyone seems to clutch his flag these days
In solidarity with a past that wasn’t
While setting fire to misspelled cardboard signs
Hurling someone else’s beer into a crowd

Armed with their lurid Confederate tats
The Something.Right liberate a dumpster
Bull-horning the counter-revolution
Empowerment by beating love to death

Bellowing their Reconquista of stench
Posing behind their cheap gas station shades

III.

I used to admire your poetry...I shouldn't admire it now. I should find it absurdly personal. Don't you agree? Feelings, insights, affections... it's suddenly trivial now. You don't agree; you're wrong. The personal life is dead…”

            -Strelnikov to Yuri, Doctor Zhivago (film)

Some few embrace civilization these days
In solidarity with humanity
While lighting one small candle as a votive
Whispering an Ave into the Light

Armed with wonder through pen and flute and brush
Recusants choose the liberation given
In singing of the eternal verities
Self-empowerment happily denied

With love, with poetry, music, and art
Celebrating life on this summer day
Brandon Conway Jul 2018
Sitting at the bottom
Of the sun-kissing tower
Rapunzel,
I hear you crying for help
Could I make a suggestion?
     Stop cutting your hair
          And blaming the scissors
               Instead of your own hand.
Afrah Jul 2016
Land of the free
you seem to call it
But the freedom
only seems to fall
on one end of the spectrum
one side of the scale

And when the scale tries
so excruciatingly
to balance itself
When it comes crashing down
in an attempt to be heard,
to make a sound,

It is met with cries of outrage;
With a selfish victimization of,
“what about us?”
“don’t we matter too?”

but that’s not the point,
now is it?

The scale
isn’t screaming out any less
for the importance of
one side
by trying to give an inch of importance
to the disregarded other.


**Black Lives Matter.
I am so ******* sick of this. #BlackLivesMatter.
Zac Walter Apr 2014
Its been hard to write
My tongues' tied tight
My thoughts lay light
I cant dive deep in my thoughts
Or I could drown tonight
The water in my lungs
Is filling up my eyes  
The songs I've sung
Arent doing me right

"I've been living lies." I say

The therpist replies

"What do you mean, are you alright?"

"No, if he ever came into my sight.
I wouldnt just fight him
I think I might shot him in the thigh
Throw away his perverted crack high,
Ask him if hes a fine. If he replies, continue to shot him until he isnt alive."


Thought         
                  The gunshots loud
        I pout thinking about what he  
                  did to his son and I
Some things I could never say aloud
End Thought

"Woah, how come you hate him?"

"Because he shaped my life then
.... until now."
This has more meaning than anyone could realize. .. theres another line i didnt add cause its too emotional/hard to say
Stuck to an icy
   history of thought,
   the habitual web caught
the Fly in its enticing
   display of verbs
      that match the pattern:
      language is the matter,
   betraying ourselves with words.
   A tongue to its Work tied
      might make the spider
      think twice before biting;
   those venomous lies
we tell our Selves about
   helplessness and somedays
   victimization and blame,
empowering our self-doubt;

                    ∴

Devouring our might as writers,
    we have nothing if not pride;
      We take flight to the deepest parts
        of the universe of literature.
Neither nihilistic nor cynical,
    our linguistic is made of visuals.
      Verily we write with studious care,
        veracity a common trait we share:
We are an orchestra,
    a symphony of synchronised melody.
      Epiphanies emphasize tragedies
        that consume us repeatedly --
We seek to
    link our verses
      and feel deep connections
        when engulfed by depression
Verse 1 - M.P.D.
Verse 2 - Jamie King
manicsurvival Dec 2013
NO
hours have been spent
hours of me, staring at myself
not in a mirror, not at a picture
but of my words

and,
i've come to realize that i have been wrong
and i have been wronged
emotion and pain are understandable but,
how can these words possibly explain how i feel

i've been thinking of someone else for too long
my problems aren't contingent on our relationship at the moment...
because that's pathetic and weak and it's not me
nor will i let it become me

i've been wrong
i cant blame you for not loving me
i cant blame the world for believing that my feelings toward you...
are unrequited
and i wont blame myself either

as a writer...
as a person...
the type of person i am...
it's difficult to call my previous prose and poems
"works of self victimization"
even if they are,
they're still art

**** what everyone else thinks
**** the world
**** everyone

but i will never say "*******" to myself

and that is where i have been wrong

it's going to take more than this
one, long, grievance
to mitigate...


