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032116

Sumayad ang takong ng apat na kandidato
Hindi para mangalakal at maghain
ng kani-kaniyang plataporma.
Alay ang boses para sa nagkakalansingang masa,
Habang magbabanyera ng laway ng pananalita.
Tagisan, ika nga
Tahasang pagbubukambibig ng motibo sa bayang
May kinabukasan pa.

BINAYubay nga ba ang Pilipinas naming mahal?
Sa FOI na minsang itinapo'y ano ang tugon?
Hampas-lupa ba ang mga Pilipino
Para magbulag-bulagan
Sa binulsang kaban ng bayan?
Yang pambobola nyong haing 5Ps
Saan nga ba ang liderato ng ngiting may bungisngis?
At sa pagbaba ng tax, maibabalik nyo ba
Ang nasa bangko ninyong
May iba't ibang ngalan?
Sagot ba ang waivers at ilang kasulatan?
Kamusta naman ang assets nyo at liquidations?
Sana'y hindi maging makati ang mga kamay,
Gawin **** mala-Makati, wag lang ulitin ang pangangati.

Mala-Talk Back and You're Dead,
Yan ang peg ng kamandag ni Duterte.
Palabiro raw sya't matalas ang dila,
Bagkus ang masa'y panay ang tugon sa kamao niya.
Kamay na bakal, iyo bang ibabalik?
Sabik nga ba sa Death Penalty ang kinauukulan?
Sa posibleng anim na buwan ng iyong pag-upo,
Sana'y malinis ang minsang Tuwid raw na Daan.
Posible bang dahas ang kasagutan
Sa bayang talamak ang bayaran at tulakan?

Tila saulado mo ang bawat numero,
Ang galang mo Poe, nagmula nga ba sa pusong Pilipino?
Paano nga kung nagising kang
May alarma sa Bayan,
Babangon ka ba talaga't di kami tatalikuran?
Wag sanang gaya ng pagtapon mo
Sa Amerikang minsang naging bayan mo rin.
Paano mo babalansehin ang tulong
Ng malalaking korporasyon sayo?
Boto ba nila'y hindi mo binili?
Wala bang kapalit ang oo
Ng mga batikan at mayayamang negosyante?

MARami ka nang satsat sa Daang Matuwid na yan,
Talamak na rin ang paghuhugas-kamay
Para sa patapos nang administrasyon.
Ba't nga ba panay ang pag-eendorso mo
Sa sarili't tila baga sayo nanggaling ang pondo noong Yolanda.
Naroon ka nga't ika'y ligaw at wala raw tugon,
Ano itong alarma mo raw
Pag nandyan lamang ang kamera.
Wala bang tiwala sayo si PNoy?
At tinago pa sayo ang nauukol sa mamasapano?
Kamusta po ang pag-endorso ng Pangulo sayo?
Sana'y inasikaso niya na lang
Ang nahuhuling termino.

Marami na po kayong mga pangako,
Naawa nga kami sa Translator
Pagkat gulung-gulo rin siya
Sa pag-aagawan ng oras at mikropono.

Magandang ideya ang naganap na mga Debate,
Pagkat nauntog ang Bayan,
Nagigising aming diwa't magigisa ang tamang boto.
Ang boto ng bawat Juan,
Para yan sa Bayan.
Sana'y matiyak po nating
Wala nga tayong kinikilangan
Maliban sa malinis na eleksyon.

Tayo ang simula, kapwa ko mga Juan!
Maging wais tayo!
Makialam para sa Bayan!
Gising Pilipinas!

"Alab ng puso,
Sa dibdib ko'y buhay!"
- Lupang Hinirang
baygls 4 lyfe Sep 2014
Like the bike you bought after saving lawn-mowing money for a year, welfare reform was the prized trophy of the conservative governing philosophy. We believed that we'd found the vehicle of social mobility for poor Americans, once and for all. No one should live on taxpayer money without doing some work on their own, right? Everyone agrees, right?

Wrong. President Obama ran over our bicycle, issuing illegal waivers to welfare's work requirements and taking the wheels off the program. The fact is, we never won the welfare battle after all. Out of the 80 different federal welfare programs, the '96 welfare reform really only fixed one. A third of the U.S. population received benefits from one or more of these 80 programs in 2011. According to the Department of Agriculture, one program alone – food stamps – gave benefits to a record-breaking 47.7 million in the last month of 2012, benefits those millions didn't have to work to receive.

Rep. Paul Ryan recently said it's time to use the 1996 reform as a model to fix the rest of welfare. He's right, for at least five compelling reasons.

1. America's welfare programs are redundant and inefficient. As The Heritage Foundation's welfare expert Rachel Sheffield noted, there are at least 12 separate programs providing food aid, 12 funding social services, and 12 assisting education. Average benefits from all welfare programs are about $9,000 per recipient. If you converted those programs to cash, it would be more than five times the amount needed to raise every household above the poverty line. We should streamline redundant programs to save money while getting the same or better value.

