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Livi M Pearson Feb 2016
Mankind in a wasteland
Sacrificing quality for quantity
Naked money trees
Blood stains on the leaves

Risking love for war
Creaked yet open door
Beyond this dusty floor
Reveal a future that does not miscarriage
For I'm tired of losing hope
Inside this worn graveyard

Should I sacrifice my life for torn petals?
Should I question drinking cyanide?
Or tasting acid strips on rainy days?
Base my life on human imperfection
To define what my mind could dream
Judge what in life is serene

Mankind in a wasteland
Too sureal to feel a need to smile
Human kindness rotting
Smelling foul

But beautiful could it be
Love in sweet serenity
Living to love another's skin
Lending a dream
To a man in need
Children born by a lonely seed

Laughter killing the cyanide
Stars inside my cup
As I sip on paradise
On human wastelands
Ankit J Chheda Aug 2013
Here i dropped through that crack in the floor, something had happened, what I didn't know. I see a world of miracles around me, a beauty of no match. There I saw a child’s first toy, like the most precious in the world to him, there I saw another held so closely, safe in her mother’s arms. I walked about in what seemed the world of fantasy, and I couldn't help but smile at all these things around me, everyone seemed to be happy, seemed to have that very thing they’d wanted all their lives… It was a very sunny place, with all the positivity.

Spending some time there started to build in me an uncertainty, as everyone seemed to be stuck in their moment of glory, I saw events happen over again, someone running into the arms of their beloved in a wild moment, and there seemed to creep an unspoken desperation in my conscience….

Travelling this somewhat twisted wonderland, I came across something that told me what I was doing here… There I saw myself with a woman without a face, with many faces, the woman I love… The pain was numbing. This was the wasteland of lost hopes and dreams, and maybe I am here because someone lost hope on me.
As I wrote it on oneword.com
Elizabeth Holt Dec 2010
My mind is a wasteland.
My thoughts are insane; I'm no longer myself.
I feel like I've been taken over by something that wants me dead.

I want a life away from here
             Away from myself.
I want to be free
But the captor is me.
I'm holding myself ransom and I can't pay.

Break me free, won't you? from this prison of my thoughts.
Take me to where I can smile, sing and dream.
I want this fog to be cleared.

Set me free.
Kyle White Dec 2011
Naked, flaccid, wasted...
watching the Sunset
swallowed by a landfill

The machinery has since
fallen asleep
the insects have now
taken back the silence

My mind is bankrupt
I owe
more than I own

The hourglass is a sandbag
with a bayonet tear
leaking grains

My poems are parrots
on the shoulders
of greater influence



*This poem is about drinking in a trailer by a landfill.
Warren Gossett Sep 2011
Sadly, she was consumed, fated
long before I ever met her, soaked
to her precious core with cigarettes,
cheap wine and strong tranquilizers,
fighting the demons that clawed at her soul
whenever she tried living and loving
free of the chemicals.
Her demons I would never want to share,
although I was all too eager
to share her bed, share her days
without contributing what she needed,
and so she continued to drink
and laugh with that sad spirit the
laugh of the condemned, until
she finally drifted from life into death
and I hope, no, I pray into the peace
she had desperately sought while
confronting her living wasteland.

--
Sean M O'Kane Sep 2018
“Oh you’re Irish?” he said.
“Did you learn the language much?” he said.
Honestly, what can I tell him? I was raised in the North - a ****** wasteland for such a naïve question.
Vague memories of fumbled classes where our secret history was ditched just to get straight into the basics (Cad é mar atá tú?)
No – seriously - I was not tied to it – it was anonymous to me at that age.
Forgotten like some distant echo of once visiting Coole House as a child.
Sure, we knew it was “important”, “our national language”, “heritage” etc. and we were warned it was quickly slipping into the drain of Western hegemony.
But it was baffling, unsexy and only the blunt-faced humorless IRA thugs amongst us were in any way keen.
Then it was gone, just like the faded memories of “The Children of Lir” from my primary school.

Looking back I wonder, what was the point?
A half-full measure paying lip service to our identity.
Teachers and headmasters terrified of the grand colonial reveal that the lessons might have hinted at (were they trying to stop us being Provos-in-waiting?).
And all of this against the awful shame of a common tongue that had no foe yet was slowly vanquishing from our shores.
It could have all been so different.
Rather than rushing to get something in our empty skulls, they could have given us a sense of joy, pride & belief in our own culture.
Calling on Yeats, Behan, Heaney and others to drown us in the language of our ancestors.
Telling the stories of old that only the academics & hippies were keeping from us then.
You know, it might kept us all on the same beautifully illuminated page.
We might have been comfortable in our skins and open to others,
not looking deep into our worthlessness and lashing out at them.
Language is being and language is connecting, I’ve learnt.
But that’s not something I got from my secondary school.

June-July 2018
Obviously, Teanga is the Irish word for language. "Cad é mar atá tú" is a basic phrase every Irish child would remember from the limited experience of the language that we had then - "how are you?".  I did visit Coole House around 1980 (when I was 10)  but had no idea at the time of its significance as the 'petri dish' of modern Irish culture - the home of Lady Gregory whose influence on many of our great writers was fundamental to their survival & their continuing importance today. "The Children of Lir" is an old fantastical Irish myth that was often read to very  young children during their  "story time".
Spenser Bennett Feb 2016
My hands
Brought to ruin
Wasteland
Burnt to death by fruition
When every song will grind our souls
We will live to break our bones
In service of the name we cannot speak
Our life, our death an endless melody on repeat
Should I breathe or just give in?
Should I love or die my friend?
Love to death, breath to surrender
I, begin

To see the nature of all these monstrosities
Bound inside my hidden anxieties
But nothing helps when the sun still sets
On empty halls in houses not yet meant
To shelter the weak from the coming storm
To shelter us from the pulpit, mourn
Our insufficient gesture of goodwill
In the darkness we suffer soft and still
Should I breathe or should I just give in?
Should I love or die my friend?
Love to death,
breath to surrender
Decompose the sound of silence,
return to sender
you may be entitled to a cash settlement you know when you walk passed another person you say hi then they say hi as you go by you realize you wish you could know more about that person perhaps wish you had said more (could’ve should’ve would’ve if only)