NO

NO

NO

NO

NO

I changed my mind
I have the right to be angry and the right to be hurt
You hurt me and I won't let that go until you say "I'm sorry"

And I take back that comment about "self victimization"
**** that entire concept
If I am a victim of someone else's careless actions, I remain sane in writing it down
I can think of myself however I want to
I was NOT wrong
I was right in every sense of the word because I conveyed the emotion that will never slip through my mouth
It's the emotion that will only pour out of my eyes
and out of my heart
It;s the emotion that is surreal, yet my reality






























NO
Seher Seven Dec 2015
some topics are taboo.
it seems this is so,
at the root, these lies,
discover you and me.
our natural true beings.
so there they stay
cloaked in a definition of taboo,
almost respectfully,
sitting for centuries,
gaining energy, changing mind.

I say let's dig out these, too.
re-defining will take time,
though today a word,
a thought, a stream of us
came through,
can I hash this out with you?

victimization - it's synonyms are
deception, fake, con, fraud,
deceit, dodge.
dodge...
the antonyms, truth, reality, honesty,
peace...
dodge peace,
sure this is only a piece,
it's these things I need to talk through,
is this revolutionary for you, too?

****, victimization is a hoax,
well, of course, suffering is choice,
we are the power of the stars,
ok, let's see...
it seems, WE,
collectively
needed a break from the murky
waters of Pisces, like WE
need expansion in all forms of
technology.
it doesn't free though because we
think we can be victimized, governed.

now, hold on,
we create what we see,
so we victimize ourselves? (I choose to govern me)
instead of choosing to suffer
we can choose to create a new reality.
the subtleties are deafening now!
groping at my sleeves
begging to get out,
to be launched down
inject the network with our worth.
birth to death to birth,
we are God, source,

new definitions must be formed,
new books written,
new paradigms were living,
be free or not,
it's your choice.
Classy J Feb 2020
Hook:
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Poisoning how we think.
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Gotta be careful what ya drink.

Verse 1:
Uh, Seems like we always in a state of emergency,
In a land of democracy,
Things don’t seem free to me.
It’s like trying to wash our hands in ***** water, g.
Everything has a cost, so tell who going to pay the fee?
It certainly not going to be the dominant society.
For the system was build by and for white people to have superiority.
That demonizes anyone that doesn’t conform to their authority.
Spreading a sense of inferiority over natives and minorities.
And I’m not just talking historically, because these issues persist presently.
Change can’t happen unless one is willing to **** the teet of the majority.
For we live in world that separates based off of hierarchy.
That strips down and overgeneralizes our identities.
Then when one overcomes these disparities they are seen as the unordinary.
The exception to the rule,
Like *** is that supposed to mean?
Think I’m about to lose my sanity, dealing with an uneducated narrow minded humanity.
In a state bombarded with atrocity after atrocity,
Yet people have the audacity to tell us to get over it instantly.
Living in a democracy that doesn’t have time to listen to me,
Living in a world where history repeats,
Perhaps I guess we just can’t get enough of insanity.
It just doesn’t make sense to me?
I thought we were supposed to be evolved,
Yet be so devolved mentally.
Like how can indigenous people asking for clean water cause so much controversy?
For if your province or city didn’t have access to clean water, wouldn’t you worry?
Wouldn’t you start protesting firmly?
All I ask is that yawl start checking your privilege homie.

Hook:
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Poisoning how we think.
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Gotta be careful what ya drink.

Verse 2:
Water is the foundation to survival,
Water can also be a philosophical symbol,
For we all thirst for something,
It’s like we are cursed or something.
Being immersed into desensitization,
Becoming numb to everything.
Needing to wash away what is obstructing.
Blocking the path towards transformation.
As established norms perpetuates discrimination.
Whilst also justifying racism and condemnation.
I didn’t choose to born,
But yet that some how qualifies me for damnation.
Because my skin colour is seen as being sinful, that needs to be put through sanitation.
Becoming guilty on the basis of association.
Which makes it harder to find the equation.
As everyone has different values, beliefs and expectations for how to fix this situation.
***** water sure is a contamination,
Thats been leaking out since creation.
That has divided not just people but also nations.
If only people could be mature when having these debates and conversations.
Instead of suffocating on our offence,
Or wallowing within a sense of victimization.
****, this ***** water sure has damaged how we function.

Hook:
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Poisoning how we think.
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Gotta be careful what ya drink.
Neha D Jun 2014
A Borivali slow,
Was on platform four,
Being young and swift,
With least bit of strain,
I boarded the train.
There wasn't place to sit,
So amidst the uproar,
I stood at the door.

