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Timothy Yan, that was his name
I miss him, still, 71 years later
I don't know if he's alive now
Nor, really did I know then in 1942
We were kids, he was 11 and now
would be 82 or 83
I don't know if he'd remember me
But, I remember him
and will forever
He was Canadian
He was my best friend
His family was Japanese
We'd come from Ontario, Burlington
Work brought dad west
So, we settled in a suburb of Vancouver
Tim's family had been here for a few years
There weren't a lot of Japanese in Canada
He was the first one I saw
We didn't have any in Burlington
So as I know
We lived on the same street
Went to the same school
He was Canadian
We played baseball, road hockey
football, we were brothers
blood brothers, we were a team
We moved west in 1938
I met him that fall in school
We were instant friends
The day I saw that St. Louis Cardinal hat
stuck in his pocket, all rolled up
He'd be Stan The Man, I'd be Red Russer
He was Syl Apps, I was Sam LoPresti
I was Turk Broda, he was anyone he wanted to be
We were both Joe Di Maggio
We were brothers
I remember the noise first
Great big Army trucks,
Olive green
All up the street
Not just at the Yan place
The Yokishuris, Wans, and Timmy's Aunt too
Soldiers, loading the trucks
We weren't allowed out to see
Notices had been posted though the door
We could only watch and wonder
They were being moved
They scared the powers that be
Little Japanese families
Many born here
Scared the powers of  King in Ottawa
And they had to be moved
Inland, to the Okanagan Valley
To Camps, in Canada, their country, Camps
Canada was at war
With it's own people
With 11 year old Timothy Yan
Ever since Pearl Harbour
Ottawa got scared
Japanese fishermen in the west
Japanese fighter planes from the east
There had to be spies in British Columbia
Tim Yan was apparently one of them
They were told their property was safe
All their goods in storage
They were lied to
A month after they left
The auctioneers came in
Everything was sold
Everything...
I hope he kept that hat
Dad bought what he could
So did other neighbours
I still have the boxes
Never opened
Waiting for the Yans,
I miss Joe DiMaggio
I didn't understand it then
And I don't now
My teachers couldn't explain it
My minister said it was the best
That didn' t help either
What best?
Who decided what was best?
Best for who?
It wasn't best for me, or Tim
Nobody asked us
He was just gone
I spent years looking for him
He never came back after the war
They were moved further east
They were sent to Japan
He was from Canada
Why would they send him to Japan
He was gonna be the first Japanese big leaguer
I hope he made it
I grew up and became a lawyer
A citizenship lawyer
This was not going to happen on my watch
To anyone again
Not while I was around
I miss him
He went to war
And never fired a shot
He went to war
And never knew why...
John Graham Jan 2015
THE CAMINO CHRONICLES
( Sidhe – Spirit, Ard Ri - High King, Tir na nOg – Land of eternal youth )
JUST A MOMENT AGO
Just a moment ago, it was just a moment ago
Father in Time embracing Mothers Melody to rhyme
Birthing Sidhe candles smile, lights of love, souls glory
Stars dancing with joys release, Sidhe awakening to loves destiny
Just a moment ago, it was just a moment ago
I stood upon Erins western shore amidst constellations considerations
And dreamed I had sailed again across the eternal sea
To Tir na nOg there returned to be
Oisin the Wanderer no more, ever seeking my beloved Naimh’s shore
Queen of the Sidhe, her consort again, Ard Ri of Eternity
Ah my heart demands my Sidhe sings of Naimh’s wondrous beauty. .
Her Eyes Like Twin Candles Dancing
Lips Full Of Mysterys Promise
Her Hair Bound, Crowned With Lustered Glory
A Smile To Die For . .
She Moves . . Sidhe Moves . . Like Poetry . .
Aie, Her Voice, Her Voice, Like Honey and Cream
Just a moment ago, it was just a moment ago
When love was a rose without thorns
Before tides of centuries tears
Swept us apart
Just a moment ago, it was just a moment ago
The glorious moment of our days glory
Our age of grace
Father in Time embracing Mothers Melodys Grace. .