2. Means-tested welfare programs are fiscally unsustainable. These cost nearly $1 trillion annually. By the end of the decade, welfare spending will rise from five percent to six percent of GDP. This means every taxpaying family would have to make, and then give up, over $100,000 in the next ten years – just to cover the cost of welfare spending.

Imagine this: If government spending were a pie, welfare would be a bigger slice than defense, education, or even social security. This isn't apple pie a la mode. It's poison-the-economy pie with a side of swamp-our-children-in-debt ice cream.

3. The welfare state encourages dependence instead of lifting people out of poverty. Poverty has actually increased with federal spending on anti-poverty programs. Adjusted for inflation, we've spent nearly $20 trillion total on “the war on poverty.” That's more than the combined price tag of all America's wars. Ever. From the American Revolution through Afghanistan, we've spent less than $7 trillion. These days, we spend 13 times what we spent on welfare in the 1960s. Guess what? In 1966, the share of the population living below the poverty threshold was 14.7%; by 2011, that share rose to 15.0%.

This spending gives people significant incentives to stay on welfare. According to the Senate Budget Committee, if you break down welfare spending per household in poverty, recipients are making $30/hour. That's higher than the $25/hour median income – certainly more than what I make per hour.

4. Welfare dependence creates behavioral poverty. Perhaps President Franklin D. Roosevelt said it best: “Continued dependence upon relief induces a spiritual and moral disintegration fundamentally destructive to the national fibre. To dole out relief in this way is to administer a narcotic, a subtle destroyer of the human spirit.” To become comfortable relying on the work of others instead of your own work will change your character, and the character of the nation. Americans want to give everyone a helping hand, but hand-holding year after year, generation after generation, patronizes, corrodes, entraps. In the words of welfare policy experts Robert Rector and Jennifer Marshall writing in National Affairs:

Material poverty has been replaced by a far deeper “behavioral poverty” — a vicious cycle of ***** childbearing, social dysfunction, and welfare dependency in poor communities. Even as the welfare state has improved the material comfort of low-income Americans by transferring enormous financial resources to them, it has exacerbated these behavioral problems. The result has been the disintegration of the work ethic, family structure, and social fabric of large segments of the American population, which has in turn created a new dependency class.

Is this the America we want? It is not compassionate to leave a whole class of people in perpetual dependence. Behavioral poverty cuts off millions of citizens from a chance at American opportunity, destroying the virtues necessary to sustain oneself. My generation has seen the effects of behavioral poverty – in D.C., Detroit, or my hometown, Cleveland. Whole neighborhoods rot. To many, this cycle of dependence indicts the principles of American society as inherently unfair.

5. Work requirements promote individual responsibility and reduce poverty. Temporary Assistance for Needy Families (TANF) work requirements slashed welfare caseloads by nearly 60 percent. Poverty among all single mothers fell 30 percent. About 3 million fewer children lived in poverty in 2003 than in 1995.
Because I am not a lying sack of ****, I got my info from spectator.org
CloudedVision Jul 2018
There was a Panda in his room
Ready to fall asleep
He wrapped himself up
Hugged his bed
As he counted all his sheep

The sheep jumped by one by one
As he watched the setting sun
The moon would rise
Stars shine bright
As the night time had begun

He rests his head on his pillow
He lays there all alone
In the warmth of night he falls asleep
As he pays his daytime loan

His mind goes dim, as his dreams awake
And he's in a pitch black room
When in front of him a bubble forms
One the size of his head
Past him it begins to zoom

The Panda half walks half crawls to where the bubble lay
Afloat in the air
Suspended above
He raises his voice to speak for it to come
But when his mouth opens, he doesn't know what to say

The bubble sits there laying in wait
Waiting for him to reach
So the Panda puts up his outstretched arm
Reaching for what he thinks would give him great joy
But what he finds is alarm

As he reaches and touches the bubble
The bubble begins to shake
It waivers and pops and rains down debris
And yet he doesn't wake

The Panda looks down
With tear stained eye
He sees the puddle below
And to the bubble he waves good bye

In this puddle left by the bubble
He sees his reflection glow
He sees his face, his tear stained eye
He wants to be set free
But for this little Panda, waking up is slow
this poem is a reflection of me and how I feel.
nivek Jul 2014
Evening gathering all singing of their day at sea
sharing stories of plenty or fast
the abundance of fish or lack thereof

Seagulls at their roosting resting place on the shore
no cliffs close by
the beach good enough

Faith written into the DNA
brothers and sisters simpler lives
Trees Flowers Birds Animals

Direct permanent access to God
their faith never waivers
The children of God
Brycical Mar 2015
Muscles clench like knots on rope
prior to any wintry water droplets
dripping on my scarecrow frame.