An aged lady of seventy-four,
Indulged us in a tale of yore.
Of a frightful night,
When her entire world,
Was ruthlessly hurled,
Into fear and plight,
Into treacherous gore,
A tale so abhor.

with fine detail,
She narrated her tale,
And had us engrossed,
Our minds embossed,
She was a slave,
Who tried to save,
Her body frail,
Which was put for sale.

"A young girl of thirteen I was", she said
"Physically alive but mentally dead.
I was sold like cattle,
My modesty stripped,
soul ripped,
My insides would rattle,
As I would be led,
To a different bed.

In words I cannot convey,
From where I drew strength one day,
During the dastardly act,
I took my chance and attacked.

I fled the scene,
And ran all day,
Tried to escape far away.


Partially clothed or under a veil,
Being a woman makes you  frail,
We are a prey to beastly eyes,
Unheard are our cries.

My story will make your heart sink,
And force you to think,
While you soundly sleep,
There are women who weep.
Somewhere there is a woman
trying to escape,
From the clutches of victimization and ****. "
Joshua Haines Nov 2015
White american men with
gold retriever dogs
smoke black hatred,
not recognizing a grey smog.
Scared of black, brown --
all atheists are ill --
but not afraid of greenbacks
or guys named Bill.

Okay.

Here's your day job. Here's your pay, Bob.
America the great.
If terrorists equal Muslim
then Christians equal hate.

You say it's not victimization.
You say it's not a hunt.
You say it's not intimidation,
but sometimes I think you
see people as witches, ****.

Christ is the answer, indeed.
Without Him we're all lost
and our souls will never be freed.
Like tears frozen in the frost.
Bibles, crucifixes to fix the diseased mind.
How much does a prayer have to cost
to be genuinely kind?

Chemtrails stain pages
and bleed as curses.
Gay rights to be denied,
according to bible verses.

Nursery rhymes and cult games,
all in the good old King James.
Archaic and inane,
like an alter sheltered brain.

Here's your day job. Here's your pay, Bob.
Use the check to pay
angels and evangelists.
Protect yourself from ideas,
and buy a white picket fence.
As the rain washes Ashland
Annaleisa Oct 2011
The world was crashing before her eyes and the movie was playing
over and over.
Blood flowing through her air, wiped off by bright colors she despised.
She lived in a dream she wanted to fall asleep to.
She whistled and weeped and  wrecked and wed widows
who walked among different grounds than her
She plotted fresh and icy white droplets of mint in her mouth, awaking her morning breath
She masked her soul in itchy wool sweaters and her emotions in
pounds of make up
Melodies and harmonies are plucked by strings. A voice and a wooden guitar create
A symphony of truths
Something never articulated in a conversation was flowed out through this cold and curved instrument and on pure sheets of paper
Piles of pages of stories of those relating to the villains inside our hearts,
All honesty is gone in modern stories of victimization.
A relation to the simple days is caressed in moments of weakness.
Crying the Sh’ma to her God,
to the ferocious tiger,
the trustworthy elephant,
and the regretful giraffe.
A bond reflected through gold and a diamond reveals more hatred and despair than the love and commitment it was given for.
Songs sung sounded of serenades and lullabies all were real abominations and a nuisance
among her razor.
The flame flew away back at camp, all that is left is wax in her seemingly well pampered box. The fire’s flame was filled with water.
Oh, what a cancer.
This was actually an assignment for my American Lit class. Somehow in the style of Allen Ginsberg. I dunno if this totally qualifies as ALLEN GINSBERG worthy, but I sure hope yah like it.
Nick Veez Oct 2012
A world of hurt, a world of pain,
Where money grants power, beauty and fame.
How much is a life truly worth?
Does business really value planet Earth?

Plundered landscapes,
Ruined towns,
Broken families,
Childhood frowns.

Societies run on victimization,
Depravity rife throughout the nation.
Corrupt Politicians, lawyers and banks,
Streets governed with soldiers and tanks.

Look at the world you think you know,
Watch nature die and economy grow.
Witness the truth with your own two eyes,
As the soul of Africa withers and dies.

It's lost children,
Starving, dying, still, in this generation,
No food, no food,
No basic education.

When the last forest finally falls,
Will it be greeted with rapturous applause?
It's time to wake up to the truth,
Before there's nothing left for the youth.
Kelly Lloyd Mar 2012
Furrowing deep with claws blood-stained,
into dirt, a heap of heavy ashes,
too depressed to flow with the wind,
or dance with breezes sprung from heels clicking past,
I sink.

These ashes reside
from my burnt body.
Wrinkled edges, dim, clotted blood,
a heart suffocated by the flame
of victimization.

Take a scalpel to my remains,
mutilate my body, my Self, all that remains,
stitch on male genitalia,
or chop my hair off,
none can remain, none can remain.
Gorge out my fat, reveal
gaping white bones;
none can remain.