INTO THE DARK
What does a candle remember . . .?
What does its flame recall . . .?

Aiee Aiee . . . Akhenaten Flee We  . . . Nefertiti Aieee Aieeeee
Flee . .Flee . . . Undone We . . . Betrayal. .Flee Flee
Akhenaten Akhenaten . . . Must Flee We . . . Wee Wans Take
Nefertiti Holds  . . . Flee We Must . . . Fleet . . . Flee Fleet . . .

Harps heart has chambers that sigh with grief
Ashes of roses burned with weeds
Remains of our loves day
Harps heart by hearts harp no music moved to test
Hall of memories by no one chorus caress
No whispered echo no candles smile no Nefertiti
NOW MY CITADELS HALL I MUST NEEDS MY IRE
RETREAT TO WHERE NEEDS MUST ABJURE DESIRE
Once more to recite survivals bitter creed
By heartstone embers to gnaw betrayals cold deed
WILL TO BEAR SILENT DEEP EMPTY DAY
HARP HEART STILLED
by no Nefertiti played.
Alan McClure Dec 2015
Arise Great Britain, swell wi pride
this is no time tae split, divide,
a hero needs us on his side
a man apart
Brave Osbourne comes wi manly stride
and lion heart

When danger ca’s, he stauns and fights
He’ll haud the baddies bang tae rights
Nou in their een he sees the whites
and yells, “Attack!”
He’s got oor mojo in his sights –
He wants it back!

Let’s cheer his valour tae the roof
Condemn the wans wha’d cry him couff
And pray oor Geordie’s bulletproof
As on he flies
Then fit him wi a parachute
and wave guidbye.

This GM perfect Tory clone
need not rely on un-manned drone
He’ll tackle ISIS on his own
their fight dissolve
His pores squirt pure testosterone
his eyes, resolve

Just watch the baddies turn and flee
as George, wi patriotic glee
wreaks vengeance for democracy
a one-man dojo
And cries, “Come, Britain, flock to me,
and feel my mojo!”

Or mibbes we should check this twice.
Although the image may be nice
The blood we risk on his advice
may never stop -
But Geordie will not sacrifice
one ****** drop

These profiteering pinstripe ******
wha ken no life but politics
Are no the first tae play these tricks
while deals are made
Why no just wave a crucifix
and shout “Crusade!”

So hooses burn and horror grows
A stream o misery outflows
While braggard Geordie struts and crows,
"Ye want a fight?"
I’d dump him on Damascus road
tae see the light

Ye plot the death o innocents
Tae score yir points in parliament
Yir fascist mocking o dissent
it suits ye well
George Osbourne, ye're a proper gent
**** ye tae hell.
John Graham Jan 2015
THE CAMINO CHRONICLES

OISIN’S LAMENT

I CANNOT BEAR TO SAY FAREWELL
IF FAREWELL IS ALL THAT REMAINS TO BE SAID
THE FINAL SONG OF OUR LOVES DAY
1 CANNOT BEAR TO FOREVER HERE STAY
ALONE ADRIFT IN TIMES ETERNAL TIDE
ALONE, SO ALONE WITHOUT YOU BY MY SIDE
I CANNOT BEAR TO SAY FAREWELL
WHEN IN EVERY CANDLES FLAME I LIGHT
I SEE YOUR LAUGHING EYES YET SHINE BRIGHT
1 CANNOT BEAR TO FOREVER HERE STAY
WHEN IN EVERY TWINKLING STAR I SEE
YOUR MISCHEIFS SMILE SPARKLING AMID THE COSMIC SEA
I CANNOT BEAR TO SAY FAREWELL
FOR WITH EVERY SINGLE BREATH I TAKE
YOUR SCENT FILLS MY CHEST WITH FRESH HEARTACHE

I CANNOT BEAR TO SAY FAREWELL. .

I CANNOT BEAR . . .

