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brandon nagley Jun 2015
These graffiti walls lead us down hallways where grown men and young are both so alike, down to the oasis, Wherein brothers are nameless,
Yet still shalt save thy life!!!

Where grown men cry
To prison lullabies
Where tears are stream of joy!!!

Approached by staff
As thou wilt feel cut in half
Yet their love thou won't avoid

How lovely are all thy souls
Thou blue wearing sharades,
I look to all the strength
As thou shalt all wake
To turn another page!!!

I'll seeith thou at the oasis
In such a holiday time like this,
Wherein handshakes are welcome
Loneliness goes unspoken
But thy brother shalt clean thine own dish!!!
i wish to reveal a most precious thing
as Spring has begun
my dearest Daddy’s Birthday is done

he is not a man of celebrations
i want to disclose this personal’s manifest

as his blueprint, i am really beatific
i am very fortunate to be able to recollect
all and everything

to be your beloved daughter
is one most precious and delightful evidence

such a coziest feel to have you in my presence
you embody all that is calm and peaceful
no other impervious Daddy then you, my handsome sensitive

your BirthDay, dearest Daddy is never nebulous
the reputations you left us are all fabulous

you told me tales, they are in fact realities
you are one of a kind, your mind so sublime
you constantly cared and loved me, i am your prime

i love to tell superlatives about you
you deserve the most, dearest Daddy,

i am very proud of you, of your humor and your visions
your cartoons, drawings, and your fascinating paintings
you conjured magic in all your writings

C.C. was your weekly talkings
Charlie was your weekly walkings
in the world of Charlie Chan

i am very fond of you, my very talented Daddy
i know your world too, owned by you as a stage performer….
i remember everything, every detail hidden in my mind

i wish to reveal the most precious thing
last night i went to your place, i was wondering
you were not there, i started sobbing….

© Sylvia Frances Chan
21st March 2017
May he rest in Peace. May he have a Happy BirthDAY in Heaven on the 21st March on Tuesday....
He died too young too soon, my greatest grief on that day.
The Lord gives, the Lord takes at His Time....
Cameron WG Crown Dec 2011
I'm sick of this day at sunrise.  
And there’s no cigarette to smoke
within a walkings distance
before i sit across another verbally abusive *******,
telling me why i write with the insolence of an *******.  

Insomnia that could wake ****** up
has been rallying for his third evening
and my fingers can't lay still.
these hands like tremors
on the faults of my keys,
this **** screen of tectonic hills,
and the snark and bile
that stands upon them,
with humored donations of authority,
of me tryingto describe the world I see.

But still this will not ease my mind to rest
nor will my eyes roll back into the void
where this calamity is formed.  
Because there's still some suited family
at the reigns of the nation
where society is in the eyes not of the beholder,
but of the person that tells the most lies.

So I lock my ears with insanity
to drown out the sound
of souls as they scream
at how they've been betrayed.
and they sing chorus' of those
who scores before
tried to sing the same song.
So again, like every day
I'll sit and curse the dawn
because it is unchanged,
it is still another day of sorrow.,,,,,,,,,
A Thomas Hawkins Jun 2010
How do you know
which path is best to take
if you don't want to end up walking
just for walkings sake

It used to be you stumbled on
without a path even in sight
lack of purpose and direction
kept you awake at night

Now suddenly, not one but three
routes forward you can see
one paved and clearly visible
on this one should you be?

Or perhaps one of the other paths
like the one shrouded in mist
the allure of its mystery
is not easy to resist

And then there is the well worn path
thats fallen to neglect
yet still lined with scents so heavenly
and blooms with petals so perfect

Perhaps what makes the choice so hard
is not knowing what awaits
do these paths lead to utopia
or walled in chained up gates.
Derrek Estrella Feb 2020
Pianos are crashing inside my head as the yellow light of the city and the sun force me into an excruciating halt. An affectionate young man- who is now old, yet remembers the skin he shed- sighs about ****** premonitions through the medium of digital frequencies. A car edges its way to my side- my father tells me “we’re almost there”- the car is positioned in such a contrived way that should I turn my attention exactly ninety degrees rightwards, I would be obliviously vying for the driver’s attention. The thought unnerves me, so I encourage my divagated musings elsewhere. Why did my father tell me that we were nearing our destination? Did he meekly say it, with the meagre velleity of keeping me aware of my surroundings? Where else could my head go, but up?
Pedestrians, their knees adorned with snow trinkets, fall within my periphery. As our car fit itself into a fleeting crevice on the cliff face of concrete, I adjusted my vision into a volitional telescope, narrow and explorative. Among the constellation of humans lay writers in poses denoting propriety, cigarettes suggesting esotericism, and face begging for denial. Facsimiles of these characters dance between the ivory-laced walkways of the interconnected district. I am disgusted by this labile beauty. I am fearful that I will witness its extinction.
I crossed the indifferent street, sure that my haste wasn’t apparent, and therefore, non-existent.
“Disappointingly, the record store sat waiting, knowing of my excitement”, said a fool, pricking my ear. I almost ran for an officer, indignant in my role as a victim to his verbal impotence. When I regained my composition, I paid full attention to the unassuming door between a burger shack and some unidentifiable after-thought-structure. This door, pedestrian to most, contains within it what a common walker would consider heaven. It is, to me, a strenuous Sunday stroll of impulse and and opulence. There is no point in resisting that which makes me happy yet unstable. I could not do without it. To deny is to doubt the music that I loved, and am currently beholden to by chains; the lobotomical sort.
I scoured the store and bough the prized possession. It was quite probably a Tim Buckley record. Here comes a man, quick and close, with a chartreuse disposition.
“I see you thinkin’ kid, it makes my brain throw up alllll funny things. If my erradition ever had anyin’ ta say, it’d shout that you’s too rowdy a rider.” Good sir, a sharp mind and apt humour is all I need to keep myself from harm. I wrote that down, walkings as if the stiff block was nothing but. Such a misdemeanour, to be so passive. I lingered forward and onwards.

— The End —