An emergency room
(a yew)
A home with quiet time at 2:00
(an ever-green)
A place with after-meal support
(a willow)
A pile of *****
(a palm)
A fresh crimson cut
(a pine)


I met you.
(before it was too late)


You ****** me into the arms of a God
And you placed a Bible underneath my bare feet.
I stumbled and cut my heel on its edges
and watched the blood seep into the welcome mat.

When you first gently unlaced my blouse
flashes, images, screeching memories flew back in
shattering porcelain glass.
But a look in your eyes
soothed the tempest
and I drifted along with your rhythmic tides.

I once said I wanted to be a tree.
(Nothing more than still wood.)
I once felt like a million dollars wasted.
Swallowing the moon and the stars so bright.

Now I say
overlooking shy tulips, so young, so young,
Humanity is a house abandoned
and in you and Him have I found
the warmth that tiptoes across my chest,
like the pit of a peach radiating sweet, sweet nectar.
Feedback appreciated.
Samir Lal Jul 2011
I can feel it.
Ticking,
Counting down the seconds,
Minutes, hours,
Days, weeks,
Years, decades
Of the minor insignificant preamble to death that is my life.
I am responsible for this bomb.
I built the entire thing myself.
I let them fool me.
I let them play with my mind,
As if it were a ball being carelessly kicked and tossed
Through a field of lies and victimization.
I am the victim of my own bomb.
The only one strapped to it.
Trying day after day to escape its fatal clutch,
Yet clinging to it with dear life.
I need the bomb.
It gives me hope.
Hope that this will all be over.
Hope that none of this really matters,
That life is nothing but a preparation for death.
I hate the bomb.
It creates fear in me.
Fear that I am but a minor proton in the body of the world.
Fear that I am the target of all of humanity’s evil.
It makes me forget why I am here,
Why I keep going on every day.
I forget about my bomb squad.
I forget about all the things diffusing my bomb.
I forget to seize the day
And decrease the weight of other people’s bombs.
olivia rose Jun 2017
I wake up with a stabbing pain,
I force myself to wake up from this nightmare,
and when I finally look in the mirror...
"Wait, what? How did that happen?"

There's violet and crimson marks on me.
They're encapsulating me,
making me feel like I deserved this,
and I did.

The shrinks in their ivory towers tell you
To not be afraid,
Stand up for yourself,
Show them what you're made of, and to
Never back down.

I'm pinned to the floor,
and my legs are paralyzed.
I was left in a puddle of my own pulpy, ****** mess.

and it's my fault.

His voice echoes in my mind.

"Maybe if you didn't act this way, I wouldn't do this,
You're a terrible person and I feel sorry for the people who think you're not. Nobody loves you. People would throw you out in the street if they knew what you've done."

That was the night that he took everything from me,
He took my freedom,
He took my ability to communicate,
He took everything from me,
And he doesn't know why.

Sometimes, I don't know why he does these things.

Isolation consumes me like cable news telecasters consume the minds of sheep, and everyone is programmed to think and act as if the world is coming to an end.

Everyone acts like a victim.

There's two parts to such an accusation;
Victimization
Survival

But, there's a third part that no one tells you about.
Coping mechanisms

I can't stand up for myself.
"You're worthless."

I can't show them what I'm made of.
"Nobody loves you."

Berating, belittling, and biting me with your words.
It shows more scars on me than your fists.

"Why do you do this to me?"
"You must not care about how I feel."
"Why are your crying? Are you pitying yourself?"
"Have you realized that what you've done is wrong?"
"When will you learn?"

I'm not your child.
I'm not your lover.


Make a safety plan,
Get out while you still can,
Don't blame yourself.

You have every right to react the way you want
When he's not treating you right.

Don't let him gaslight you.


You've been through this before.

Don't let him get to you.

You're better than that.

You

are

a

survivor.
Still waters run deep
A pansexual ideology burrows farther
Gorge yourself on self-victimization
Fault rests in your skinny fingers, slipping
Swallow it and drown in your laughable appeal
They've got nothing on me
Scott Hamsun Jan 2017
This is a story from very long ago,
I suppose some might remember it from their own reminiscing,
but I learned it from my Pa.
It goes like this.

There was a man named Anthony,
he was married to a younger woman,
Sophia.
The two had tied the knot one year prior,
In 1931.
Anthony knew not to fully trust Sophia,
(although he himself was not a man of great moral character)
because she was never loyal to a soul.
It was systematic,
even if she loved who she was with,
even if she had everything to gain,
she found a way to justify infidelity.
Anthony did not know about all her scandals,
just enough of them to keep his eyes peeled.