SIDHE NO BAS
(SPIRIT NO DIE, WAR CRY OF THE CELTSIDHE)

SOUL ******
ALL DESIRE FLED
FROM HATE

I CUCHULAINN, MURDERER
THRICE CURSED HOUND
I SOAKED THE SOIL OF ERIN
WITH MY GREIF
I CUCHULAINN, ONCE SETENTA
PROUD WEARER OF LAURELS
FIANNA OF THE RED BRANCH
WARRIORS OF EIRIU IMMORTAL
I CUCHULAINN, ONCE GEATHA-I-MUIR
MAKER OF PEACE, HEALER OF ALL WOUNDS
COMPASSIONS SHEILD AND SWORD
AMERGHAIN-GLENNA-GLUN
I CUCHULAINN, THE THRICE ACCURSED
SON OF THE FATHER
WHO SACRIFICED HIS SON CAANAICELT
WHO SACRIFICED HIS DAUGHTER, AINE
I SLEW MY BROTHER, FERGUS-MAC-ALBA
I CUCHULAINN, THE BROTHER-KILLER
BROTHER OF THE SWORD, OF MY BLOOD
LITTLE PAIRSIDHE, TO MY HECTOR ONCE
I CUCHULAINN, THE LOST
MINION TO THE BEASTS LUST
WHO COULD NOT DIE
WHO SO WANTED TO DIE
I CUCHULAINN, OF THE ****** HAND NO MORE

FERGUS MY BROTHER FORGIVE ME
MY BEAUTIFULL BROTHER
I THANK YOU, SAORSIDHE
SAORSIDHE. . SAORSIDHE. .SAORSIDHE

(SAORSIDHE – LIT. FREE SPIRIT)


MEMORIES CANDLE

I GO
BE A MAN TODAY
THE ENEMY COME

FATHER
BROTHERS COUSINS ALL
CLANN, CHILDREN OF EIRIU

I GO
BE A SHEILD THIS NIGHT
FOR WANS WEE

FALLEN! SO MANY. .
HOLD! HOLD!
FOR LOVE OF EIRIU

HOLD! HOLD!
AIEEEE! WANS WEE

SIDHE NO BAS!
A Watoot Apr 2015
A howl of the wolf in this eerie night
Reminds me that I'm not alone in my wood cabin;
Yet I lay myself on the cold wooden floor
While salty liquids drop from my eye.

It roll down to my lips and I taste the bitterness.
I'm in my nightgown waiting for my heart to fix itself;
Yet it waits for you to come as the moon wans over again.
****.
R Dickson Jan 2015
Ken a' these auld Scots words,
The wans that we've forgot,
Why are we no using them,
It's because we wernae taught,

At hame wi' mither an fathir,
Speaking all and proper,
First day at school,
Speech becomes a cropper,

All yir mates at school,
Coming oot wi' words like bowff,
Saying them in the hoose,
Yir fathir says watch yir mouth,

Rax me oor the poorie,
As ma grama said to me,
Asking her whit she meant,
Gies the milk jug fir ma tea,

Fab technology today,
Smert phones and iPad,
They missed oot wan thing,
The language o' my grandad,

Skype, that's a new word,
Sounds a bit like Scottish,
Was it tae clip you round the ear hole,
That word should be abolished,

If yir no Scottish,
Rabbie's words are a' daft,
All the words that came out o' him,
That was the man's craft,

Whit aboot these well kent lines,
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Sorry aboot that Rabbie,
Stealing that was totally misplaced,

Oot o' bed on wi' ma baffies,
Tae pit them on I need tae sit doon
Sittin' on the chair wi' ma bahookie,
Missed the chair fawing like a loon,

When yir oot daein the gowf,
And yir breeks are a' in a runkle,
Dinnae be a feart tae tac them aff,
If you've got them in a fankle,

Deekin oot the windae,
Stramash on the doon the road,
Some folk getting a doin',
Ithers getting a carry code,

Polis got there quick enough,
Must have a been a hunner,
Saw the big yin there,
He was the heid ******,

The rammy wi the radges
Was just oot side the offie,
Jings crivvens help ma boab,
Some went ben the bothy,

We're all **** Tamson's bairns,
We a' just want tae learn,
We can do it wi' the Scots,
It's a language that we yearn.
Courtesy of AskJeeves, and a special acknowledgement
to the Google search algorithm, this anachronistic Travelocity gent
lee blog, a factual fictitious vignette takes add Vonage of Samsung viz Clark Kent
incredible computer software programs and sturdy Mainframe he kin lent.