April is the cruelest month breeding out of lifeless land mixing memory desire stirring dull roots with spring rain

i’ve always had a problem taking my existence the world too seriously i’m way too sensitive way too longing dreaming praying hoping wishing

winter kept us warm covering earth in forgetful snow feeding little life with dried seed summer surprised us coming over rain showers we stopped in walkway went on in sunlight into the garden drank coffee talked for hours

a strong metal material which can morph shape based on heat cold transference

a pill that makes you smart brilliant genius a pill that makes you eye-catching handsome gorgeous a pill that makes you strong slim sinewy a pill that makes you young a pill that makes you rich successful powerful a pill that makes you loved respected imitated a pill that makes you godlike a pill that makes you disappear

a new form of *** more wild mysterious ***** sensual intensive explosive gratifying than current ***

a painting that changes colors forms images yet remains intriguing unsolved pushing the viewer to make up imagine answers outcomes possibilities

a song that joyfully melts the heart of every person in the world causing each to blissfully dance deeply bow in reverence build a sustainable bridge of appreciation

and still she cried and still the world pursues jug jug to ***** ears and other withered stumps of time we’re told upon the walls staring forms leaned out leaning hushing the room enclosed

a neighborhood where white males between ages 21 to 40 are given carte blanche all other men discarded based on age ethnicity income a street where females are rendered undesirable after age 45 a town where no one reads books discusses psychology sociology philosophy ideas dreams war a wall with no windows door that never opens ceiling that inches downward

my nerves are bad tonight yes bad stay with me talk with me why do you never speak? speak what are you thinking about what thinking what i never know what you are thinking think

i think we are in rats' alley where dead men lost their bones

the smell sight sound taste feel acknowledgment of dying

what is that noise wind under door what is that noise now what is the wind doing nothing again nothing do you know nothing do you see nothing do you remember nothing i remember pearls that are your eyes are you alive or not is there nothing in your head

shattered casualties along the road people who once believed they would be successful winners making difference in this world another drink another smoke another night week month year gone another life envisioned planned strived for lost job lost house lost another baby born

twit twit twit jug jug jug jug jug jug so rudely forced river sweats oil barges drift with turning tide red sails wide to leeward swing on heavy spar barges wash drifting logs down reach past isle of dogs weialala leia wallala leialala
Maggie Emmett Jul 2015
PROLOGUE
               Hyde Park weekend of politics and pop,
Geldof’s gang of divas and mad hatters;
Sergeant Pepper only one heart beating,
resurrected by a once dead Beatle.
The ******, Queen and Irish juggernauts;
The Entertainer and dead bands
re-jigged for the sake of humanity.
   The almighty single named entities
all out for Africa and people power.
Olympics in the bag, a Waterloo
of celebrations in the street that night
Leaping and whooping in sheer delight
Nelson rocking in Trafalgar Square
The promised computer wonderlands
rising from the poisoned dead heart wasteland;
derelict, deserted, still festering.
The Brave Tomorrow in a world of hate.
The flame will be lit, magic rings aloft
and harmony will be our middle name.

On the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl;
the ‘war on terror’ just a tattered trope
drained and exhausted and put out of sight
in a dark corner of a darker shelf.
A power surge the first lie of the day.
Savagely woken from our pleasant dream
al Qa’ida opens up a new franchise
and a new frontier for terror to prowl.

               Howling sirens shatter morning’s progress
Hysterical screech of ambulances
and police cars trying to grip the road.
The oppressive drone of helicopters
gathering like the Furies in the sky;
Blair’s hubris is acknowledged by the gods.
Without warning the deadly game begins.

The Leviathan state machinery,
certain of its strength and authority,
with sheer balletic co-ordination,
steadies itself for a fine performance.
The new citizen army in ‘day glow’
take up their ‘Support Official’ roles,
like air raid wardens in the last big show;
feisty  yet firm, delivering every line
deep voiced and clearly to the whole theatre.
On cue, the Police fan out through Bloomsbury
clearing every emergency exit,
arresting and handcuffing surly streets,
locking down this ancient river city.
Fetching in fluorescent green costuming,
the old Bill nimbly Tangos and Foxtrots
the airways, Oscar, Charlie and Yankee
quickly reply with grid reference Echo;
Whiskey, Sierra, Quebec, November,
beam out from New Scotland Yard,
staccato, nearly lost in static space.
      
              LIVERPOOL STREET STATION
8.51 a.m. Circle Line

Shehezad Tanweer was born in England.
A migrant’s child of hope and better life,
dreaming of his future from his birth.
Only twenty two short years on this earth.
In a madrassah, Lahore, Pakistan,
he spent twelve weeks reading and rote learning
verses chosen from the sacred text.
Chanting the syllables, hour after hour,
swaying back and forth with the word rhythm,
like an underground train rocking the rails,
as it weaves its way beneath the world,
in turning tunnels in the dead of night.

Teve Talevski had a meeting
across the river, he knew he’d be late.
**** trains they do it to you every time.
But something odd happened while he waited
A taut-limbed young woman sashayed past him
in a forget-me-not blue dress of silk.
She rustled on the platform as she turned.
She turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.
Stale tunnel air pushed along in the rush
of the train arriving in the station.
He found a seat and watched her from afar.
Opened his paper for distraction’s sake
Olympic win exciting like the smile.

Train heading southwest under Whitechapel.
Deafening blast, rushing sound blast, bright flash
of golden light, flying glass and debris
Twisted people thrown to ground, darkness;
the dreadful silent second in blackness.
The stench of human flesh and gunpowder,
burning rubber and fiery acrid smoke.
Screaming bone bare pain, blood-drenched tearing pain.
Pitiful weeping, begging for a god
to come, someone to come, and help them out.

Teve pushes off a dead weighted man.
He stands unsteady trying to balance.
Railway staff with torches, moving spotlights
**** and jolt, catching still life scenery,
lighting the exit in gloomy dimness.
They file down the track to Aldgate Station,
Teve passes the sardine can carriage
torn apart by a fierce hungry giant.
Through the dust, four lifeless bodies take shape
and disappear again in drifting smoke.
It’s only later, when safe above ground,
Teve looks around and starts to wonder
where his blue epiphany girl has gone.