The two of them had owned a tobacco farm,
In the middle of Oklahoma,
I do suppose it was Anthony's in reality,
But I would guess if a couple shares a bed,
and a home,
and their money,
the farm is also in joint custody.

This was not just a farm,
It was the heart of the town,
pumping out a vital product in all directions,
It was the only thriving business around,
I suppose because it feeds an addiction,
it was a tough time,
even from farmers,
but dust does not hurt Tobacco plants.

The time came around however,
when a successful business owner came to town.
He was asking what was making the money in this village,
Anthony and Sophia's hands were always raised,
in preparation for this question,
they had enough pride to fit twice inside of a musician.
The man asked to buy their property,
along with the plantation and all the workers.
the money offered was somewhere between,
one hundred and fifty thousand,
and,
three hundred thousand,
the exact number has been lost with age.
Whatever the case, It impressed the couple,
who proceeded to sell,
and buy a small house in the town.

What hasn't been told to you is that Anthony's father was gravely ill,
Anthony promised if he ever ran into money,
he would pay for better care for his beloved father.
When Anthony Remembered this promise, he wrote his father.
Sophia, did not like this,
the fortune was theirs, and not for some sick man,
with only half the life,
(if he got better)
that they had.

Even with her tricky seductive ways,
she could not convince him to keep the money,
Anthony wanted to give the whole of their new fortune to his father.
Anthony saw the rage of the devil in her eyes,
and every day she blocked him,
the monster within her had come alive,
roaring with anger, and retaliation to nobility,
which caused his inner beast to stir.
It never awoke,
but turned his empathy to dust.

They always tell of how small the sum of money Anthony sent was,
but maybe its more important to count what he did not send,
whatever the case was, his father could do nothing with it,
it was not enough to pay for better care,
just more of his original care.

Anthony and Sophia,
dressed in the most stylish clothes,
and wearing the most elegant jewelry,
soon went to visit his Anthony's parents,
when they walked in,
there were typical greetings,
just what you would expect from semi-estranged family members.

When however,
Anthony's mother took a hard look at the two of them,
she cried, and hit them,
cursing them for wasting their money and lying,
(for Anthony told his parents he didn't have enough money,
and that he gave what he had to his father.)

She told them to begone,
and that they could not have cared,
because they could not be bothered to give any more money,
Anthony left the house and Sophia trailed behind him.

On their way back to where they parked the ford,
Anthony and Sophia were struck down by a car.
they were killed instantly,
and the police came to claim their bodies.

That was the plight of a young couple not many people know of anymore,
Why it ever became famous I don't even know,
perhaps it was the despicability of Sophia,
or the unknowing victimization of Anthony,
but it holds an important lesson,
and I'm glad to have told you about it.
manicsurvival Dec 2013
They told me that I was difficult to love
I need someone to say "you have suffered enough" to me
Tell me to turn myself around
Tell me that life has been terrible to me and that I have a choice and a right to make things better
The suffering I've endured is surreal
Simply because at every prior moment to suffering
I thought it couldn't  get any worse
but it does get worse
and it eats away at me
mentally and physically
I am suffering
my head feels like its been pounded against a concrete wall
my eyes can't focus on a single object
my stomach turns because I'm starving and too stressed to eat
I wake up and all I see is fog because my glasses can't be found and my mind's too tired
I become lost in my suffering
lost in my life
scathing acquaintances and hating authority
blaming every ounce of pain on unfortunate circumstances
self victimization
it's disgusting
pain is relative but this is too much
still I step through the darkness
and tipie-toe my way into anything lit
there's nothing there for me
When I say "someone"
it used to mean him
now it means anyone
tell me to turn myself around  because I need to rise up above the morning fog
they told me that I was difficult to love
prove them wrong, someone
anyone
Alexsandra Danae Nov 2011
I fear it from an inside
My lips ~ refusal to move
Seeking fervently, shadows to conceal
   my existence; to hide
Drowning; morbid dying in the
   sorrowed soul's tears
Scavenging for my god
Digging for redemption, for salvation
Questioning my faith

I'm told, once again, to believe
That, only then, there will be a
   hope in which to receive

He calls out to me
Audible to my ears
His beckoning reaches to even my
   recesses darkest and deep

I'm washed away in a flood
Self-inflicted, torturous death
Fading
Then the whisper
'Go back to sleep'
Still, my weary mind rambles onward
Shattering into puzzle pieces
The artistic portrayal of who I
   truly am
Though, I find no one who could
   reconnect those pieces to again
    build ~ again create, a whole
So, I am broken, shattered, crumbling
   on a downward spiral

Yet again, He beckons
Calling out my very own name
"Oh Beautiful Daughter,
"I see not, your sins."

