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Helena Feb 2013
Nobody respects a liar.

I just want to know if they chose, or just learned to cool down quicker than me.

Im not learning anything about

the riddles I gave myself years ago.

Cardboard sleeves and my truth explodes

When I fall like the last leaf.

What is one thing I have always been?

I have always been an apologist.

What else?

because everyone, you already know that.

I hate female vocalists. unless they sound like they cant stand themselves.

Unless they sound as disinterested in their own voice as I am in mine, I cant stand them.

I only respect female singers who play their own **** instruments.

And I will never have the guts to ask if you're wearing your heart on your sleeve

Or if it's just me and my wearing my heart as my sleeve.

Sometime ago I asked myself if I could see ahead, and I laughed, and hit my ****.

Ive suffered,

and Ive sang it off.

Even when I couldnt sing a note to save my pathetic life.

No one respects a liar.

im not a liar.

Im not different at all.

In fact, im exactly what I've been grown around.

Im half alive and I'm nothing but sacrifice and I feel worthy when my worth is measured in something else.


There is not one thing I can stand less than people who do not underdstand their own language.

for gods sake, it's they're, not there. it's here. not heir. it's i BEFORE e.

but im a hypocrite,

because half the time...most the time i dont capitalize any I's that i'm using to explain about myself.


i think it's because it's not worth the stretch to hit the shift bar.

for myself I'm lazy.

I have an eleven key hand span on the piano, and i cannot even type properly.

thats an octave and a half almost.

I was born to be a woman that pays her taxes and has a checking account.

And a four door sedan with two carseats.

And a ring around my finger, a two bedroom house and bedtime stories all over the bookshelves.

I want to teach my partner how to play the ukulele,

i want to show my children that faith is real,

even if god isnt.

I want a family that will have me for the rest of their lives,

through good or bad.

Through tradgedy, illness,

thinness, gain, loss, stress, sobriety,

through debt and through retirement.

I was made to give,

and I feel selfish for writing this.

Because its all about me.

I want to give myself to something.

I want to be the best fiance I can be.

I want to be the best student I can be.

The best daughter.

The best owner to my pets.

The best aunt, neice, cousin.

I want to the best wife

and mother I can be.







I'm not lying.
Nicole Oct 2016
We were never a fan of dialogues.

At the other end of the street I would watch her

Each Monday, carrying a new book every time.

I didn't like to read.

I preferred music, in my opinion
Was the equivalent of a book
Each telling a story.

The cup of coffee in my hand felt as warm as my heart
As I blew the hot liquid from the brim of the cup

And take a picture of her with the smoke that frames her body.

I wrote short poems of how captivating her beauty was
On the greasy table napkins provided for the coffee tables

Producing a different piece each time.

Her mouth would move as she read the words,
Mumbling lines of incoherent sentences I could not decipher.

At times I would see a smile break out on her face
And I would find myself consumed in slight envy.
Would she have smiled at the words I've written for her?

She was a song, I was a poem.

She was first written on smooth paper,
A thoughtless idea jotted in messy handwriting
Soon expanding into a verse and chorus
Written over and over again,
Revised by experts, reviewed until perfection,

Interpreted by bassists, guitarists, drummers, and vocalists
Appreciated repeatedly through the stereos of listeners
As they capture each beat and tempo.
She was flawless.

I was a poem.

I was rewritten in a single document copy
Renamed and revised
From the greasy fingers tapping away on keyboards
Typed and deleted,
Typed and deleted.

Frustrating the writer as they could never get an idea out of me
Leaving me in a file hidden in the folders of an old computer
Unfinished and waiting to be opened.

I was a mess in unorganized stanzas of ideas,

Lines which no one will have the audacity to read,

A waste of time,
Flawed.

She was the perfection in every imperfection
An artwork that you could only love through the eyes.
A piece which I
Wanted in my own.
I watched her again silently and wondered
Is it possible to love someone you've only admired from afar?
She was the artwork you could only love through the eyes.
( Emperor Menilik II)

An enemy
That covets
Your land, your
Gold-bestowed
Natural wealth
And your wife
Creating a strife
Stripping you of
Your liberty
And identity
Is all out
To mar your life!

This blatant aggression
Standing together
It is better we deter.

So, if intentionally
Or otherwise
On you, if
I might
Have posed
A grievance
To date,
I ask apology
Let us bury
The hatchet.

Among us,
An axe to grind
For a divisive wedge
An enemy cruel & wild
Must not find.

Thus, while
In full command
Of your health
If you fail
To march
To the front
I will take that
To the dignity of
Our sovereign nation
And me
An affront.

I swear to God
I swear to God
Up on return
There is
No restraint
My anger
My punitive
Measures against
Such malingers
Back to hold.

Of course,
We need
The prayer
Of the feeble
And the old,
The heavily-armed
Invading army
When we fight
Supper bold.