                 KINGS CROSS STATION
8.56 a.m. Piccadilly Line

Many named Lyndsey Germaine, Jamaican,
living with his wife and child in Aylesbury,
laying low, never visited the Mosque.   
                Buckinghamshire bomber known as Jamal,
clean shaven, wearing normal western clothes,
annoyed his neighbours with loud music.
Samantha-wife converted and renamed,
Sherafiyah and took to wearing black.
Devout in that jet black shalmar kameez.
Loving father cradled close his daughter
Caressed her cheek and held her tiny hand
He wondered what the future held for her.

Station of the lost and homeless people,
where you can buy anything at a price.
A place where a face can be lost forever;
where the future’s as real as faded dreams.
Below the mainline trains, deep underground
Piccadilly lines cross the River Thames
Cram-packed, shoulder to shoulder and standing,
the train heading southward for Russell Square,
barely pulls away from Kings Cross Station,
when Arash Kazerouni hears the bang,
‘Almighty bang’ before everything stopped.
Twenty six hearts stopped beating that moment.
But glass flew apart in a shattering wave,
followed by a  huge whoosh of smoky soot.
Panic raced down the line with ice fingers
touching and tagging the living with fear.
Spine chiller blanching faces white with shock.

Gracia Hormigos, a housekeeper,
thought, I am being electrocuted.
Her body was shaking, it seemed her mind
was in free fall, no safety cord to pull,
just disconnected, so she looked around,
saw the man next to her had no right leg,
a shattered shard of bone and gouts of  blood,
Where was the rest of his leg and his foot ?

Level headed ones with serious voices
spoke over the screaming and the sobbing;
Titanic lifeboat voices giving orders;
Iceberg cool voices of reassurance;
We’re stoical British bulldog voices
that organize the mayhem and chaos
into meaty chunks of jobs to be done.
Clear air required - break the windows now;
Lines could be live - so we stay where we are;
Help will be here shortly - try to stay calm.

John, Mark and Emma introduce themselves
They never usually speak underground,
averting your gaze, tube train etiquette.
Disaster has its opportunities;
Try the new mobile, take a photograph;
Ring your Mum and Dad, ****** battery’s flat;
My network’s down; my phone light’s still working
Useful to see the way, step carefully.

   Fiona asks, ‘Am I dreaming all this?’
A shrieking man answers her, “I’m dying!”
Hammered glass finally breaks, fresher air;
too late for the man in the front carriage.
London Transport staff in yellow jackets
start an orderly evacuation
The mobile phones held up to light the way.
Only nineteen minutes in a lifetime.
  
EDGEWARE ROAD STATION
9.17 a.m. Circle Line

               Mohammed Sadique Khan, the oldest one.
Perhaps the leader, at least a mentor.
Yorkshire man born, married with a daughter
Gently spoken man, endlessly patient,
worked in the Hamara, Lodge Lane, Leeds,
Council-funded, multi-faith youth Centre;
and the local Primary school, in Beeston.
No-one could believe this of  Mr Khan;
well educated, caring and very kind
Where did he hide his secret other life  ?

Wise enough to wait for the second train.
Two for the price of one, a real bargain.
Westbound second carriage is blown away,
a commuter blasted from the platform,
hurled under the wheels of the east bound train.
Moon Crater holes, the walls pitted and pocked;
a sparse dark-side landscape with black, black air.
The ripped and shredded metal bursts free
like a surprising party popper;
Steel curlicues corkscrew through wood and glass.
Mass is made atomic in the closed space.
Roasting meat and Auschwitzed cremation stench
saturates the already murky air.              
Our human kindling feeds the greedy fire;
Heads alight like medieval torches;
Fiery liquid skin drops from the faceless;
Punk afro hair is cauterised and singed.  
Heat intensity, like a wayward iron,
scorches clothes, fuses fibres together.
Seven people escape this inferno;
many die in later days, badly burned,
and everyone there will live a scarred life.

               TAVISTOCK ROAD
9.47 a.m. Number 30 Bus  

Hasib Hussain migrant son, English born
barely an adult, loved by his mother;
reported him missing later that night.
Police typed his description in the file
and matched his clothes to fragments from the scene.
A hapless victim or vicious bomber ?
Child of the ‘Ummah’ waging deadly war.
Seventy two black eyed virgins waiting
in jihadist paradise just for you.

Red double-decker bus, number thirty,
going from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch;
stuck in traffic, diversions everywhere.
Driver pulls up next to a tree lined square;
the Parking Inspector, Ade Soji,
tells the driver he’s in Tavistock Road,
British Museum nearby and the Square.
A place of peace and quiet reflection;
the sad history of war is remembered;
symbols to make us never forget death;
Cherry Tree from Hiroshima, Japan;
Holocaust Memorial for Jewish dead;
sturdy statue of  Mahatma Gandhi.
Peaceful resistance that drove the Lion out.
Freedom for India but death for him.

Sudden sonic boom, bus roof tears apart,
seats erupt with volcanic force upward,
hot larva of blood and tissue rains down.
Bloodied road becomes a charnel-house scene;
disembodied limbs among the wreckage,
headless corpses; sinews, muscles and bone.
Buildings spattered and smeared with human paint
Impressionist daubs, blood red like the bus.

Jasmine Gardiner, running late for work;
all trains were cancelled from Euston Station;  
she headed for the square, to catch the bus.
It drove straight past her standing at the stop;
before she could curse aloud - Kaboom !
Instinctively she ran, ran for her life.
Umbrella shield from the shower of gore.

On the lower deck, two Aussies squeezed in;
Catherine Klestov was standing in the aisle,
floored by the bomb, suffered cuts and bruises
She limped to Islington two days later.
Louise Barry was reading the paper,
she was ‘****-scared’ by the explosion;
she crawled out of the remnants of the bus,
broken and burned, she lay flat on the road,
the world of sound had gone, ear drums had burst;
she lay there drowsy, quiet, looking up
and amazingly the sky was still there.