There's a moment of cautious pause,
my mind waivers the rest of me--
uncomfortable with the atypical developments
insisting through western culture's handbook
bathing is meant to be relaxing.

I agree.

So after a thoughtful inhale
we dive in.
oo!
The siberian shock of the frigid liquid landing
on warm, pale-rose flesh
slowly erodes with an exhale...
My mercurial movements
and conscious unravelling of the constricting sinews  
offer a peppermint bliss-like salvation!
The chill fades,
water wanders down,
allowing my body to interact with the clear solution,
allowing myself to be and breathe with each cold moment
of wide-eyed cool-headed serenity.
I take cold showers quite frequently but this is the process almost every time.
Zenobia Dec 2009
When you discover the world around you
You also discover all within it

      Selfishness, Greed, Hatred, Infidelity, Abuse, Sickness, Waste,  Homelessness, and War

We bare witness to all these things
But selfishly ignore them,
In route to prospect of all these evil forces that misguides us

For better or worse
It scopes our daily lives with inconvient truth's
The mental or physical rightousness
That lies in the truth of disparage  
History of our actions will go noted
In the days and years that come about as such

You can not tell life what to do
You must surrender it all into the hands of God  
That he protects you from the shame, one must feel deep inside
Waivers us from all our faults and sin alike

Trust in the inner voice that speaks to you and believe
For God's truth is yours if you want it
Set your intentions to heal thyself and other's
Peace be still in you, with love for your sister and your brother

Or let your misguided judgement, and false preservations follow you into your own judgement to...Hell!


  
(upwc)  by: Zenobia Lee/LadyZ710        12/13/09
Damaré M Sep 2013
Where do thugs go?
Who do they run to? 
Where do they call home? 
Not a house that they go to, but a place where they feel belonged 
How do they cope with the scarcity of love? 

Thugs, not the kind that most women think they are attracted to; therefore, not the imposers
Not the kind who landed at the bottom of the hill, sliding from the top only to scrape off their rot 
Not the ones who were born with all the right people in their corners, but boxed them off while trying to fight to be someone that they are not 

Thugs, the ones who momma loves? Because he appreciates her worthiness, her works 
She's the only real love he ever had since birth 
Thugs; who can't really go places because trouble doubles 
It multiplies whenever he is with his guys 
Because they all know how it feel not to live under a roof 
Neither one of them have anything to lose 
His dudes are equal to himself cubed 
They rely on one another like proofs 
And they are radical from the roots 
Living in a negative atmosphere trying to multiply it by itself 
So that they can make it to where the grass is greener and the sun does shine 
The other side of the number line 
Where the gunfire and homicides are divided
And the dope is reduced 
All their lives they have been thinking that they are enduring the truth 
That they "cannot amount to nothing and cannot be put to use"

They are neck deep in the streets 
And the authorities is at their throats like a crew 
But nothing around them is cotton 
So when their fingers symbolizes a "V" they are only representing the place where they have to be 
And they are not weak, but sometimes they wishes that they can take off a week 

Black cats can't chase yarn
Mexicans don't have a specific day for casual dressing 
Asians don't get any waivers 
Cubans can't take less hours for a semester of schooling 
Haitians don't get vacations 

The **** life is given 
Difficult to make it
As it is to escape it 
It's hard to deal 
When all they know is reeling in deals 
To people who are saltier than Dill's 
While at the same time trying to act real... Kosher
Without a companion to share meals... How do they find closure?
Too busy being tyrannical 
Never learned how to be grammatical 
So **** just got "worser"
Interviewee for a job 
Or being suave to a child's mom
Besides their eyes,
Their oration is just exposure 
Not knowing their duration to exist on this surface 
Thugs need love 
It's hard to tell through his mean-mug 
But he's hurting
Darsshan Nair Feb 2021
Let us fall,
Fall into a satin-sheeted bed,
As our passions push us into an intertwine,

As each touch waivers away our ornaments,
That are nothing but a bother,
So that our skins may kiss,

Let my lips caress upon you,
And caress I shall,
Till the roses of desire that blossom on your cheeks,
Grows and spread to all points intimate,
As the garnered juices of intimacy between your thighs,
Waterfalls down your legs,

Shall our hearts pound as hard as the bed rattles,
As we feast upon our lusts, as if there were no more morrows.
Mary McCray Apr 2015
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 17, 2015)

A vague and random stimulus (often an image or sound) is perceived as significant, e.g., seeing images of animals or faced in clouds, the man on the moon, and hearing non-existant hidden messages on records played in reverse.