Bass sic Lee (this savvy poetic end-user) opted incorporating what he doth **** sitter
tubby both thee hottest n coolest common bots unseen that ping and skitter
n thrive within binary bitmap digital boot not embittered nor iz he a quitter
as unseen electronic/ microscopic realm, whar can tweet and twitter.

Since a countless number of applications constitute the hum maze zing
information superhighway (thank you Al Gore), this computer addict plucked on a wing
n broken kin prayer juiced a random sample per significant thing
hearty soulful itty bitty byte size flickr patented technological silent ring
tone signaling data communications packets fueling hand held devices did ping.

So many automatic, cryptic, esoteric…et cetera fiber optic pulsating stupefying vectors cross, twas impossible but to winnow down the selection process, in virtual sector
which smattering of Apps countless twenty first century human projector
where computer applications anachronistically don the following epistle like nectar
I Trump pet smart word smith re: scrivener effecter.

Shiloh Golong and describe, which Apple of my eye (amidst all the Core **** sans millions of equally omitted, yet equally appealing, enlivening, incorporating Wans
et cetera populate virtual reality) resonated within Chrome moe so mull Bing vans.

Skype in n Angry Bird n If ya need to take Avast break please Compaq to this Century21, Foursquare kilometers from Instagram Pennsylvania, who (despite kiss
sing eternal Allianz with the fountain of youth) witnessed The Birth of Cosmos - hiss
story give or take a million years, and can remember when Geico caveman dis
cover Victoria’s Secret how to make fire,
   which kept warm re: covergirl company in this now over lit Circuit City amiss.

This Earthlinked, Googly eyed (brown), Hotmail wannabe doth dwell in Dell a where valley thinking About such notions as: Airgas, Comcast, Excelon…. Veer
eye sin plus responding to interpersonal classified advertisements x spear
ment tang feigning tube be a bachelor.
   Hoop ping to dance with female stars purportedly accidently twerking ma rear.

Oh…Methinks a desperate gal from Ashley Madison, AdultFriendfinder, Badoo,
or purdy than from any other website fancies friend ship with this nebbish, goo goo
doll doting generic goofball perchance seeking somebody aesthetically attractive ta moo

Va the bowels of mein kempf imagination, thus envision, a slight shift in action Lifelock drama as fealty to fair *** necessitates discerning whom rapping or mebbe a mock
MineCraft softly (echoes SoundClound) infuse this creaky body limp as a wet sock
with a sudden jolt to beat a path to the door fast as greased lightening shard o rock.

Hmm…the sudden ruse to quick forge an invisible IdentityGuard  axe like a KickStarter, a throwback to those glorious atavistic arboreal days when fate did ensure tartar
sauce appeasing Plentyoffish edenic, idyllic, and lipstick Joyus ness n warder.

To quench thirst, now dear Rabbit Reader (unwelcome Reddit news hints
struggling to hastily springme to action upon my super attenuated like gooey mints
noggin Natwest ted yet will be let down upon discerning what issues **** as quince- rat…tat…tat…ring…ring…ring.” oh my dog – psyche does wince.