Sam Ly, Vietnamese Australian,
One of the boat people once welcomed here.
A refugee, held in his mother’s arms,
she died of cancer, before he was three.
Hi Ly struggled to raise his son alone;
a tough life, inner city high rise flats.
Education the smart migrant’s revenge,
Monash Uni and an IT degree.
Lucky Sam, perfect job of a lifetime;
in London, with his one love, Mandy Ha,
Life going great until that fateful day;
on the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl.

Three other Aussies on that ****** bus;
no serious physical injuries,
Sam’s luck ran out, in choosing where to sit.
His neck was broken, could not breath alone;
his head smashed and crushed, fractured bones and burns
Wrapped in a cocoon of coma safe
This broken figure lying on white sheets
in an English Intensive Care Unit
did not seem like Hi Ly’s beloved son;
but he sat by Sam’s bed in disbelief,
seven days and seven nights of struggle,
until the final hour, when it was done.

In the pit of our stomach we all knew,
but we kept on deep breathing and hoping
this nauseous reality would pass.
The weary inevitability
of horrific disasters such as these.
Strangely familiar like an old newsreel
Black and white, it happened long ago.
But its happening now right before our eyes
satellite pictures beam and bounce the globe.
Twelve thousand miles we watch the story
Plot unfolds rapidly, chapters emerge
We know the places names of this narrative.
  
It is all subterranean, hidden
from the curious, voyeuristic gaze,
Until the icon bus, we are hopeful
This public spectacle is above ground
We can see the force that mangled the bus,
fury that tore people apart limb by limb
Now we can imagine a bomb below,
far below, people trapped, fiery hell;
fighting to breathe each breath in tunnelled tombs.

Herded from the blast they are strangely calm,
obedient, shuffling this way and that.
Blood-streaked, sooty and dishevelled they come.
Out from the choking darkness far below
Dazzled by the brightness of the morning
of a day they feared might be their last.
They have breathed deeply of Kurtz’s horror.
Sights and sounds unimaginable before
will haunt their waking hours for many years;
a lifetime of nightmares in the making.
They trudge like weary soldiers from the Somme
already see the world with older eyes.

On the surface, they find a world where life
simply goes on as before, unmindful.
Cyclist couriers still defy road laws,
sprint racing again in Le Tour de France;
beer-gutted, real men are loading lorries;
lunch time sandwiches are made as usual,
sold and eaten at desks and in the street.
Roadside cafes sell lots of hot sweet tea.
The Umbrella stand soon does brisk business.
Sign writers' hands, still steady, paint the sign.
The summer blooms are watered in the park.
A ***** stretches on the bench and wakes up,
he folds and stows his newspaper blankets;
mouth dry,  he sips water at the fountain.
A lady scoops up her black poodle’s ****.
A young couple argues over nothing.
Betting shops are full of people losing
money and dreaming of a trifecta.
Martin’s still smoking despite the patches.
There’s a rush on Brandy in nearby pubs
Retired gardener dead heads his flowers
and picks a lettuce for the evening meal

Fifty six minutes from start to finish.
Perfectly orchestrated performance.
Rush hour co-ordination excellent.
Maximum devastation was ensured.
Cruel, merciless killing so coldly done.
Fine detail in the maiming and damage.

A REVIEW

Well activated practical response.
Rehearsals really paid off on the day.
Brilliant touch with bus transport for victims;
Space blankets well deployed for shock effect;
Dramatic improv by Paramedics;
Nurses, medicos and casualty staff
showed great technical E.R. Skills - Bravo !
Plenty of pizzazz and dash as always
from the nifty, London Ambo drivers;
Old fashioned know-how from the Fire fighters
in hosing down the fireworks underground.
Dangerous rescues were undertaken,
accomplished with buckets of common sense.
And what can one say about those Bobbies,
jolly good show, the lips unquivering
and universally stiff, no mean feat
in this Premiere season tear-jerker.
Nail-bitingly brittle, but a smash-hit
Poignant misery and stoic suffering,
fortitude, forbearance and lots of grit
Altogether was quite tickety boo.



NOTES ON THE POEM

Liverpool Street Station

A Circle Line train from Moorgate with six carriages and a capacity of 1272 passengers [ 192 seated; 1080 standing]. 7 dead on the first day.

Southbound, destination Aldgate. Explosion occurs midway between Liverpool Street and Aldgate.

Shehezad Tanweer was reported to have ‘never been political’ by a friend who played cricket with him 10 days before the bombing

Teve Talevski is a real person and I have elaborated a little on reports in the press. He runs a coffee shop in North London.

At the time of writing the fate of the blue dress lady is not known

Kings Cross Station

A Piccadilly Line train with six carriages and a capacity of 1238 passengers [272 seated; 966 standing]. 21 dead on first day.

Southbound, destination Russell Square. Explosion occurs mi
This poem is part of a longer poem called Seasons of Terror. This poem was performed at the University of Adelaide, Bonython Hall as a community event. The poem was read by local poets, broadcasters, personalities and politicians from the South Australia Parliament and a Federal MP & Senator. The State Premier was represented by the Hon. Michael Atkinson, who spoke about the role of the Emergency services in our society. The Chiefs of Police, Fire and Ambulence; all religious and community organisations' senior reprasentatives; the First Secretary of the British High Commission and the general public were present. It was recorded by Radio Adelaide and broadcast live as well as coverage from Channel 7 TV News. The Queen,Tony Blair, Australian Governor General and many other public dignitaries sent messages of support for the work being read. A string quartet and a solo flautist also played at this event.
D'Arcy Sahn Oct 2014
The impoverished wasteland
That keeps you from changing the world
Will never be your home

Not if I'm here

You don't know how much people will try
To drive you away
To keep you ''where you belong''
A waiting place

The place I so desperately fear

Not for me; I'm not one of ''them''
But you are; according to the authorities
I can hide: we don't have race wars here
But how can you avoid it if the government perpetuates it?

I nearly shed a lone tear

The Canadian Ghetto
It's where you're destined to stay
If they, we, I let you fall
If the people convince you you're inferior


But you have nothing to fear.