I fall to my knees
Utmost gratitude conceived
Though I remain too afraid to believe
I trust Him; words flawless to
   every form of life
It's, alone, myself I cannot face
My mirror's as shattered as my soul
Those weak, disgracing, foul steps
   I daily take
As I trudge down my chosen life
   path of misery
A path to spawn animosity, contempt,
   bitterness throughout
Victimization

And nevertheless, He follows
Offering continually His hand
The Divine Hand

I shutter at such a notion!
Oh! How I don't deserve!
My broken puzzle has cracked
   open my mask
Lies to be uncovered ~ lies of mine
Revealed by my subconscious' truths

I collapse to the earth
Piercing my body with stones
   and thorns
Pierced flesh, it bleeds
As was once shed upon a cross

Stop my feet now, please! Oh, stop me!
I'm running... running away
The light, so beautiful, so pure
I, a stain, to be cleansed; washed away

His voice, so powerful, yet gentle
   and loving
A child's perception of her father's
   tones
And now, a message He declares
   unto this mortal me
"Quit your resisting,
"Oh Beautiful Daughter of Mine
"It was for your sake I created
   the light of day
"Come now, My child
"I've spoken, and you are worthy
"Bathe yourself in the oceans of
   My grace's eternal waters"

My shattered fragments arise
Fitting together a work of art
   too undefinable to speak of
In this new found light of grace, I bawl
In new tears, I rejoice
I have felt my Maker's unconditional love; His grace
I've been possessed by His showering of love
Ricki Feb 2018
What is a poet if not a victim?
For he seems to be the only exception to a world of goodness.
Oh, what better way to depict him, than his own victimization?
What is a poet if not a child?
Granted, some are aged, but they all whine.
What is a poet if not broken?
He does mention his glass shards on the frequent.
Do keep in mind that he will never be doing fine.
What is a poet if not psychotic?
For him and all his kind appear to be mad.
What is a poet if not sad?
Spoiled minds of the depressed kind truly are poetic.
What is a poet if not contradictive?
For him, it's quite addictive.
What is a poet if not guilty?
For he may not always have the ability to plea innocent and play the victim.
What is a poet if not old?
Granted, some are young, but they're all wise.
What is a poet if not whole?
He is full of courage, he is bold.
So tell me, how is he not whole?
What is a poet if not sane?
Sure, he may be vain and a little odd, but he does write with utter sanity.
What is a poet if not glad?
He writes of love and purple lips.
Though his happiness may dip, he truly is a joyous soul.
What is a poet if not a fool?
He does accuse and misconstrue.
What is a poet if not a man, just like me and you?
Michael Marchese Feb 2023
See not the messages
Lying asunder
Go not to temptation
To beckon my blunder
For under the surface
Observance
Is clear
And my cryptic
Ellipsis
A sickness to fear
But appears
An abstraction
Attraction’s
Blurred vision
And fades
From the page
Like a razed composition
Conveying the grave
Like a bladed
Incision
Still spilling its villainy
Victimization
Of poor little me’s
Permanent
Paid vacation
Upon what is free
Just a fee to exist
And then not just deceased
We will cease to be missed
Like a vanishing wish
Dissipates in the mist
Like a widow
Divorced from reality’s
Kiss
George Krokos Oct 2015
I wonder what it means to be called an abomination
and if this has any relationship to being a damnation,
as there must be certain things that people do in deserving condemnation
which go against all reasonable human laws and are opposed to salvation.

If what has been handed down from the past is any indication
then we are somehow all obliged to follow with a dedication,
for our own sakes and that of all our so called many relations
who are subject to the same weaknesses, trials and temptations.

To some it may seem there need not be any restriction
which will generally only incur a justifiable conviction
for any laws broken and usually dealt with a harsh sanction
that blame or guilt can be done away with by a transaction.

There are so many things people do without any justification
except to satisfy their own sense of individual expectation
especially where the actions done are without any provocation
against a fellow human being who’s an object of victimization.
_______________
Written in 2013
SG Holter Aug 2014
I wish I could find it amusing to see
How an unevil man is rendered demon

By the cloaking of his good intensions
By female addiction to victimization.

I hold out my broken heart.
You scream at the sight of blood,

Squeeling: *"Murderer! I can see your red
Hands from here! Holding some poor

Thing's
Heart."
To the boys who like girls with eating disorders.