Campbell soup and please pardon moi while pullup these gangly limb
and attend to an unexpected interloper. All ike kin manage to mutter Kim
Kardashian - nothing amuse zing- comprises “oh sh…sh…Jim
me John, Shutterfly, Keeblers, Aldies, and quickly experiencing him
a lay ahs aka, the sensation of falling into an abysmally cold welled bank

Argh! Dave and Buster (two super tramping security details impossible to contact
on this Blizzard besotted day. While thoughts whir like Buzzfeed. Donald redact ******* blitz, he anoints himself styled ace of spades. Figurative cards stacked
when Sarah Palin, pledged gubernatorial endorsement Survey Monkey tracked
opposition, outliers immediately banished when the angel of Merck whacked

me upside the BirchBox size head n OkCupid (the one perched and Twitter on me right shoulder prods me to tell the truth, This har Motley Fool (holed up in his actually quite confesses to be a mailer daemon whose Pinterest constitutes prevaricating a kooky plight
while athwart his abode, which Orbitz a Chrome colored sun light

Whence, he (sometimes called Mac) keeper of this Oculus Rift;
SnapChatting with renown architects About MapQuest ting plans Lyft
ed for a SolarCity alone in the Whirled Wide Webbed wilderness a grift

Tor from Lake Woebegone, where all the women strive tubby on Youtube,
the children  Facebook endlessly amidst the global tract of teenage wasteland, ****
Rick hating, and every GoDaddy inquires WhatsApp while puzzling Rubik’s cube.
Ady Nov 2017
Let me tell you why i cound't love him,
when all he thought of me was idealized
like some fairy in a fairytale ready to
aid him on his quest on his story.
How he loved my dyed hair or how i never
seemed to settle on a color
but not because i was fickle  and adventurous
but because color fades naturally.
Let me tell you how he treated me like some
discovery, a treasure for greedy pirates
and suddenly i wans't even a person,
i was his involuntary manic pixie dream girl;
a level in a game, a mage to give him answers
when i didn't even understood the questions.
How i was somehow supposed to teach him
life and love when its just me being me,
a girl attempting to live her life and every flaw
suddenly glitter covered and gold encrusted;
my anxiety reduced to a quirk and my depression
just so edgy.
Let me tell you that I couldn't love a boy,
-selfcentered and presumptious-
when all he saw in me was a character and not
a partner.

A boy who never even knew me but pretended.
Cindy Renouf Oct 2010
The pieces of your heart are strewn on the floor
I try to step over them, but can’t avoid them anymore.

Your heart is cracked, swollen and sore
The blood flowing inside is stagnant and poor.

Your heart has been mauled and pounded down.
It has been hacked and sliced and is turning brown.

But it continues to beat even though it is ripped and torn
It continues to sustain you in a state that is weak and worn.

How can the blood of life surge in your veins?
When a rampant germ infected you causing you horrible pain?

I can see the droplets of blood that continue to fall
The blood of hope splatter all over the wall

Your heart must be very stable and strong
To endure a marathon of doubt for so long.

I can’t believe a person can continue to live as you do
Overlooking, forgiving and remaining true.

This heavy heart of yours beats on and on
Non-stop rhythm of hope that never wans.

Have faith and courage and don’t let go
For a hand is reaching toward you ever so slow.


Copyright *CindyRenouf @2010
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/Cindy1128
George Achongo Nov 2014
I was once told I was never lovable to stay in a woman's heart

I believed the lie that I was never meant to love

But not too long ayear my heart pounded for some dawnstar love

She pounded with hateful love

At first I found it wow and I envied how she showed that love

But with the birth of time she showed me why she was passionate about that love

She was seeking revenge agaisnt him whom she found cheating on her

I was just a mere revenge tool to her

I was just a *** pet to her


I was just a *** stick to her

And since I knew this, I called it quits

But in my mind I remembered I was told that I wans't meant to love

I've decided not to believe that lie

I've gone back to square one, to look for someone to love

And today I swear I'm meeting my love or haven't you found me lovable?