Mysticism is felt in the heart muscle, rustles
where no feelings truly exist. What exists
of the dead voice hollering on the recording? Ordering
the apparition’s dances under the light beam. What seems
like God is deep in the conspiracy, the marvelous irony
of mirage. Brain eats signs; feet seek sense, pearl innocence.
The ghost is the illusionist, an enthusiast
who will never reveal his true forming mist. What exists?
But in the center of the sit-and-spin, you sit within
the vault of kaleidoscope pointers, confusing spoilers.
When you cannot stand you will understand
the significance of the word shaper…who waivers.
UK tabloid the Daily Mirror reports ghost video footage from a restaurant in Leeds called Get Baked; www.mirror.co.uk/news/weird-news/watch-terrifying-ghost-manifest-front-5532158
nivek Oct 2014
A single Red Carnation incarnate
waivers in the storm-
spilling colour into the wind-
defying all the odds.
late bloomer
JA Doetsch Oct 2012
The boys, the boys, they can't help but stare at her
as she's talking, she's walking in iambic pentameter

She breathes in italics
Words fall from her lips
San-serif movements
Punctuate her hips

She writes, she paints, her dreams soak the paper
such beauty, such beauty, my willpower waivers

Her eyes tell a story
in which I want to belong
Only she knows the ending
as she has all along

I wish, I want, a new story to start
with her, with her, with all of my heart
JJ Hutton Jan 2015
Billowed and pasted, rollicked and wasted,
the night takes hold and Samantha, you remember her,
she's smoking again. This is her last pack though.
Drinks poured. Drinks spilled. Kate and I are talking
like people with scheduled late afternoon love affairs. There's
a car alarm going off in the distance. I love this blouse. Is it new?
No. It looks new. I love your perfume. You aren't wearing any?
Must be a natural—and the first to arrive at the party, Chris and
Evan, they're the first to leave, and we listen intently as one, or maybe both, tumble down the stairs. There should be waivers for second floor
apartment parties. Kate, you deserve so—I know. I know. You've got this light. Jesus. I'm just saying. Is it radiant? Yes, it's radiant. And they're lighting their drinks on fire now in the kitchen, some concoction of amaretto and 151 and a kickback of Coors. The flames reflect in their eyes, their cheeks a soft amber, and most of them are smiling, not sincerely, but when was the last time you could give yourself over completely to joy? There's a siren in the distance. Someone says they're coming for us. I'm going to the bathroom. Do you need help? And there's this ceiling fan with LCD Christmas bulbs strung around the blades. A myriad of claustrophobic yellows and whites and blues. Have you seen that video of the ****** having a baby? And he brings it up on his phone. Someone says, Oh my god I love this song from the bathroom. I hadn't noticed the music before now. Drink this. What is it? You'll see. And Samantha she says she's got to step outside for a second. And someone drops a hookah coal on the beige carpet. There goes the deposit. There's incense. There's a Scentsy. There's Febreeze being sprayed liberally. Can you drive? Can you? Do you want to? You know? I've ate a lot today. The songs keep getting skipped. Parquet Courts, Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie, Chvrches, Miley Cyrus—wait, wait put on some SWIFTY. We're going to fire up in my closet if you want to join. It's a walk-in. Evan's back now. He kicks a mirrorball across the kitchen tile with Chris, who's also back now. Where's Samantha? She's smoking. She shouldn't be alone. You remember last—That won't happen again. I'm just saying. Well, you can stop saying. Sirens again. Closer. We're in the walk-in. Kate tugs on my sleeve. I take a pull off the bronze pinch hitter. Do little circles with my head. ****, she says. What? It all starts fading out, the rush of dark, the rush of light. Someone says trash can. Sirens. I'm just trying to—Shut up. I'm just trying to—Shut up.
Linda Duncan Apr 2015
Lord help me find the hope that eludes me
And the faith that waivers still;
But most of all God place me
In your pure and perfect will.
I've learned that praying selfishly
Even getting what I want;
Somewhere down the road
I pay a higher cost.
If listening to my prayers Lord
You find the selfish and unwise;
Then to be just say no and help me Lord
To open up my eyes.
Help me Lord to pray for others
Instead of for myself;
Help me learn to be of service Lord
To those in need of help.
Help me Lord be better
In everything I do;
I want to be more Christlike
Lord I want to be like you.
Charles Dennis Feb 2010
The constant tick tock ticking
from the clock on the wall
what a waste of brain cells
or maybe I have none at all
for what it’s worth I can
see the pendulum swing
to and fro back and forth again
my sanity waivers listening
to that constant sound
tick tock ticking from that
**** clock on the wall
how will I ever get anything
done when all I can hear is
tick tock tick tick tock
tick tock tick tick tick
tock tick
© 2010 Charles Dennis


http://www.charlesdennis.netne.net
Lucy Tonic Nov 2011
Freelance astronaut
With a ponytail
On the late-night shift
Took this rocket many times before
No nightmare grivets

Still something creeps inside
As I watch the metal birds fly
Like the wind before a tornado
Mister Rogers with a red glass eye

And I dream of forts and storm shelters
Paper crackers and magazines
But they're only crops in my head
Ding-**** the witch is dead