1. Be unafraid to call her beautiful. Feel no hesitation when articulating the grace in her intricacies. The delicacy she wields when flicking back her hair. The shape her semblance set in as she sleeps. The way… she holds a fork.
Even as you call her beautiful  you may experience pangs of guilt. Acknowledge that despite your appreciation for her formation you do not want her to be like this forever. Watch as polite small talk and casual compliments get swallowed up by half full plates and half empty stomachs. Watch her try to chew and words you feed.

2. If you make if to boyfriend status. Her disease may begin to look like the ex partner she’s still hung up over. Watch as she quotes all his favorite things he use to tell her. Do not tell me, I look like I’m getting better I can’t look like getting better. She may look like the embodiment of the phrase “old habits die hard”. But remember… Mother taught you patience and forgiveness. When someone abuses you, you may be vocal about it or you may repress it but you do not forget, and boy... she has some scars. Across every angular bone protruding where a body use to be. In every atrophied muscle where disease did once grip and seek to claim something as it’s own. In every mirror. In darker shop windows where that display mannequins sport the latest illness and in every look you give her. There is no vaccination for this victimization. It will take time.

3... If her condition has left her anxious...

Left her white in the face like porcelain plates serving a future that tastes like insecurity.

If her condition has left her hopeless. Left her thinking that a full stomach means an empty future.
If her condition has left her broken, in any sense of the word, he is not without fixture.
She was a woman before she was a victim. She was a person before she was a patient. She is still a woman, she is still a person. She has a destination outside of disorder. She has dreams that could be bigger than these demons.

And 4… and this is not is not for the boys who like girls with eating disorders, this is for the boys who love!
4. Do you think she is worth it? What can you outweigh?.. Can you make her smile, can you... fill her?
Graff1980 Dec 2014
I am always sick
Sleep deprived
From nightly drives
Midnight shifts
That I love

I am always sick
A little gassy but afraid
That it won’t be gas
That comes out that way

I am always sick
Tired of all the certainty
Righteous indignity
Self-proclaimed victimization
Of this white conservative nation

I am always sick
Of what my world can justify
How my people can swallow lies
No matter how hard I try
To inspire them to be better

I am always sick
With no end in sight
No angelic tunnel
No godly light
No hope for something more
Than this one life
One day I won’t be sick
But that will be the day I die
ht Feb 2018
Stop with the self righteousness
with that **** of the hip, hair flip,
tongue click pettiness
A round of applause for that display of selfishness

Stop with the villainization
I am not on trial and you’re not the judge nor the jury
Call me in contempt of court
But the true crime here is your self-victimization

Stop with the alliterative grade school names
Petty Betty and Salty Sally perpetuate your immaturity
Childish Chelsea double dutching that rope
Spitting her rhymes like it’s all just a game

Stop pretending it’s a joke, like your words hold no meaning
We all know you sit at home sharpening your syllables like knives
But you’re not the only butcher in town, I’ve finally found my cleaver
I’m ready to fight, I’ll leave you reeling
what was your favorite double dutch rhyme in grade school? | h.t
Bohemian Mar 2019
"I"
With all the delights that this day has pumped in me,
I shall exhale,evaluating.
Nothing frights me though,
Yet at times my humility easily goes.

A fearless vagabond that I have turned into,
Even the merciless,to look into my eyes, does not dare.
I am in no haste,
Even my trots have the power to leap and make a thud such that everybody fall off their steps.

Your stares that I descry,
No more make a difference to me.
For I am immune and have no envy,fear,agitations,trepidations or gluttonous desires.
It is no shame,those sights be such a common thing and all the same.

I have no back story and none coming forth,shortly or in this life,
I don't hestitate to yell what many of you cannot spell.
For all the stabs faced,
Birthed a scabbard and a sword in one frame.

The truth could be my lingua franca,
Forlorn be the brethren of my creed.
Repressed and silenced are my alarms of seize fire over the border,
Mollifying and tranquilizing be a part of my duty.

To stand the repercussion of my sins counts in my atonement,
For it is never an evanesce,too late.
I fear no hell or purgatory,
For I have witnessed worse in some eyes.

Victimization is a poor retreat,
To harangue them and present self with an ode is no feat.
Patience is my dagger to time,
And threatening each other we walk rakishly hand in hand.

To trail back,
Is not for me that fatal.
I emancipate the baited,
And buster am I of existing parasites.

Liberty is my boundary,
I would dare not to annihilate a choice.
But I do not condone either,
For I hate to feel withered and there is no way I may let go.