I'll won't stop making you
                                                Braver
      ­                                           Smarter
                                                   Stronger
                                                     Aware

And when all is said and done
And they've taken your ability to give a ****
You still won't surrender

And I'll shed a joyous tear.
Constructive Criticism Appreciated.
Carter Ginter Sep 2017
I thought I lost the best part of me
When you walked out so easily
Now I realize that you leaving
Saved the deepest part of my sanity
You tortured my mind and made me sick
I'm ****** in the head from all your ****
I wasn't wrong to love you
No, I was wrong to stay
But I know in my heart that
You'll regret it one day

Cause you broke me down
And destroyed my heart
I gave you my all
Now I want out!
You left so long ago but
Left this curse on me
I'm finding escape
In **** I don't believe
But What else can I do
When I never ******* sleep

The years of these blades
And the gallons of poison
In no way compare
To the place you have me in
Conditioned my mind
To sensor my thoughts
Just to avoid
The brutal nights when we fought
And I was never enough
It was always the same
Even when you ****** up
I was always to blame

Cause you broke me down
And destroyed my heart
I gave you my all
Now I want out!
You left so long ago but
Left this curse on me
I'm finding escape
In **** I don't believe
But What else can I do
When I never ******* sleep

All those nights spent alone
When I needed you most
Should have been enough
To convince me to go
But no, I stayed with you
Did whatever you'd say
I became your slave
Your personal outlet every ******* dayy
Ugh

*******! For all that you did to me
*******! For the haunting memories
They're burning my heart
And plaguing my mind
You cannot escape what you cannot unwind

You said you loved me
***** you don't know how to love
You only play your childish games
And run away when life gets rough
Ugh

Cause you broke me down
And destroyed my heart
I gave you my all
Now I want out!
You left so long ago but
Left this curse on me
I'm finding escape
In **** I don't believe
But What else can I do
When I never ******* sleep
Something I wrote forever ago about the toxic relationship (wasteland) that was my first love.
Brittany Zedalis Jul 2017
I remember the innocence of childhood,
like one remembers the smell of their mothers' perfume,
I remember that, too,
easy recollections of railroad ties
and the thrill of hiding
at the bottom of a pool,
hastily replaced with the loneliness
of watching the moon rise
from the center of a midnight field,
overtaken by teenage fury,
violent and vengeful for a stolen childhood,
now adults leaving ink footprints
through the new age,
teeming with a different variety of rage,
unwavering and driven,
lamenting on what could have been

~Leaves of Ink 2017~
~Leaves of Ink 2017~
Hailey Rose Sep 2018
She’s the popular girl at school
who everyone longs to be.
They know her very well.
Or do they actually?

She chose to wear a sweatshirt today
that could fully cover up
all the bruises her boyfriend left
that are brand new this month.

She comes to school with a bright smile,
but it’s only just for show
because behind that smile is a frown,
and no one will ever know.

Everyone thinks she has it all,
but little do they understand
how severely wrong they are,
for her life is a wasteland.

She hides the hurt and hides the pain,
hiding her tears that pour like rain.
She wears a thousand faces,
all to hide her own.

Getting home she runs to the bathroom
stepping on top of that box.
She observes the numbers slowly going up
and then coming to a stop.

She hears them say, “You’re model material!”
“With that bikini body of yours!”
She shakes her head in denial,
leaning on the sink ready to hurl.

A waterfall of tears ready to fall
as she looks into the mirror.
Swallowing hard, she closes her eyes
and forces a smile to improvise.

Soon dinner is ready
and her parents set the table.
She drags herself to her chair,
looks down at her meal and stares.

Moving the fork back and forth,
not taking a single bite
because of how miserable she is with herself,
"Why am I so revolting?" she thought.
So she kisses her parents goodnight.

Walking up the stairs,
her stomach is a roaring lion.
She sighs, walking into her bedroom,
turning off her lights.

She’s learned to hold all her feelings in
until late at night,
and uses her hand to cover her mouth
so no one hears her cries.
Brent Kincaid Sep 2015
Pretending a day is forever
Then watching you hurry away
It’s a game we play together
We are strangers in the light of day.
I’ve learned to lie with my eyes
To act like we never were lovers
When I am nobody you ever claim
We won’t walk in sunshine together.

The love of my life is a stranger
And this is the price I have paid
I smile when my heart is a wasteland
And, my life is a dance masquerade.
I’m dancing with a shadow
It looks so very real.
It moves with the rhythm
It does everything but feel.

I can only get so much reward
From rewriting each scene
From what it really was today
To what it might have been.
I am settling for a fantasy
Of what love is really about.
Picking up the scraps of dreams
That anyone else would throw out.

The love of my life is a stranger
And this is the price I have paid
I smile when my heart is a wasteland
And, my life is a dance masquerade.
I’m dancing with a shadow
It looks so very real.
It moves with the rhythm
It does everything but feel.
Taste the days end with me
Sweet wine of soft fireflight
and tender touch beinth a summer moon
In your arms endure*
This love can be ours
Under the iridescent moonlight
Embraced within one another
To live for an eternity
Languid and soft
We shall watch the grand painting of the ages unfold before us
As time itself submits that we are one
That we are passion and love

Love that shall never shed a liquid tear
Time ages us as one to live an eternity together
The porcelain dripping down the eons can't hold us back
Nor can the God who sheds those tears for us
*Ferment the seeds of this madness pause along the walls
That contain the fragile thoughts
And read the written passages that are formed in the shadows of what we have created these passing moments are the dire and forlorn wasteland of the last days we spend here.
By: Adreishka Moonlight and Mark John Junor (Marks entries are italicized)
David Crow Jan 2019
Wait for me, I'm only around
the corner,
Wait for me, It's only a block
away from you,
Fight for me, the surface here is
getting hotter with every
passing minute,
Dive for me, swim to the
other side,
Dive for me, bless your
wonderful soul,
Surface... wipe the water off
your face and look around,
You are now in either a
wasteland or a mirage,
The mirage holds the Tree of life
and the wasteland has a
passageway in the mountains
that holds the way out,
But where it goes I cannot say,
It might be time for you
to find out, If you are in the
Wasteland.
Aa Harvey Jun 2018
My wasteland


This is my wasteland,
This is my grave.
This is my graveyard,
I can no longer be saved.