Got my coupons
Got my waivers
Better get on board
Blink an eye
Past the borderline
Trace the silver biblical chord

But what's this terror
What's this sensation
I'm alone and bound and tied
Promethean sacrifice
See the cavity craters
In my peripheral eye

Reading rainbow I can't read you
All I see is a misty circle
Butchered ogdoad for a baker's dozen
But three isn't what you'd expect

These ropes want to be untied
Menstrual men and cosmic spies
Feel them all from below
Hear them all from above
Like dead wind chimes
Inspired by a dream
Marian Apr 2015
Thank You, God, for what You did that day
So I'll lift my humble praise on harp to Thee
For Thou, oh Lord hath set me free

My faith waivers like a blowing leaf
But I trust You'll show the way
Thank You, God for what You did that day

Thank You, God for watching over all
Tonight I feel Thy presence near to me
So I'll lift my humble praise on harp to Thee

Now I appreciate the essence of being alive
So thank Thee, Lord, for what Thou hast done for me
For Thou, oh Lord hath set me free

*~Marian~
Happy Easter, Everyone!!! :)
And Remember What God Has Done For You!!! ~~~~<3
God Bless Y'all!!!
Mathieu Oct 2021
It's 2.00am.
Tonight My Heart Is
In The Frying Pan.
Tired of the Lies, I Give In.
Take Me Somewhere I Won't Drown,
I Can Swim.
Give Me a Chair I Can Sit In.
Cause' I Felt Your Eyes, From Across The Room.
I Could Tell From Our First Kiss, We Were Doomed.
When You Said You Loved Me, You Knew.
When You Said You Loved Me, You Knew.
And Never, Was There A Darker Room.
A Museum of Souls Ripped In Two.
The Shattered Glass Keeps Looking Back At Me, Too.
When You Said You Loved Me, You Knew.

Now The Silence Fills Every Second With Years.
My Courage Waivers, Then Disappears.
The Footprints Leading to the Door,
A Graveyard of Tears.
And the Strength of the Day Caving In.
When The Sun Rises,
It Will Be Behind Me.
Wind to the Horizon.
Begin.
Jessy Pryde Jul 2010
Top down on a rented convertible
The directors, the tabloids,
The husband and kids— leave them
with the city traffic.

The humming of the engine
makes my toes vibrate
as I nudge the accelerator with my
size 11 foot.

I want to see
Azure skies, desert landscape
Lizards basking on rocks.

I’d adopt a coyote
He would teach me how to sing
Because he admires my long nose.

On the road, I feel the
power of abandonment—
Infinite. Priceless. Immortal.

My excitement rises with the speedometer
I would make it to Mexico City by nightfall
The birthplace of my mother.

I write her name in the sky
It waivers with humility
Condenses into streak marks
on my windshield.

Her reflection winks back at me
in the rearview mirror.
Ahead, I see dusk and
the milky colors of city lights.
Don't ask why, but I love Ms. Thurman.
Paula Swanson Jun 2011
She played one more time for Papa,
as to make the Angels weep.
His frail, arthritic hand,
upon the bed rail, tapped a beat.

His rhuemy eyes in sunken cheeks,
never waivers from her face.
His blue lips in silent tribute,
sang the words to Amazing Grace.

Her eyes closed to the rapture,
her Violin did sing.
She did not see, yet she felt,
when Papa stopped breathing.
Prelude
Seeing thee again is indeed invigorating-look at how my thoughts are now brimming-with t'eir lost souls! T'ose souls who faded away-as I was severely bereft of my muchness. But now I am glowing with it again, whenever I remembereth our chilly encounter t'is afternoon; thou wandering at lightning pace-in thy fond childishness! But furthermore thou in t'ose fond eyes-and t'eir depth, o! Thinking of thee makes my heart shimmer-and credulous to thy gentle love. And I shall but never go wrong again-as our fates, I assume; are but inevitably, and so dearly, bound to each other, my dear, my dear.

O, and but today wasth I chanced to see my lover;
shining bright and tender like a glade in a bower.
Storming out in gladness out of his chamber;
and as we talked his face grew fonder!

O, lovelier and keener didst he become, through th' more
subservient seconds-as though truly adorned with passion,
Entranced by such courage and fated determination.
I listened carefully to his fond elaboration;
and confined myself to my meek walls of admiration.

My thee, o, my thee!
T'is as if everything hath been our fierce destiny
And shall our paths but cross again-
of which I'm certain, under yon strumming daylight-
when t'at weeping moon waivers.
And all t'at wailing bark shall ever come to an end-as our
luminous, but fair melody lingers.

My moon-and th' following morning, it
shan't any longer be weeping.
To th' despondent grass wilt it start singing-bestowing
th' delayed merit whilst bent is 'tis body-and dancing:
Every other fault shalt come back
from t'eir mistake!
And th' latent dangers shalt be put well
at a steep stake.