I am relentless,
I would not mind if you address me as a bovine.
I am cathartic and hysterical,most of all a contributor here,
An energy straight from plasma,unsimplified.
Moeshfiekah Dec 2018
They tell us we discriminate because of the color of their skin.
An unjustly comment and they only see us as whites.
Stuck between a now cold war between colors.
They paint an image of victimization as they feel unfairly treated in ancestry years.
I say , get over it.
Spoken words need not a explanation
Matt Jun 2017
A Cliff, a Chasm, or an Abyss?
No. A small Step.
I see a kingdom before me
With Insurmountable walls,
Uncounterable Guardians,
And an Un-Defyable Tongue.

Words capable of stopping a sword,
Words able to move hearts,
Words that capture minds.

Dust to dust,
My walls and kingdom shall fall,
In Time.

But, my Words,
Where shall they go?
Changed, Shifted, Stolen,
Truth to Myth to Legend.

What then is the purpose of the Soul?
Not like the wind, it holds weight.
Some have a price, others do not.
A beginning, an End, a Question,
Up or Down?

Darkness. Doubt. Depression.
Sin that is forgiven leaves Scars.
A Double-Edged Sword,
With no Victor.

Up and Down,
Around and Around,
We choose to Spin.
A shift, a movement, a Change,
And we fight.

Freedom, Right, Law, Justice,
Justifications for Enslavement of the Mind.
Inequality, Discrimination, Unfairness,
Differences used for Victimization.

Power, Money, Greed, Selfishness,
The Root of All Evil?
Or is it Me?
Who Am I?

Who are You?
Are you not me?
Identity found in Nothing,
Creates an unfillable Void.

Loving from afar, within our minds.
Interacting with only our clones.
Finding qualities that agree with our disposition.
Entertaining each other to distract from our lives.
Gabriel burnS Apr 2018
I’m genuinely open-palmed to rain… and that skin of yours falling unto... my whole topography… gently sifting… summer showers from… salacious cumulus seduction… I wonder why there’s no escaping bliss… that indescribably sweet torture of… how good it feels to pull apart those ribs… and rip the last remaining strands of victimization... under the influence of sentient ambrosia… and the rivers break out galloping… splashing pirouettes on river banks… caressing, kissing, caressing, kissing… tenderness and passion… drowning hands tightly clenched, screaming madly… “I want you”…
JES Dec 2014
My love for you is like a rainy day
It may seem dreary until you go and play in the rain.

Excuse me?
No...that was awful.
Let me try again.

My love for you is really like this poem
Pitiful yet amusing.

Because apparently it is not okay to laugh at poetry
Rather sit and shed a lone tear at the emotions it brings.
Honestly, that just entices my humor more.

Can we shed ourselves of these ridiculous allusions of torture and strife?
Maybe just be decent.
I admit to being a victim of self victimization, but that ends tonight.

Down with the ****** black queen of despair.
Down with the frivolous poems of tears.
Sidney Jan 2015
Things and people who are not linked to their soul's higher will are finding it increasingly difficult to maintain their world of lies, deception, and greed. The old model that is based upon blaming the victim, stealing from the poor, and denying the Truth is starting to crumble.  This was bound to happen eventually because constructs based on darkness and disease can never sustain themselves since they come from a place of lack and fear.  In fear's place a bean sprout of goodness is growing.  We can really hope and see the magic and magnificence of the contructs of love and peace blossoming.  This is a peaceful protest to the old ways.  This sheer goodness is beautiful and it's briliance of goodwill shines upon everything.  You can only deny love and goodness for so long before it encompasses your heart and works to transform you.  Love and light always win anyway. The ability to succumb to the tiny spark of love in our hearts, even if we've detached from our hearts long ago will either make or break us as a species.  Some people walk around with thick shells covering their hearts, but this is only a protection from hurt.  When there becomes enough safety in the world, those shells will come off.  And that will be a glorious day.  Enough people are getting fed up with the current governmental system of control and oppression.  It is a complex game of the people in power exploiting the innocent, as well as the truth-seekers.

Compassion and empathy are tremendous healing forces.  Many of people's problems stem from misunderstandings, assumptions, and judgements.  There are some instances where one is hurt intentionally, but that is when taking a stance of compassion is the most powerful.  In the moment of our greatest pain, lies the most opportunistic moment to have the deepest of empathy.  This is not shifting the responsiblity upon the victim.  No.  This is preventing the extended period of rage and bitterness that usually follows a victimization.  The hardest part about being a victim is the aftermath of the offense.  PTSD is a *****.  If we are able to have compassion for ourselves as well as our assailant in the moment, the easier it is to be free from the suffering that ineviably follows.  This is a skill for masters.  We are all masters.

— The End —