This is my funeral,
This is for real.
This is the end of me,
This is how I feel.


The pain and hurt reflects your love, as clear as mud
And in my dying mind I know you could never be mine.
I did all I could but it was never enough
And now I am all out of time.


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Rochelle R Sep 2015
I am the wasteland.
My chest,
A cavity shoveled empty,
Filled with infinite space,
Devoid of blood and bone,
Is host to cosmos and ghosts.

And where I once had heart,
Black holes,
Punched out and multiplied,
Empty and expanding,
Aching under the weight of eternity,
Riddle the cavity where my soul once lived.

And shackled to the weight of fate, I watch as:
Shovelers and boxers,
 Blind and unaware,
 Consciously choosing not to care,
 Speaking iron words of weaponry,
Turn my body into a canyon.

And as this scene is comes to a close.
My death,
Foreshadowed early on,
Also barren and filled with despair,
Beckoning and luring,
Is clearly laid out on a horizon.

And though it's true I have been hollowed out,
The void,
Absent hope,
Blank and staring over the human race,
With only wisps of thought to run my head,
*Is the comfort I've learned to be.
Constructed in a year of inconsequential relevance,
A lighthouse stood over the turning tide.

Many a vessel had found respite in the glow of this beacon.
Through many years this tower stood strong.

The keeper, never of like name,
A position handed over in death.

Countless generations of watchful eyes relieved after duty.
All but an instant to this pillar,

This guiding light of prosperity.

I took over, 19 years from birth.
Training took a fragment of an hour.

Stood on guard, through a ceaseless haze,
First night on duty.

Tremors shook the beacon,
But it never lost its light.

A wave came to view,
Its size well beyond my comprehension.

The tower stood, as I was knocked upon the floor.
It never lost its light.

Sixteen years slipped by,
Not so much as a boat.

I admit, my head was starting to slip.
I hadn’t spoken in years.

I went in search of conversation and left my post.
In it’s place I discovered a barren wasteland of death and decay.

There was no life.
It was gone.

Without purpose or place, I marched on into the wasteland,
Until I came across a roaming beacon, shining out upon the horizon.

There I returned to my post,
With this guiding light of prosperity.
Andrew Durst Apr 2014
We'll paint
the world
pastel red
and sing
songs as
the world
falls apart.
       And I'll remind
you that
you're absolutely
beautiful when
we take our
last breaths
       And although
I was never
able to
write every
moment
and paint
every horizon
we've rested
our time upon.
      I'd like to
think that
I made you
the happiest you
could ever be.
Enjoy.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Away, I’d like to sail away from this land locked life;
free to sail to dreams and lives beyond my own.

I dream of lands where warm winds fan my soul,
and freedom follows me to shores where time forgot.

An anchor tied around my neck, this life has come to be.
Give me strength to find the way in this desert wasteland.

Away, I’d like to sail away, free to grow and live.
This raging need to be myself is screaming to be heard.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Orion Schwalm Sep 2012
The call me...Captain Swurve.
They call me Captain Swurvey
They say my heart's half gone
As it's plagued with rot and scurvy!
They said I'd chase the sunset
And drink us all to drought
I said nay boys, I'll follow the tides
And leave no liquor-starved crewman without.
Now, as the legend rests
Just like the setting sun
I'll dream of pretty wenches
That did my poor heart shun
And raise my flask o' whiskey
And tip up my old gun
And wish that it was ***.
Surrounded by the sea
Of people looking over me
The captain that I've always wished that I could have the ***** to be,
Is not exactly what he seems.

I'm the captain, sodden and somber.
I own no land, and I owe no man no man's land, which is a place I've chosen to wander.
Take that as you will, I take wasteland as a million metaphors, dried up, littered on, desert that used to be a golden shore. Back then Bikini Babes would just come to right up you and ask you to rub tanning lotion on their backs, and you somehow didn't even have to flirt to feel attractive.
                                                     ­             This place doesn't exist.
                                                      I made it up. That beach never had any water.
There was no such thing. Like perfect pitch, or total bliss or uncontrollable mental disorders.        

Yeah, I owe barrenness to y'all. I'd never get any peace and quiet, or the zen of a much needed vacation
                                           without that feeling you get in a crowd of total isolation.

It's hummmmmmming....of a million minds, a crowd of buzzzzzzing bumble *******, deciphering my metaphors.
**** metaphors, listen to what I speak, when I'm not up on a pedestal.

You know I used to want to be an astronomer? Just a fun fact.
Not because I never had enough tact to be an actor,
Just because I was always rather apt
                    to just sit back
                                   and watch the
rapture.

Bowl of popcorn over here on the left.
Bottle of **** right here on the right.
And the most beautiful woman God could create, raining down her fiery scorn on me, loving every minute of this cataclysmic *******.
I am Captain Swurvey       and       I        like      to      ****.
Everything beautiful is useful to me,
Everything else just *****.
And whether I want you to or not, you'll probably believe every word I say.
STOP.

I am Captain Swurve
And I am sailing swervingly
Unsettling the neighbors and uprooting your search for worth and immortality.
I do it because people with a purpose make me nervous,
Looking only at the surface
                                           You never go much deeper
                                            And I'm skimming along on that surface,
                                             But all I ever yearned for was the chance to dive overboard
                                               And drown myself in the deep end of your ocean.

I'd like to see your coral reefs, and be swept up by all sorts of riptides, and undercurrents, and
maybe
just maybe
I'd really love to see the bottom before I die.

I imagine all beautiful lights. That no one has ever seen. It's another world down there. And well...

                                                        ­                                          You know I've always wanted to see your Marianas Trench...

Switch around, we're in space, I'm sailing through the sun storms, desperately reaching as far out as I can only to crash on the rocks of your atmosphere.  Reeling off, and spinning past millenia, knowing there would never be enough space in the universe to keep us apart for too long. You couldn't hear me scream, but if you'd let me in there...you would have heard the battle crying inside me. If your brain's synapses are stars, then your heart is one insignificant little planet amidst the skies that by some stroke of hell managed to create life as I know it.