And t'ose rings-o, rings of love, as t'ey are, by t'is wan light silver
A light whose abyss shan't ever again last forever.
And protected as we are-chained by our ripe love-
Shall we proceed into serene joy, and resides there-
within th' grand layers of our hearts, and splendid flames
of t'is wondrous eternity.
SummertimeLace Mar 2015
The monitor is steady
But your soul still waivers

Gently I plant
a Kiss
On the apple of your cheek

Sincerely I wish
You would just speak
I cant bear to watch you wither and weak

Please!
Don’t go!
Don’t leave me here alone!

The monitor went flat
Now I sit here in woe
Nik Bland Apr 2013
Write my name on the wall dear Desirae
See it as you fall asleep
Keep me in mind when you leave this world behind
Keep me listed in the company  you keep

Float on the dreams that you chance to bring
To my doorstep on late summer moons
Sing me to sleep with words that echo
In the early ides of June

Keep my memory under lock and key
And know my love never waivers for you
My mind switching to your symphony
As my eyes close as if on cue

Lovely above all are you, dear Desirae
In smile, in tear, and all in all
Floating high to uncharted reaches
Simply because you don't fear the fall

Love me from afar, dear Desirae
Know that your beauty is one unfading
And that you are a girl within Heaven's hold
In both lining and in the shading
Alessander Apr 2015
Your eyes are not portals to your soul
They are not some archaic metaphysical equation
Ancient mathematicians formulated to confound

They are pastures for nymphs
They are branches for fruit
They are laurels for poets

They rend me open like a flaming axe
They tie my stomach like knotted roots
I lose myself in their dusky wilderness

In them, I observe universes
Perpetually exploding and collapsing
Your pupils are black holes
At the center of galaxies
Balancing energy and force
Bending light inward

Like a sickle glistening high over hayfields

In them I hear songs
And sagas narrated by savage tongues
Of catastrophic floods and rebirth
Aryan myths about oneness

In them I see IVs dripping
Candles flickering behind carved pumpkins

I loiter in them like a pauper
With a styrofoam cup

Gazing on them is nearly intolerable
Like glaring at hydrogen bombs blinding

It is like Hebrews
Uttering the name of El- who cannot be named
El- who is above mortal matrices

The eye that never sleeps
The ear that always comprehends
The self that waivers like the sea

Eternity ends when you blink
Infernos extinguish when you sob

I tremble before them
As if they're holy relics
Decaying into perfection

Oh look upon me one last time
My love

Oh glance at me before
I petrify into pillars of salt

Look upon me
Before I transfigure into an amnestic god
Bearing light pure

Peer once more into my binary pulsars, frozen
In a fathomless abyss.
lazarus Apr 2014
last call,
she wrote, with her fingertips still tangled in the wire wrapped around her faulty heart.

each breath laced with shards of glass, an aching pull that was simple in the darkened sheets and quiet. an answer that seemed too simple because there was no question.

i'm dying,
she cried as her hands slipped on the tear-slicked phone that couldn't quite convey the way that she was trying to be so, so brave with each labored breath.

there were no words in the screams that pounded off the yellowing linoleum.
a desperate, hoarse cry pleading that she needed someone on the other end of the static to wipe the sweat off of her brow and call an ambulance.

when are you coming home?
little bouncing ponytail of four is grasping fingers and trying to fix injuries with whole-wheat goldfish. her pink salt-scuffed snow boots are breaking hearts down the hall.

and i'm here again. once cheery monkey slippers worn through the toes shuffle down hallways lined with trepidation and antiseptic. this isn't old-fashioned, white-apron clad matrons grasping hands and adjusting crisp peaked hats. medicine is doled out in plastic sheets like candy, accompanied by bent knees and scanned bracelets.

privacy concerns, signed waivers, no liabilities. hospitals are less for healing and more holding cells, storage lockers, fraught with too-thorough questionnaires and grasped pens like swords defending trustee boards from lawsuits.

my mornings are finger ****** and sunlight that seems empty without those sweet trills and a whipping reach of wind. stagnant air, the faint smell of ***** hiding under regulation bleach wipes. this is what i wake up to. soft chimes aren't rousing, nor soft, at eight am lulled through too-new loudspeakers.

the ***** mint green trays never lose that sickly smell of rotten food like the undergrowth of a fallen tree. the only coping skills i've mastered this far are how to effectively channel all my breathing solely through my mouth. hospitals never lose that smell, the ache of death and sorrow that clings to the floorboards and plays cards under the bed, waiting for its turn to reach corners much further than the cleaning crew can.

eyes draw to the torn edge of my sweater, revealing the milky white skin that lost it's sweetness. i've been ravaged by needles and rubber tubes and electrode pads full of gel that shouldn't sting, but does. i spent fourteen hours climbing the walls of my subconscious while gloved hands made adjustments flanked by heavy shoulders and eyes that seemed to never shed their bitter tears.

