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Bison Dec 2016
You left without a word
While I was gone about the world
and I came home a little empty
But your house was built within me
Now the fires gone out
The lights have faded
The paint is peeling
And the mountains only made me feel jaded

It's a long time coming
And I'm not done running
Maybe some day we'll see
Same page, but never the same leaf
I got caught up in the everyday
And you stood watching me watching myself waste away

Come down from that hill

Walk with me, like we used to do
Little shops on ninth, not the same
Like tripping acid without the view
I wonder if Wonder can do without you
You burn more than green and California thrills
I learned more things about that Thing and pâli, chill

Rain, rain, stains my shoes, but that don't mean nothing,
when there's nothing to do,
but watch talking horses and hide from the blues in the living room,
with the anxiety building until **** is almost all you,
and I don't know what to do,
but I wouldn't trade the view for heaven, cuz if I've seen heaven,
I prefer you
Terry O'Leary Jul 2015
The dawn unfolds beyond my fractured windowpane
and breezes tease while drapes, like serpents, slip aside
exposing worlds that race and run aground, insane,
displaying scenes obscene that savants strive to mask and hide.

Outside, the streets are stark (last night they seemed so cruel
when demons danced as lanterns 'lumed the lynching tree -
its shadow shuddered, lurking in my vestibule -
within the night, I sense these things I sometimes cannot see).

Perdu in darkened doorways (those which watch the ones that weep)
men hide their shame in crevices in search of cloaked relief.
The ladies of the evening leave (their time to sleep!)
the alleyways, retaining bitter tastes of untold grief.

Soon drifters (distraught dregs that stray from street to street)
abandon benches, squat on curbstones some call home,
appeal to strangers for a coin or simple bite to eat -
refused… gaze down… left empty-handed in the morning gloam.

Observe with me, beyond my fractured windowpane,
the boy with crooked smile - the one who's seen the  beast -
with tears, he stoops and clasps the cross while wiping off the stain -
the abbey door along the lane conceals a pious priest.

While at the mall, Mike sees some cigs, and stealth'ly steals a pack;
the Man, observing, thinks ‘Hey Boy, this caper calls for blood’,
takes aim, then shoots the fated stripling eight times in the back.
Come, mourn for Mike and brother Justice, facedown in the mud.

Fatigued and bored, some kids harass the alley now -
to pass the time, Joe smokes a joint and Lizzy snorts a line;
computer games (which quake with doom) can help somehow,
so Eric plays with Dylan on the road to Columbine.

The shanty towns have hunkered down as if in mortal sport
while broken bodies' shattered bones repose supine,
and mamas (now bereft of child) in anguished pain contort,
their eyes drip drops of wrath which wither on a twisted vine.

Now Mr Baxter, private bankster (cruising down the road,
pursuing profit pushers, waving magic mushroom wands),
adores addiction to the bailout (coffers overflowed)
and jests with all the junkies, while he's dealing with the bonds.

Marauders man the marketplace (with billions guaranteed)  
while kids with swollen bellies beg neath hollow sunken eyes,
and (cut to naught) the down-and-out (like trodden beet roots) bleed.
Life's carousel invites us all, though few can ring the prize.

A washerwoman, timeworn, totters from the tram -
she shuffles to her hovel on a lonesome distant hill,
despondent, shuts the shutters, downs her final dram -
a magpie quickly picks at crumbs forsaken on the sill.

Jihadist and Crusader warders faithfully guard the gates,
behead impious infidels, else burn them at the stake
(yes, God incites each side for good, the other side He hates),
with saintly satisfaction gained provoking pagan ache.

The watchers pry behind our fractured windowpanes
inspect us all, tear down the walls of privacy
controlling every point of view opinion entertains,
forbidding thoughts one mustn't think, with which they don’t agree.

Come, cast a furtive glance… there's something in the far…
from towns to dunes in deserts dry, the welkin belches sudden death
by dint of soulless drones that stalk beneath a straying star
erasing life in random ways in freedom’s final breath.

But closer lies an island, where the keepers keep the wards.
No sense, no charges nor defense - a verdict? Yes! … grotesque -
the guiltless gush confessions, born and bred on waterboards.
Impartial trials? A travesty instead, indeed quite Kafkaesque.