That metaphor
has been done before
I'm used up
i'm not original BUT
GOD
**** IT
I can't be the only person who's ever fallen in love.         I wouldn't ever want to be.    
Because then you wouldn't see much in me. Without these seeds... It'd be kind of like a wasteland.
But *******,
I am so glad
That humans learned how to plant.


Talk about self-absorbed, this kid writes a poem about his own celebrity persona which he pretty much invented! Well, there have been some modifications I can't take credit for.

You choose what you want to believe about me.
But I am just a person
My name is Captain Swurvey.

...
Samantha Cunha Nov 2018
what
shines too bright
will always dim
those who lie
also sin
for there was
no chance
for me to win
in the toxic wasteland
with him
Distance brings proportion. From here
the populated tiers
as much as players seem part of the show:
a constructed stage beast, three folds of Dante's rose,
or a Chinese military hat
cunningly chased with bodies.
"Falling from his chariot, a drunk man is unhurt
because his soul is intact. Not knowing his fall,
he is unastonished, he is invulnerable."
So, too, the "pure man"-"pure"
in the sense of undisturbed water.

"It is not necessary to seek out
a wasteland, swamp, or thicket."
The opposing pitcher's pertinent hesitations,
the sky, this meadow, Mantle's thick baked neck,
the old men who in the changing rosters see
a personal mutability,
green slats, wet stone are all to me
as when an emperor commands
a performance with a gesture of his eyes.

"No king on his throne has the joy of the dead,"
the skull told Chuang-tzu.
The thought of death is peppermint to you
when games begin with patriotic song
and a democratic sun beats broadly down.
The Inner Journey seems unjudgeably long
when small boys purchase cups of ice
and, distant as a paradise,
experts, passionate and deft,
hold motionless while Berra flies to left.
Selena Jul 2018
Your eyes reminded me of oceans
and broken promises
you were just like the ocean
you had promising days
beautiful reflections but you were dark and scary.
Because I couldn't swim
but you took me anyway
your voice drowning me in but I'm the ******* ****
even though you took girl after girl
Was I not good enough
our constant arguments drowning me
suffocating my innocence even the ocean
couldn't wash away the sins
that flooded out the lies you put in my head.
I'm not the weak one because even
though I couldn't swim
I got up and fought your toxic wasteland
you tried to win but
I'm letting you know
I learned how to swim
*****.
Julian Mar 2019
Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.
Tyler Loeslein Jan 2013
Cracked lips, dry
like a mouthful of desert sand,
an image of the wasteland I have become.
The cracks are more like caverns,
crevices so deep that its possible
for me to host and aquarium inside of my lips,
if only I could keep them moist enough.
With scabs that split back open with a smile,
these wounds never quite heal,
making the metallic taste coating my tongue
the only constant that I can rely on.
I can't blame you for never kissing me anymore.
Jack Jun 2018
Need drugs for my composure just can't seem to stay sober
Need closure to stay sober oh what overexposure
Dilated pupils and blood shot eyes the voices are mean she calls out and cries
Bars of white powder, crisp and cut clean
Coated with fentanyl just not for the eye to  see
A band-aid with a bow tie or a fix with a twist
I can't count the days sober
Oh what overexposure

(C)
shannon Jan 2015
When we are born there are hopes and dreams,
On the path we follow, enemies are made,
Cruelty forced upon us, tearing at our seams
The existence of the world is enveloped in flames, fire and decay.

Everywhere we turn – a wasteland waves,
Isolated, ruined, desolate
Negativity runs deep, tagged metal in their waist bands
The urge to be free, unchained, untagged.

Meadows of green grass and daisies and yellow roses,
towering the shadows, no worries about,
Winter creeps; silently, swiftly, suavely. Now
an ocean of black roses remain in power.

Oh colourful canvas, how beautiful you used to be,
Now you’re smothered in the greyness of despair,
An intimidation of words aggressively written,
And the pain never ends

That desperate wish that someone could care!

This noose I tie is never tied tight enough,
The glistening light shivers a hope for eternal sleep
Such a shame the cut never succeeds
And an only friend has gone  

Facebook, MySpace, Twitter;
He made himself the target and ****** in,
He took their advice, took the bullet,
Their words are a complete and utter sin

My, my it was that hilarious! Honestly.
The world corrupt, no social networks,
What a laugh it was; all fits and giggles
The importance never occurred

We- the kids of this generation- know nothing
but how to navigate the internet
Them- the adults of the era- that want the best
ignorant to the life on the information highway

This world is changing,
This world is ending,
This society, will become my newest nightmare
This society, will become your newest warfare
Josiah Wilson Jun 2014
The is a ******* wasteland
Dead and dry as a bone
Just miles and miles of sand
And I wander here alone

I'm never gonna get out
The sun burns at my skin
I trip, fall to the ground
Is this how my life will end?

This desert will not **** me
I still refuse to die
Despite the burning heat
I stand and keep up the fight

Step by step I carry on
Toward my salvation
Feeling in my feet gone
Pain a fleeting sensation

I'll walk until I can't stand
Then I'll crawl on my knees
I won't die in this land
One day I'll be ******* free
Speak Knight of this foul dishonor you bring,
Unto me, your liege and rightful master.
Of this even the lowly peasants sing.
Arthur a cuckhold, the clergy murmur.
Give me words Man! Why hast thou done this thing
To me, your friend , your king and protector-
Who sat you- my right hand- at Table Round,
And heard you declare yourself honor bound?

My Liege, I am overwrought with my shame.
The woman is more than woman to me.
I am enchanted by the very name
of Guinevere- Sire, pray heed my sad plea-
Of two hearts tortured by Love's burning flame
Of kindred souls intertwined, reason free.
I say My Liege, where doth the man exist
The fair Guinevere's ample charms resist?

Best, Sir, to watch thy words, hold thy tongue fast!
You speak of the Queen, my love, and my wife!
You flaunt the Holy Writ of God at last
And play fast and loose with Eternal Life!
To foul Gehenna your soul will be cast,
to experience neverending strife.
Truly my soul is exceeding bleak.
Guard, bring the Queen that we may hear her speak.

