"victimizer" poems
and he does not think it strange,
watching two hours of the hottest hip hop,
in freezing cold surround sound air,
returns home to a medium warm bath,
where the drink served, icy cold vitamin water,
liquefying the mournful, dismal~gloomy,
lugubrious poems of lost love he finds
under his hello poetry pillow,
that gives no one relief,
neither to the writer or the victimizer
and he does not think it strange
reads strange takes n' poem tales from Avenida Paulista,
but his body dances to an Argentine milongia melancholia,
a contrast and a contest,
his heart asks where is Patagonia,
as the Arctic Vortex melts into the bath water
and he does not think it strange
for he know, he knows that this makes little sense,
but perfect sense to the poet-man,
try to see it his way,
there is a fussing and fighting inside,
that cannot be worked out
and he does not think it strange
but this be the funk groove of his extra
ordinary life wherein his body and heart,
and hundreds more,
can be held aloft
on a single wrist with fluid ease,
if allowed
and he does not think it strange
when he says,
aside aside fellow dancer,
and he does not think it strange,
he wants you to understand
for that, you must be
be beside beside, fellow dancer
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
How could I,
The double-faced
WHO’s current leader,
On par with
A chieftain
Brigade general,
Tightlipped attend
My diabolic
Party’s funeral?
Though for
My criminal
Party’s tragic end,
Bereaved,
I have to sob,
I must labor
To garner
The pity of
The credulous, elites
As well as
The mob
Round the globe.
At the same time
Dollars I have
To underwrite
In a bid remaining
Impish junta members
Beef up their might
Armed again
To wage a fight!
After ENDF’s law
Enforcement operation,
“I know not
The whereabouts of
My nephew,
In Micadra’s massacre,
Who might have
Victimized a few!”
Blood is thicker
Than water
Thus about
Genocide victims
Why should
I bother?
By defector as
I’m also
A victimizer.
I forgot
I’ve to seek
A scapegoat,
Though it was
The junta
Who released thugs
And cut throats
Before defeat
So that
They could
Run amok
To wreak havoc
**** & looting—
I will dish out stories
In order hints not
To the gun the smoke!
If handsomely paid
Some media outlets
Could reverse the talk.
Feb 11, 2021
Feb 11, 2021 at 11:09 AM UTC
The many highways and varied roads we travel each day
are lined with much danger and pent up rage.
A sense of anger that is a constant potential time bomb
just waiting to go off.
Many paths are taken at every moment of our lives.
Some roads are quiet, surrounded by solitary vegetation,
some roads are long drawn and monotonous, coaxing you
to fall asleep at the wheel.
Still, others are surrounded by dread and danger on
either side...here, safety is a seldom seen luxury.
TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK...
LISTEN TO THE EERIE BEATING
OF THE CLOCK!
You have only to watch your daily news to witness
countless examples of a festering that every day,
in different ways, just boils over to a culminating
point where both victim and victimizer take a
proverbial bullet.
Children killing children, mama's selling themselves
to feed one or more 'juniors', daddy...where is
daddy in most cases?
TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK...
LISTEN TO THE EERIE BEATING
OF THE CLOCK!
These pathways and roads on life's highways are
littered with our minute to minute decisions and
bring equal consequence at every turn.
Many times the challenge becomes exiting any
number of one way streets where hate and
collective fury reside, and finding passage to the
expressway leading to boulevards of understanding,
compassion and an enlightened view of our
fellow commuters.
TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK...
LISTEN TO THAT EERIE BEATING
OF THE CLOCK!
Soon...very soon...this world; our world, the only
one we've got...will implode then explode then ball
itself up into a fetal position, and finally drink its
own bitter, fallout tainted tears as each last
survivor...remembers...what once was...
TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK...
LISTEN TO THAT EERIE BEATING
OF THE CLOCK!
I'm afraid...YOUR TIME IS UP!!!
-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 6:20 PM UTC
I’m sorry you feel the way you do
And I hope you suffer greatly
More rather, I hope your friends suffer
For what they did to us, what they did to me
And I only wish this upon you
So you and your friends will understand
The pain I have to deal with and conceal everyday
You are such a victimizer,
But you are not the victim here; I am
Stop trying to say you are
It’s not all about you
This time, it’s all about me
And how poorly I was treated and the damage that can’t be undone
How the loose lying mouths of your friends
Influenced you into becoming something you’re not
Easily influenced means you have a weak WILL
Weak WILL means weak mind
Weak mind means poor impulse control
And you my friend, have all of the above
But I love you anyway
May 16, 2011
May 16, 2011 at 5:03 PM UTC
When can I feel like the victim
And only the victim
I can't be a victim and victimzer
At the same time
It sends me into a spiral
Of only accepting what you say
Is the truth
Aug 31, 2019
Aug 31, 2019 at 2:01 AM UTC
Her intentions are as clear as fog and her kiss as soft as stone.
Her words set the air on fire and her eyes pierce bleeding hearts.
Her hands hold no future and her feet have traveled no past.
Her hair covers my bloodshot stare and her frame never lasts.
Is she wounded or is she a witch, does she hurt or does she hit?
Is she vulnerable or is she a victimizer, does she cry or does she care less?
Her number has found my phone at ungodly hours, and my fingers have tasted her... sour.
Her address has always escaped me, and her best has tried to replace me.
Yet there are no buts, only simple worthwhile regrets.
Nothing half hearted, only heart stopping all-in bets.
Her intentions are as clear as fog, so I take caution haphazardly.
Her kiss is as soft as stone, so I cradle this kiss fearlessly.
Her hands hold no future, so in my hands I hold time for her.
Her feet have traveled no past, so my feet, this journey, they shall endure.
Her hair covers my bloodshot stare, so I bleed blindly.
Her frame never lasts, so I remember it fondly.
She is a wounded witch with no spell to save her.
She hurt while hitting back at this failed familiar.
She is a vulnerable victimizer of countless victimless crimes.
She is a careless crier when she hears tragic romantic rhymes.
Her number has found my phone at the darkest of my hours.
As I fight slay dragons and climb towers.
I've tasted her bittersweet sour fingertips.
Escaped with only seconds to spare.
Replaced hope with bottomless pits.
Leapt without wings, crashing without burdens to bear.
How could I forget that her words set the air on fire?
Only breathing in when death is the desire.
She is not my half-hearted pity bet.
But simply my worthwhile life-long regret.
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 4:08 AM UTC