I assure you
By the grace
Of God
Victory for us
Is what
The future hold.

(The Chief of the provision wing)

Women of the nation
Pull your sleeves;
As provision
Dry food—
Roasted chickpeas
Roasted peas
Dry meat—
If you prepare
It will be good.
Also to boost
Immunity in
The original way
Prepare and ready
Garlic, red chili
And ginger
In a form of
A powder.

(The principal of transport)

Array pack animals
Provisions to transport
From every corner
Of the nation,
The palace
To the battlefront.
S/he who has
A horse or a mule
Must come along
With some hays
For its fuel.

(The master of musicians)

Take on board
Musical instrumentalists
Vocalists, who
War songs that chant
About victory
At hand not hesitant.

(Traditional Health Professionals)

Also take aboard
Women, herbalists
That will nurse
The wounded
Back into shape
Also the recuperating
To fight back
Who help.

(The logistic head)

Our resource gap to fill
While in the battle mill
We have to take along
Bullet swaggers
Ammunition repairers.
Utilizing such skill
Would allow us
With limited resource
More troops to ****.
This way
The cavalry
And infantry
Will fight
About logistic
With little worry.

(Menilik II)

Let us march
Let us march
To the place of
Showdown
To write
Golden history
Like Golead & David
That has no match!

Let us be
A standard bearer
If united
Freedom fighters
Could a giant enemy
Like Goliad deter.

On my sword
I have engraved
Menilik’s power
Is Almighty God
So behold
Those who pick
Against the peaceful
A sword
Will perish by
The sword.

About colonization
As I earlier grabbed
The import
I had accessed
Enough arsenal
Via the port.
If divide & conquer
Is their aim
With Ethiopians’
Oneness &unity
I will foil
Their game
They will have
Themselves to blame.

In the meantime
King Aba Jifar
Taking over inland
Maladministration, disorder
Will bar
In such a way
Ethiopians’ chemistry
Will be heard
Wide and far.///
Prior to the battle of Adwa
Chris Apr 2010
The singer sat in silence
The drummer ceased to drum
Keyboard fingers played no more
Musician faces glum
Tired bass player hangs his head
The vocalists are dumb
Art and Lutherie is dead
Only harmony now heard
Blind feedback in my head.
8 June 1997  - The day my Art and Lutherie guitar broke
Poetic T Nov 2015
Chorus of the dead sing soulfully
Death falls on deaf ears woefully

Songs of the dammed do chime
Words spelling out in infinite rhyme

Spirits cling swaying upon deaths tone
Each soul is devoured another seed sown

Vocalists consume and agonies pains heard
Prices are paid sinful deeds goes incurred
Francie Lynch May 2017
There oughta be another option,
A different route to take.
Alternate realities are limited,
The receptors are collapsing in.
Actors are computer generated,
Vocalists are lip synching,
Wood's not wood,
The bellfry is a facade,
And my chicken dinner didn't hatch.
My clothes are made of oil,
My veggies grow indoors,
I'm drinking chlorine and fluoride,
Bottled water isn't wet.
What I see's not what I get.
Yes or no simply won't do.
My tires aren't rubber, I'm laying slicks,
Shakespeare's off the curriculum.
That's not the face you had last week,
Nor the body you've long borne.
Gimme some old fashioned ice-cream.
They're laying oil lines,
Clear-cutting my life line,
Soon landing us on Mars.
Yes or no won't do.
***** a fence around our world,
We're living in a zoo.
j carroll Aug 2013
i miss you with an urgency that demands attention during even the most mundane of daily activities.
you are among the leafy greens in the grocery store
and between the cracks in the pavement
you waft from my morning coffee and
carry the one in my checkbook
i miss you in a way that permits me to only express my guts in tired cliches and saccharine ballads from a decade before i was born.
you are in affected vocalists crooning
and far less temperate than a summer's day
sometimes i ponder embarrassingly earnestly
what you'd think about This Specific Cloud
i miss you so intensely that i seize each moment because i can't fathom more than one day between seeing you next.
i'm sorry you bleed through in latin
when i'm disgusted and pathetic
but maybe you are the imprint of where
another universe bumped against mine

i come to you shedding dignity and pretense to tell you i miss you ardently, vehemently, rabidly.

please keep me.
Celeste Jul 2015
im stuck between what my mind and heart wants
nothing seems to be in its right place
or maybe im just never meant to be anywhere that i happen to be
my mind is always caressed by clouds and burned by the vocalists of the earth
words are as scorching as the rays of the sun and my writs are itching once again

and im scared im scared im scared this world is not for me
Tafuta Atarashī Aug 2017
Tonight
I want first to explicate
and delve into the many ways
that I will love you
through ever so many days.
And afterwards to situate
the softest, and warmest touch
of lips like a painters wet brush
onto new canvas.
To seep into you like
a vocalists voice into new lyric.
To flow with you akin
a dancer gliding through the motions
of a grand romance, an
oeuvre cowritten by you and I
performed through the night.
oeu·vre
noun
the works of a painter, composer, or author regarded collectively.