How now my heart, that thy lips quiver so?
And tears besot thy alabaster skin?
Speak now of that which Mordred, base and low
Whispered quick, awash in the stink of gin,
Of the randy Stag and his demure Doe,
Copulating as beasts in the fields akin.
Lady, gaze into my eyes, mark me well
Speak truly now , as your tale you tell.

My Liege, Husband mine! my heart is most frail.
My soul a wasteland of desolation.
Tis true!  I met Lancelot in the vale,
And frolicked we after the setting sun,
As lovers are wont to do without fail
Where the rosy bloom of youth hath begun.
Tis true! I swear to the Good God above,
The brave Lancelot hath stolen my love.

Tis true, all too true, what Mordred hath said.
My wife, my hope, and the joy of my heart
She who I loved above all else hath shred
My life to pieces, bit by bit,part by part.
My boon companion Lancelot now dead
to me as well , who thought himself so smart.
Harken to my words, send for the court scribe
Listen well, hear thy punishment described:

Queen Guinevere, fairest of all the land,
Whose smile doth the very stars outshine,
Who once freely gave me in troth her hand,
With smoldering eyes, and words of love fine-
Creature of God with more of fairyland
Than mere mortal in your very design,
Now Adulteress, high treason thou wouldst make?
Tomorrow at dawn shall ye burn at the stake!

Lancelot, your honor lies in the dust,
Once White Knight, formidable in combat arms,
Tainted by sin and depraved ruttish lust.
The victim of a woman's haughty charms,
Who bleats of love as all feeble lost must
When rude passion ordered reason disarms.
Once friend, now foe, see your base heart's desire,
Expire at dawn, her black soul cleansed by fire.
Worth continuing the story?
Any and all criticism welcome.
Mohammad Skati Feb 2015
Everything and everyone are burning                                                                   Including our pretty memories                                                                               Anywhere and everywhere ...                                                                                  Just a little and tiny spark ignited                                                                           All that craziness that extends endlessly ...                                                             Everything is on fire                                                                                                 Simply because that tiny spark led to                                                                   Mass murders, chaos ,and disorder                                                                        Anywhere and everywhere ...                                                                                  No one believes what's Going on up to this moment ,but                                                                      Everyone believes that fixing things                                                                  Needed only some wisdom                                                                                 From here or there ...                                                                                          Childhood , womanhood ,and manhood                                                           Have all gone away with what's going on ...                                                     Horrible images of destruction and devastation                                               Are clearly visible in all directions on the ground ...                                          That spark threatens all neighbors to extend global                                         If wisdom and wise men come forward to fix it ...                                             The ugly sounds of bullets are heard to remind us                                            Of what's going on around and in all directions ...                                           Death tolls climb and misery stands up slapping                                              A pretty nation on its face without any hesitation ...                                         Nothing remains in a pretty land even that little                                              Is fading away with its tail seen sinking down .....                                            The whole pretty land has turned into that ugly                                               Wasteland that prevails as a reminder of man's cruelty ...                              ___________________­_
David Leger Oct 2012
A crown of thistles and thorns,
Worn as I walk through the Wasteland
Carrying my burdens and hope on my shoulders
The noon light and the twilight.

Step and another forward forever
Into my now broken journey ahead
Footing the edge of the final ledge
Final steps filled with regret —
Or could it be hope?

My Passion is dark from my view;
Somehow, I shine as a Beacon
To the hopeless and the desperate,
The hearts that are broken by fate.

String me up now before I destroy them all,
All along with myself, in my pain.
I was meant to be this way,
To die while I’m still pure.

My bitter victory makes you ever sweet.
My Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/DarknessFallenBlog
Elemenohp Nov 2016
The unworded truth lay twisted,
Where teething creatures stir.
Caught in the cobs of forgotten crevasse,
The doomed but dormant menace.

Thy beast shall be relieved of such burden,
Set free to light all darkness in flame
To extinguish all, til no brightness remains.

Putrid air from foul corpses, permeate the living.
Forsaking unfit, weak forces; creating a race of productive courses.
Joshua Haines Apr 2016
Fire. Orange flames waving towards the sky
with blue bellies and a hunger for havoc.

Split foot bottoms sprint, infinitely unable
to stop the annihilation swallowing whole
stained, splintered floorboards
that held sand-speckled toes,
extending high,
as embraced but separate never-lovers
kept thoughts of together
in the sky.

Gravel flickering from under heels;
might as well bounce into a void:
a place happy in its tornado-time.
Where sounds escape, return home;
abstract assurance: kind of alone.

White siding peels off
like a smoldering fingernail.
The roof holding heat
like the lid a *** kisses.

Her head halts,
with an ash blonde swoop
flailing by.
Staring and learning
the world is a skeleton dream.

Never knowing when it started.
Never knowing why.
Kelly Rose Jan 2015
Her life is a wasteland
of unfilled dreams

Why....
It's a coward she be
1/18/2015
Greenie Nov 2014
dealer looks at me
he makes time stand still
drilling through the barren sea I call my face
and I can tell he knows, just how much like jelly
my bones become with him standing there and how melty
the wasteland I call my heart gets: a phenomenon Id call unsafe and self betraying.
Seline Mui Mar 2016
Crossing the Limits: An Unforging Wasteland

Boom goes the economy
Blooming a shade darker every full moon
Ragged wires and broken tires
All we ever did was try to sustain
The pain of a million pesticides
In our food, in our dreams, in our sleep
Open your eyes and realize
The harm of every arm cut up and torn apart
Trapped in corrupted media
Brainwashed by subliminal messaging
Lend an eye for an ear and save our economy
A foreseeable wasteland near to come
Once true to youth
As with the endangered animals
Prone to extinction
And breeding babies to come
Rising with hysteria
Completion for resources, affluence, sanity
An ecological disturbance hard to ignore
Deterioration
Depletion
Destruction
Truly, the origin of the storm.
Land is a piece of us so treat it with kindness. Seasons are getting shorter and global temperature is on the rise (4 more degrees and we'll be fried.)

— The End —