Cause she was not jus she!
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
no... i can fall asleep listening to a horror movie soundtrack... some of the stuff i read on this website? i'm traumatised to the point that i have to take painkillers... horror movie soundtracks are the ******* dream-machines! some of the poems i read on this website? a bit like watching a nine year old getting gang-***** and then being decapitated in a war zone... i can't even reason to suggest a "reasonable" argument... some of these poems really spell out: t     r     a    u    m   a.

i read poems on this website... sure,
it allows me to hack google...
but you know...
            i turn on *a nightmare on elms street

soundtrack, and for some reason...
feel comforted...
  i turn on any horror movie soundtrack
for some reason...
   and it makes reading some of these "poems"
less scary...
                     i really need to listen to horror movie
soundtracks...
              it just encapsulates these pieces of
writing...
          to the brimming point of: so... eh...
where's the butcher's knife and the hockey mask?
     it's
  
                    not
                          
                             "there"
          
                                                     or
anywhere.
       i have a shudder in admitting this, but:
some of the poems on this website are outside
the horror genre...
                       they're ultra horror...
       otherwise... why would i find more peace in
a horror-movie soundtrack?
                   it's not mozart to be pompous about...
i'd probably have a lesser freak-out session
watching
                           a guillotine session of events...
     i guess you really have to see words
to appreciate the true nature of horror...
          you start to avoid the logos, and learn
the phonos... and then you see the words...
and then hear them...
       and then suburbia yawns...
      or at least opens its mouth and says:
come in...
               and all you're really going to
say is: no thank you.
           at first i thought this was a sane medium...
but then i realised it wans't... so i started
hacking google to deviated my attention
elsewhere.
Timothy Joyner Feb 2017
What is reality, that I can yearn for a familiar situation.
To once again feel the security on one's touch, look and silence.
It is all but lost in the cycle of life which is to die.
Then die it must, but please for God's sake don't leave me alone.

It's about who is in your life, actually in it.
Not people to whom know your story or even your feelings.
It goes far beyond all that, causing me to be so angry.
I know behind every single anger there's a fear or indignation.

What a fool I've become to myself for holding out.
It is myself, I fight daily, to regain my inner posture.
I know what I am capable of so much.
Then it becomes my wise decision to do the right thing.

To fall endlessly away from an event I'd rather never see.
My spiritual life sores while the rest of me wans.
Finally I see that this could all be a very long wait.

And....
I await the coming of my next season and reason to live on. 
I've lost my spouse, long term partnership and best friend ever! Grief looks like this!
dating back circa: Age of computer antiquity
mine signature worthless gibberish
found Earthling dumbfounded
for further waste of time inquire
about trivial details constituting
more'n six electronic new pages
the following an excerpt from book of
Matthew Scott Harris.

Courtesy of AskJeeves,
and special acknowledgement
to Google search algorithm, this anachronistic
Travelocity bing Ray Orbitz son cent
reincarnate with good n Plenti
of LegalZoom dost Lyft
me Wii Progressive poise, an are dent
lee boosts bonhomie duty
BuzzFeed ding on Fancy Feast

honesty coalesces into Elements
of style – suitable
to Strunk n White accolade gent
he blogs a fictitious vignette
taking add Vonage of Samsung
a viz zit from Clark Kent
one kickstarter for
incredible computer software programs
and sturdy Mainframe he kin lent.

Particular pattering patois,
prompts pathetic ploy
per poetic provenance readers
attempt to plow headstrong
into skein of lettered litter thicket
of Vanity Fair verbiage,
y’all count Outlook incorporating
what he doth **** sitter
tubby hottest n coolest
common nanobots
pinging, skittering n thriving
within binary bitmap
digital boot not embittered, nor a quitter
an unseen electronic/
microscopic realm Weeknd
snapchat tweet and twitter.

Countless applications
constitutes information superhighway
(thanx Al Gore), this computer addict
plucked from wing

of broken kin prayer
while Samsung and Delilah -
hiz significant thing
hearty soulful byte size flickr
patented technological silent ringtone
signaling data communications packets
fueling hand held devices did ping.

Many automatic, cryptic,
esoteric, generic, intrinsic…et cetera
fiber optic pulsating stupefying vector
criss crossing, twas impossible
twin selection process
in virtual reality sector
which smattering of whatsapp
countless twenty first century human projector,
where computer applications anachronistically
don ensemble epistle
as mull logical nectar
I Trump petsmart
word smith re: scrivener effecter.