De la Nuit
Of the Night
Olivia Kent Oct 2014
Into my coffee cup, I stare deep.
In retrospective thoughts.
Seeking a sermon of belligerence, delivered by a pauper from a pulpit.
I leaned over the font in the the fair weather church.
Splashed my face with water most holy.
I hope nobody saw me.

I read from the the white board the words of the hymns.
All I could see was poetry.
In deep contemplation,
Sat in a world of coffee cups and societal dregs.
Listened to the vocalists, as they sang out of tune.
The old ladies in Sunday best frocks and curt Sunday hats.
Fellas in crispy white suits with jackets and ties on.
There's a man my age maybe.
Each week drags his lads in reluctantly.
The vicar stands at the front.
His dog collar's too tight.
His voice is so hoarse someone get him a drink.

He's reeling the same spiel each week.
Week in, week out.
Preaches of parables and gospels entirely.
I think I'm falling asleep.
God help me...I need to stay awake.
Pass me another coffee please.
I never go to church x
NeroameeAlucard Jun 2015
Every rainstorm is a Symphony
really I'll name all of the parts
obviously the thunder is the percussion section
keeping rhythm at sporadic times
the raindrops on the streets and rooftops are hammering out the bass and melody lines
the howling wind is the vocalists all itching to amaze the crowd

The animals footsteps are applause scattered in awe at this odd beautiful composition
put together and arranged by nature
and performed by the stormy orchestra
That's why, every storm, at least to me
is one of nature's symphonies
Nature
Margo May Nov 2014
my constant corner
is at the back
on the elevated platform
next to the drums
where there is just enough room for
the drummer
and the bassist.
where there is just enough room for
the drummer
and me.

your normal nook
is at the front
of the regular stage
between the keys and electric
where there is plenty of space for
the vocalists and
the guitarists.
where there is plenty of space for
you.

it's as if we're separated
by a musical fence
we're never placed next to each other
because it just wouldn't make sense,
but i guess last wednesday
was the exception.

i arrived early and you were already there
you told me that we'd be next to each other, how rare!

we talked
we tuned
we plugged in
and very soon
we were playing music.

we ran through the set list
which consisted
of three songs,
we exchanged smiles
all the while
we kept the music going strong.

at one point
during the bridge
of song two,
you needed help with the chords
and it was really loud
so i leaned in close to you.

i yelled the note names
as my fiery fingers played through
the progression,
your eyes said it all
and deciding to fake it
was your confession.

later on-
i continued to help with chords
you kept me from being bored
you smiled at me
when we
returned to that bridge.

at the end-
to the stage our team returned
and that is when i learned
as the pastor closed in prayer
that maybe you do care...

looking at me
you held your arm out
wanting me to join you at your side.

and so i did.
memories at church with my best friend <3
jeffrey conyers Aug 2016
Salute them.
Respect them.
For they most sworn protectors from the criminals.

They show up.
Sometimes, mainly out numbered.
Dealing with so call tough guys that placed themselves there.

See them cry, beg and talk a good games.
To various mothers, wives and lovers that makes you wonder about their brains.

They deal with grievances been alleged.
Deal with family's members , now trying to protect their child more than when they had freedom.

Deal , with lawsuits from opportunist lawyers ready at the jump o assist them.
Some of the best wealthy folks are living in prisons from lawsuits.

Correctional officers, the vocalists with skills.
No guns, just voice.
But weapons exist if need to be used to gain control.

******, robbers, thieves and more.
All correctional officers see them all.
And yes, some are not the best.

Then even they eventually get arrested.

Respect them that protects you daily behind the walls of prison.
Anais Vionet Oct 16
We’re on October break, which is a 6-day weekend. For the last two weeks, everyone’s been making plans.
“What do you think of Cancún?” Sunny’d asked me.
“The only people going to Mexico are on the cheap or trapped in a trunk.” I’d answered.

After two weeks of weighing every conceivable terrestrial destination, amenities and available attractions, we (there’s six of us suitemates - Sunny, Lisa, Leong, Anna, Sophy and I) settled on good old Manhattan, where you’ll find us in adjoining-suites atop the Plaza hotel (thanks, Grandmère).

Things went CrA-CrA (crazy with a capital K) right off the bat. Sunny, as it turns out, KNOWS people here, and we decided to ‘walk on the wild side’ for one or two nights and check out a few fem-facing clubs. Now I know how sensitive we all are about pronouns, and what-not, but I’m going to try to simplify for a broad audience. These are lesbian clubs.

