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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
Spenser Bennett 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 Hell 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.
Joanna May 10
Thrown off course by a wild storm, circling but never finding the runway.

Hit by crossfire and bob-wire life’s complexities rise, rainbows disappear.

With no time to get warm one could lose out on all that matters in a flash fire.

With no notice, another goes astray till love comes 'to melt' this glacier within.

Light brings an awareness of the might of been and then removes them with real communication between friends.
To read more of my writings go to:
Amanda Noel Jul 29
I shifted through the river,
shaded by the trees.

The waving streams
move in rhythm
with the leaves,

creating a serene
Humble peace.

With wings
that carry
notes to sing,

I float through
this river's stream.
Lucia C Mar 14
My head is full with toughts
                                      of you,
Your touch I feel it still,
                       your kisses too.
I wish that all would stay
                                   like this.
Not more, not less, just simple
Joanna May 11
Walking along a quiet beach... I saw sailboats and seagulls reach, unknown heights and secret dreams.

Unlike people or so it would seem.

I watched them both until I could no longer see; the birds above and the boats below.  

Moving on, I saw eagles taking flight as the day slipped into night.

Leaving me standing at the shore, I saw me standing at an open door.
To read more of my writings go to:
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 stupid!

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
If you’d like me to,
I would change my world view,
I’d lift back up the veil,
And learn to see in Braille,
I would cut out my tongue
And leave some songs unsung,
I’d go to bed at a reasonable hour
And adopt some face that isn’t sour,
I’d work a nine to five like the best of them
Till the lights inside go dim,
Get a little overtime,
Follow the established paradigm,
It’s not so big a deal,
So I will make no appeal,
I’ll put on a suit and tie
And wait my turn to die.
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