Now dusk draws near beyond my fractured windowpane
while mankind drowns like burnt-out suns in fading lurid light;
and scarlet clots of grim deceit and ebon beads of bane
flow, deified, within the rotting corpse of human night.
Chris Neilson Sep 2016
Stopping to write words is my impulsive habit
as hopping grey squirrels cross paths with a wild rabbit

Hedge and tree sparrows creating their fun
tweeting feathered friends under a rising sun

Goats and rowing boats resting by a shady tree
donkey rides advertised that don't come for free

Mother feeding baby upon a tartan rug
a passing loved up couple sharing a hug

Ear flicking deer romping up then down
full leafed green trees turning to brown

For who knows a bell tolls at midday
not for a slight slumbering pony anyway

Passing a multicultural horticultural area
spotting an alpaca who's growing hairier

A soaking Labrador emerges from a small lake
brushing my bare lower leg in its wake

Sitting on a bench dedicated to a lost loved one
taking in the views he loved before he was gone

A picture may paint a thousand words long
but poetry captures succinctly September birdsong
It's my fortune to live close to one of the largest municipal parks in Europe (Heaton Park), this is my account of a stroll through there this unseasonably warm September day.
Angelina Aug 2016
Right now, as we speak, there's a little boy, aged five
Pushed aside on the corner of his mat, where he naps
His fingers are clenched onto shredded crumbs of bread
He managed to get his hands on this morning despite his mother's constant nags
About having to save the last few bits for his new born sister  
Ashes and rubble are his best friends ever since he can remember
Disturbance aches him no more
For everything he's ever known are dents  
He wouldn't know what the other side of the rainbow looks like, let alone both
For he's never encountered a rainbow during his yelps of pain
Pressure, abundance of destruction, humiliation
His innocent weeps never reach aid
He is now used to it
No more room to present emotion
For everything he's encountered will forever be frozen in time
He wouldn't know what peace is, ever
For contrarily that would be foreign to him
Therefore, somewhere in this world, silence takes over
This little boy whose whole life has been built on lies and disruption
Brian McDonagh May 2018
Me: “Father, I think I would like to pray my own way.”
Priest: “Ha okay (sarcasm), whatever you say, Brian.”
(Priest continues about in ignorance of commentary)
Priest (beginning Vespers): “O God, come to my assistance…”
Me: (beginning Whispers) "O ****, here we go again..."
(Grudgingly submits)
I have always wanted to be different in spirituality, but when I have to coordinate myself to meditate like everyone else, I feel "un-special" (if that makes sense...again, not trying to offend, thought).
Amy Leigh Sep 2013
The stars miss my tears      
and I their speckled wonder
spewed across dark wear 

© A. Leigh
Bullet Oct 2018
Passing out love
Eyes closed
Seeing the world
In a view of Red

Waking up dead
Eyes opened
Seeing the world
In a view of Blues

The way these people
Belittle the energy
That can bring peace
They have mixed feelings
Seeing the world
In view of Purple

Stripped of caring and worrying
Exchanged for depression and disguises
Running from a red loved past
To obtaining blues of the present mind
The world viewing in purple
But my eyes can no longer
Hold a hue
kyle dionysus Jun 2017
The reason I ran up a mountain awhile ago... I guess it was because I was frustrated and wanted to escape from my reality that day. I couldn't get you out of my head. It's funny how someone so small can weaken you so much. But after running up the mountain that day, I felt stronger, I felt at peace, I thought I became weak, but it seems that I was wrong. Since that day, running up mountains allowed me to think of you less, because it made me realize that you weren't the only beautiful view.
Thought I knew heartbreak
Thought I knew loss
Everything I knew
Became new
After meeting you

People people
                         they go around like pigs
                         showcasing their fancy suits
                         proclamating the biggest trend

Jewelry, then food, then them big fast automobiles

Those are the priorities by order

Getting greedy
Getting fat
Gettin' Gettin' GETTIN'
                                 In a monstruous ball of meat!
                                 With a monstruous will of plastic!
                                 Monstruously ******!

I'm­ gettin' tired
But I'm afraid,
They are just getting started.
august 17, 2017
3:31 a.m.
Xyrrio Sep 2016
He is asked this but only a bitter laugh will escape his lips,
The boy does not mock you he has no interest in all of this,
Falling for many and loosing so much it just appears to be a loss of ones clutch.
Terrible with connections and expressing his feelings the numbness within could only be so chilling,
Though somewhere through the scowl along his features,
Lies something that could cast away all these **** demeaning creatures,
A faint thumping of ones wild heart dulled with isolation,
Perhaps one more love could be his only inspiration?
Written by Vincent
PoserPersona Jul 2018
Idly stationed in the bucolic hills,
sits a stone well; unknown when abandoned.
Though her people foregone, water yet fills
as much as you can want for. In tandem,
are high trees less old than she; occluding
the view from pathless and naive strangers.
As their wish in well is to keep obtuse,
those that siren would otherwise capture.
Her drink, one thinks they'll constantly receive.
In reality, they'll only be taken.
Youth will fade as the heart minutely bleeds.
Their hollow, dried corpse will be forsaken.
And though her hole but a tall dark crevice,
I see my reflection on the surface.
Jenna Mar 12
Colors have meanings
yet, I cannot understand this one
This color gives of a hint of freshness,
new beginnings in one's life
A warmth spread so thin
it reflects upon us during the day