fourteen hours, i spent with my id. it passes in jumbled snippets of emotion that are still lost in that haze.

i was a creature,
without reason,
or cause.
february 20th, 2014.
ALamar Mar 2014
True love lies somewhere between rage and serenity
The antithesis of anonymity
Exists on the paved roads of pain filled memories
Lodged amid warm thoughts
Childlike fantasies
For women it’s a strong masculinity
For men it’s an infinite dependability
On a woman who is both a nurturer and a lover
A best friend when there is no other
A confidant
Someone who’s shares
And keeps the insecurities of your thinking buried deep where no one can find it
This person carries a light so high that no one can outshine it
In a life where we are born with no favors
No waivers
That lessen the life lessons of the environments we live in
Like God forgave yours
Give your heart a break
Let love make amends for the sin of the world
And those that hurt you
Those that hit you
Those that abused you
While wrong
I pray you let me sing you a song that heals you
And fills you with a joy that you cannot explain
A love that confounds every theory and excuse you have not to love again
No matter how you found it
Or whether you deserve it
What matters now is that you are worth it
Love rests in the pain we live through
And the connections we seek
Tales of unrealistic expectations are lies we place on ourselves to be strong
But really make us weak
Prossnip42 Mar 2020
Go there for your rota
There for your orders
Fill up the quotas
We'll bill for you quarters
Report to your foreman
But watch for construction
Cause if you get hurt you've damaged our property

Did you not read the Company policy?
That defines you as the Company's property
That waivers your say in autonomy
The conglomerates got you in lock and key
We put the dollar back into idolatry
If you're upset you can rent an apology
We're a family forged in bureaucracy
No I in "team" but there's "con" in economy

Were you expecting rights?
Were you hoping for fairness?
My friend you're indentured and pleasure's exempt from your tenure so venture back down to your slum
That's provided at generous prices
Your worth is determined by your sacrifices

A small term of service when down of the surface
Interment's a freebie that comes with the purchase

We work
To earn the right to work
To earn the right to give
Ourselves the right to buy
Ourselves the right to live
To earn the right to die
Colm May 2016
His eyes implied, as he placed his hand on the windowsill, same as mine.
Just resting on the other side of a sheet of glass.
Much stood between the two of us.
Though back in time there was no distance which could separate our minds.
Once torn away, how did my pain reflect the same, inside and out?
How did our moment slip away like the quiet night?
My attempts in vain to remove the stain of the sacred heart.
His departing train which waivers in the snows embrace.
And bears my hopes for us away, into the dawn. Into the garish light of day.
I wait for him in the station stained with falling snow.
Until the time has stripped away the bitter cold.
And only memory remains, to find my hand and gently hold.
Written from her perspective. :D
Adam Mott Apr 2016
Colloquial examples of passion
Smoke rising lazily off the trembling waters
Skin soaked with the ethereal dreams of a thousand lifetimes
When I awoke, the night a moonless construct of infamy
Dreams are hungry, the nightmares seek
Artful expression which crashes downwards
The many beatings of a heart
Cold and scared

A smattering of thoughts
Void and *****
Callously sold to the empty hands of yesteryear
In corrupted frame, coiled rage
Another image bound and bled
New notes left unfettered or fed

Pulchritudinous, what was once a face
Since traded, since displaced
Hollow and ashen
Soul sacrificed to make space

Elements of fire and air
Clashing internally
Fluid motions, beckoning out to the few
Clutch thy mystic purse
Burn said embers anew

Dearest hollow, the waters tremble
The cold dark sings as the bonfire waivers
Bide your strength, close ashen eyes
Sip from holy estus
Summon or head on
Push through the fog wall,
Prepare to die
Felt like writing something about From's Dark Souls rather than doing this ridiculously large paper I have to write.
Tags are gleaned from the "Trending" page.
Raquel Butler May 2016
The silence beams from the moons iridescent rays,
gentle paws pad up my bed to lay,
a calming ambience I pray will stay,
but once again the voices flow my way.

12 am the door creaks wide,
at first, your love is seen in wide smiles and open stares,
your kisses like a miracle to my tired exhausted eyes,
prayers creep up my tongue unable to even register my own voice in the midst of this loving embrace,
but still, I know what's coming.

I am unable to enjoy your love at this hour,
unable to see what you see or feel what you feel
because oh lord I know what's coming.

As his adoration waivers and his thunder settles in a storm is coming.
Your tears spill showers, rolling down broken hills unable to end because the words you hear so cruel you have begun to believe, yet still... you love him.

As your voices intertwine like grapes on a vine, beauty and magnificence I cannot seem to find because I know what's coming.
Your heart swells wide with hope inside, I search desperately to find where it hides, you see I know what's coming.