Shiloh Golong and describe,
which Apple of my eye
(amidst all the Core ****
sans millions of equally omitted,
yet equally appealing, enlivening,
incorporating, outsourcing Wans
et cetera populate virtual reality)
resonated within
Chrome moe so mull Bing vans?

Skype n Angry Bird If ya need
to take Avast break
please Compaq to this
Dell a where Century21,
Foursquare Hotmail seeks Joyus mirth
from Instagram Pennsylvania,
who (despite eternal Allianz
with Uber youth)
witnessed The Birth of Cosmos -
hiss story give or take
a million years, I remember
literate Geico caveman
discovering Victoria’s Secret
how Kindle took a Tumblr,
when Tinder lit Circuit City gone amiss!

This Earthlinked, Googly eyed
(brown), Hotmail wannabe
paperback writer
(pseudonym name Page Turner)
dwells in Bell Atlantic
thinking about notions as:
Airgas, Comcast, Excelon…. Verizon
plus responding to classified advertisements
x spearmint ting feigning myself
tubby Youtube star bachelor
hoop ping to dance with female stars
accidently twerk ma Sovereign
Palm Pilot size rear!
Paul Glottaman Jan 2018
Once a giant they fall through night skies
and into the empty loam where truth lies.
The greatest among them, coward now and small.
It wavers and wans where once it stood proud and tall.
All things, they are told, eventually fade and die.
All things retreat rather than give or try.

And so they crash through dim and distant tropospheres,
through fatally close and relevent new world fears.
They are trapped by binding digital text.
Caught forever in one server rack or the next.
They are ancient relics that once screamed hope at a void.
They are now cold, ignored and most of all annoyed.

Notice me, no one hears them cry into the intangible nothing.
Notice me! they keen and wail and empty makes the noise ring.
They are surrounded by their own unheard pleas.
They are bound to die forgotten and on their knees.
And what then becomes of us? You may ask.
Who, if not the giants and the old gods, will bring us to task?

There is no longer a force pushing us to crisis.
There is fear and there is cold and here is echoed lifeless.
And are we willing to reinvent the past? To pay these prices?
To walk with old giants and call them good and righteous.
If we were better we could fix this open blindness.
If only we weren't weak, tired and so bitterly indecisive.

If we only had one small chance. One good clue.
If only we could make manifest choice and brand new.
In glades we sip from blades of forest grass a rejuvenating dew.
If only we numbered in many and not in so damnably few.
If we could turn these broken gears and feel red rather than blue.
If we could be anything but ******* me and ******* you.
Emily Jun 2017
I stare through a forest of thorns,
War wages, clashing.
Yet no sound reverberates.
All is muffled. Silence.

Nails drive into my brain,
Numbing cacophony shakes my soul.
Mind and heard now divided,
My existence begins to shake.

Debate ensues.
Thoughts, screaming louder than one another
Tearing their way through my mind.
What of me is left behind?
Shreds of my being float into space.

My mind escapes itself
The Universe behind me wans.
There I stay forever
With my body left behind.
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
usually, just being content with asking
john coltrane's  a love supreme,
  or miles davis'               ******* brew...
kind of blue is taking it to a pop
level, or a billy joel song...
                   you need the intricacy of
shared complexity...
                but between ******* brew,
and a love supreme...
         **** me... oddly enough, the former;
and yes...
           if it wans't for the slave trade
and the export of black to america...
    we couldn't have been compensated for
ever writing classical music...
  no chance in hell...
                thank **** the atrocity happened,
i'd still be trying to learn a bit of mozart,
and everything would remain
rigid, guarded by scores... and nothing,
nothing, would ever reach the zenith
                             of a jazzy impromptu;
i like this current zeitgeist of discussion...
     i'd say: black privilege... **** me! jazz!
the blues! elvis, desperate, jacking the originals!

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