Everyone is surrounded by it
Yet, this color is most peculiar
Why does it exist to humans?
Nothing is felt from it
It is only described
to the nature that provides it

If anything it makes me feel disturbed
it glares at you, like it's judging
Most food that rots or molds,
turns this color first
Yet, this color is defined as
vibrant, relaxing, and summer
Can anyone guess this color?
Asante' Mar 8
Standing all alone in front of twisted mirrors
Viewing versions of myself I’ve never seen before
The more I try to run the more I run into them
Will I ever find a way to reach the exit door?
pk tunuri Mar 2018
You really want to make it upto me?
You better be sorry and let it be!

I've every right to be mad at you
You've made me cry every night, you got no clue

I regret every minute, I cared for you
I can't imagine what were you expecting me to do

All that mattered is your own point of view
You didn't even bother to ask me if it was true

If You really want to make it upto me
You better be sorry and let it be
when people hurt you and if they ever try to make it up to you, tell them what have you suffered and ask them to let it be because by then you should've learned being without them and must not allow them to take away your happiness once again.
Mark Penfold Nov 2018
In times of need,
When **** I read,
I patient sit,
I think of it ,
My teeth I grit,
And bit by bit,
I overcome,
From mind to ***,
And think of you,
My stubborn poo,
From whence you came,
My Waterloo.
Debbie Lydon Mar 8
Silhouette stranger's scattered lights,
In hand me down houses and council flat nights,
In not being known, a private delight,
But as a bird in it's cage, it's sad, out of sight.

The smell of disdain in the pouring rain,
Becoming ever more potent as it falls again.
The bitter-sweet pain of elusive strife,
I'm swiftly sketching a stagnant life.

Tomorrow's demands stretch out their hands,
Trenching my feet in these old sands.
Night's ink comes back to blot the Sun's ray,
Oh, you cruel architect of my new day.

Attire of lowly and shy grey,
No longer will I clothe my body in your cliché.
Passion is still burning in my paralysed soul,
I need not your stability to make me whole.
Bullet Nov 2018
Place me seated with a placemat
Waters on both sides spring
Conversations of leaves fallen
Color separated between the lines

The way women n' men view
Didn't want anything on the menu
Spilt Motz sticks n' fries
Paid Plate $7.88

Birthday had to tell you ways
Things like not everything is okay
Head space is telling everyone is against me
Had to bring you on a filtered level

Room full of people
Chilling at Denny's
Judge for a shared plate
But thoughts only hit the door
When you point at something you don't get

Judgement try to enclose your mind
Night try to eclipse me from time
Was judge for sharing a plate of food at Denny's made me look at life like not everything we do is okay or set at a certain kind of standard.
English Jam Mar 2018
My golden years are a retrospective view
Doubtful, not sure, might be a last dance
One day I was gum-chewing with my Batman yo yo
Now my soul is rubber, and it leaks on the outside
Faded away from the youthful days
Once giddy pleasure
Now it’s all so

The teen lifestyle washed over within seconds
Sure it’s fun to friends
Entertaining to have enemies
But the squabbles and meanders slow you down
The pitiful liars and desperate seekers
Worship through blasphemy whatever they care
Limbs don’t respond
Thoughts and actions don’t line up

You see it for what it truly is
You’re in danger
of maturing

Forgotten and dazed
Sitting in a broken armchair
It's difficult seeing through the fogginess
Finding the missing hours
Difficult on a drowse

...I work only weekdays (don't we all)...
...Fantastic gatherings on Sundays (family days)...
...Jimi Hendrix, he's good (bit of an understatement, mate)...
....He's the kind of guy I wish I could...

BJ Donovan Feb 13
Sitting in a rocker on the porch
I watch the comings and goings.
I see kids become gangsters.
Meat wagon drags them out.
Lots of folks from suburbia come by
looking for escape from their paradise.
We can all become addicts. Remember.
The magic fog is always in reach.
Live a life? Live a lie? Tough choices.
She made it to the top of the mountain took a deep breath and smiled

Thats when she finally decided to start living the life she deserves
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