These brains are spun on drunken dreams, you look to him with such love it's unimaginable to conceive how the man who receives is him.
And when the voices scream, the streams become oceans filling up your hollowed valleys.

And they don't subside, not until the red grapes bloom a corsage on your cheekbones, anger lost in translation as love. And when you die a little bit inside, still you don't seem to find what's coming.

When your oceans become mine, my whimpers become a crime,
because somehow his love becomes more important than mine,
just please find inside what's coming.
A "spoken" word about stuff. Finally edited it, if you have any edit suggestions or anything let me know, my work is never complete.
Published 5/2/16
Marci Mareburger Apr 2015
your voice never waivers
while you spit your treason
and twist the strings
that force falsified movement
of your favorite marionette:
Me.
or maybe it was the one you taught me how to use
before your ghost was all that remained.
it's probably in storage...
somewhere inside a box marked:
"the things he held most often."
I'm still unsure how the cacophony continues
without weakening or cracking
except when time stops
and God smiles down upon me.
I imagine the rest of the time
he's too busy with bureaucracy
and my guardian angel
is acting as his secretary.
Caress or care less?
Andrew Switzer Apr 2014
The mystic Mys-Match of Mew Manor mounts the moon at midnight. He flies freely, forgetting the faltering fallacies that fold this failing facade of figments of the imagination and inglorious nations into a crooked caricature of creeps, clowns, and carcinogens to our culture. From crack and **** to casual deaths, the population prays for post-******* match days.

What's the reason of rhyme if you don't have a reason to see a new season of sweethearts and treason? The mystic Mys-Match of the planet Piblatch has snatched nary a glance of this reprehensible romance. He hums happily, hovering over the homes of the hurt and the helpless, unaware of the ugly and untrue souls of the suffering below.

Due in part, perhaps, to the planet Piblatch, whose population prowls playfully amongst the pipperplitz plants and the tinktertip trees. A civilization unaware of Gods and demons, *****'s and dip *****.

At sunset, the Piblatchians partake of rackaday root and crushed up clibber clatch cuttings. They see the psychedelic sky ways that sing of sweet things and spacey swings.

As mankind manipulates, murders, and maims itself, the world which waivers with weakened wings is consumed by the carnivores that **** off the common crowd and leave only the corrupt and cantankerous crooks that fall to the depths of despair when the bomb goes off, blotting out humanity's light forever.

But the mystic Mys-Match and his planet Piblatch live on, past the end of time itself. The peaceful people continue to enjoy their lives and never know of the negative notions that drove the dimwitted denizens of Earth into a violent and gruesome grave.

Mankind could have learned something from the Piblatchians, if only they had opened their eyes and seen the light.
Cathy E Hodgson Feb 2014
When night visits on tomorrow’s threshold
Dreams waver to sway with a gentle breeze
Storms in the distant clash with lightening
Green is hidden by stormy gray shadow

Earth moves with full moon in tow
Beaconing the sunlight to whisper
Oh yes, Enchantment endears wonders
Mysteries of love grow on a divine path

Harp is in tune with her enchanted finger tips
Spreading a song beyond in clear dew skies
Apple tree blossoms in spring with her coaxing
Birthing fruit of the earth, wrestling to belong

Darkness waivers to hold, sun kisses horizon
Sleep yawn takes shore with spuming echoes
Brightness blinds a seagull twinkling eye
Night is vanished as the Morning Whispers

© Cathy Hodgson
Joel Johnson Feb 2016
Somedays
the wonder never ceases
and within me
it's all that was meant to be.

Steer me toward definition
a destiny lingering
longing to be beyond disbelief.

Forcefully it waivers forward
like winds pushing heartily
through motionless trees.

Disturb not a soul
they have not yet lain to rest
all that was dealt.

And then dealt the end.
Cadence Musick Dec 2013
the gardens weep
in the moonlight
because she has gone away.
a pale sliver of a finger
waivers in a pond reflection.
a specter-
  the stars have become
pearl spilled tears
and the roses tremble in dew
because of the absence,
her absence-
felt so wholly.
the world fades quietly
with her white body
under ground
...
although that is where she lay
(she has gone away)
Keith Ren Aug 2010
Won't you pull at my tongue,
With my jaw slamming shut?
That double-edged wit of regret.
Won't you blank out my mind?
These signed waivers of time.
No muse would I more happily bed.
Saraistone Aug 2015
You drown your own bravery
Before it has a chance to rise
You lie sad and restless
Unable to close your eyes
Your voice waivers, trying to trick me
You lie in slurs, unable to disguise
You are a fiction of my hopeful imagination
And were never really there at all
Now you find yourself as you have before
Standing in fizzy solitude
Dreams of better days lie crumpled on the floor
You are an amber shadow
I don't love you anymore
labyrinth Jan 2022
Neither your lovely charities
Nor a bunch of other favors
Will give me no prosperities
They’re just equality waivers

— The End —