One thing I like about Music is sharing it with friends. Communities have always formed around art in whatever form. There are book clubs, film societies, Trekkies, Swifties and apparently, wild-*** lesbian dance clubs.

On our first night in Manhattan, the sun had barely set when Sunny said, “Ok then, let’s go!” And off we went to a “Femmquerade Ball”. I think that’s a combo of ‘feminine, queer and masquerade.’ She’d told us beforehand what to wear, “Take sweatshirts, those will come off - it gets hot in there - otherwise t-shirts, jeans and ballet flats - no purses.”

You know, I thought punk music was dead, ideating its death somewhere in the 90s. I was wrong, it’s ALIVE.
You know, when everyone’s feelin’ it, when two hundred people are rocking as one, club-life is transcendent. The club vibe was interesting too, there was a safety and freedom to it. You're in a crowded club, somehow without the limitations of the banal male gaze, with its sexist expectations. I don’t know how else to describe it.

I don’t think music has to have a message to earn its place as art. Folk romance music’s ok, jazz has its reach, opera is still happening and of course there’s regular dance music - cause sometimes, you’ve just gotta jiggle it.

That being said, there’s a saying that “Punk is truth” and that comes from its rawness and authenticity.
Punk has a ‘low barrier of entry’, as the academics say. It’s a game anyone can play. Punk isn’t autotuned, the bands use second-hand guitars, there are no synthesizers, the speaker stacks were shared, the vocalists lacked training, and I’d guess that none of the players were burdened with unpaid Juilliard tuition.

Punk’s always been outsider art, a scream along, you can’t go wrong, fire and every punk song is a garage invitation to joyously rage. As we drove to the club, Sunny had said, “Think of punk as dance music without inhibitions. It's straightforward and unapologetically for the people who can’t bother to keep to the dance steps and aren’t above getting in each other’s precious space.” Every word of that was true.

Punk lyrics are about the problems and issues of real-world people. It’s a roll call, a manifesto, implicit and explicit in stylish screaming. I’ve always called it scream-0. The point being, that while the rest of the world is restrained, heteronormative and reduced to a corporate gray backdrop, there’s still room for comradery, agency, outrage, pumpkin-Jello-shots (@ $16 each) and a bit of winking fun.

We DID have fun but I’ve been hoarse all day today. As we’d climbed into the car, last night, for the ride back to the Plaza, Mr. & Mrs Charles pointedly removed ear plugs from their ears - the kind they give to airport workers who work around jet engines all day. Charles laughed and said something, but I couldn’t hear him.
My ears were still ringing.
.
.
Songs for this
Rebel Girl by Bikini ****
Hash Pipe by Weezer
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge: 10/13/24
Ideate = form an idea about something

Our cast…
My Yale suitemates: Sunny (Nebraska), Leong (Macao, China), Lisa (Manhattan), Anna (Oregon), Sophy (CA) and I (GA). The Charleses = Charles, my long-time escort (a retired NYPD cop) and his wife, Chynthia.
Grandmère = my Grandmother.
Fionn Feb 20
The 50% floating out in the G column somewhere
it’s waiting for me to put it down and place it
I’m not 50% but I’m gagging at the numbers, so many
This clanging piano is making me feel like I’m in the midwest, definitely
indefinitely, do you think I could spend the rest of my life away from the sea, next to Canada
in the cold-slowly-warming?  
I could move to Duluth.
in 2010,
I was five
I didn’t know about Alex G,
I didn’t know about anything but the way the swing in the cherry tree made me feel,
trapped and small
(I’m hopping around lines
but not reading them once I write them)
yeah I could go across the country
yeah I could walk for awhile
yeah I probably couldn’t tell if I liked a boy
or tell him I like him
yeah I think acoustic guitarists and emo vocalists and edgy, chainsmoking guys
get It.
whatever It is (and doesn’t everyone! feel that way too)
and my teapot smells like plastic when it boils
and it doesn’t whistle
and I chewed all the gum I bought yesterday and
my mom’s name is Alex, too and
my face is puffy, round, just soft skin folding in on itself for eternity,
soft hanging skin stuck to me, and recently, I've been thinking 'everything’s fused it couldn’t rip apart
without dragging the rest of it with itself--
My family’s in new hampshire and they miss me. 
my family drove to new hampshire with my sister and they are a family
four years apart (without me).
I don’t know if I miss them right now and
this coding project makes me feel like
V-sauce or a conspiracy theorist
or something awfully STEM-y and it scares me
and it makes me awfully happy too.
i hope everyone majors in what they want to and that they love it
and they feel glad when they have that degree
and we’re gonna be twenty-two in May
some people will be twenty-three
and last night, Vik said she’s glad I’m awesome and I told her
awesome is a strong word, I don't know about that,
awesome is a big word
and we laughed about it.

— The End —