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Larry Potter Jul 2013
In my heart, you are an asset
But in my mind, a liability
You are an entry I can't forget
That's slowly shaking my equity.

Loving you is an understatement
For a beauty's carrying value
And so I made an adjustment
Of the love that I must issue.

But your heart had a preference
For someone who's not me
Who can give you more dividends
Than a hopeful ordinary.

All my hope was expensed
For such unrecoverable loss
And the business I've commenced
Resulted in an opportunity cost.

And so you went depreciating
Ending this going concern
There's this pain accumulating
From a romance unearned.

Now I'm left here to close
All the journals I've made
Correct the errors I chose
For a love that I would trade.
She had a needle ***** pin for his dream balloon
He laughed at her faith
Mocked it
Loathed it for what he perceived
It had done to him
Long before she ever came around
This was something that she never knew
But what she did know was enough
She had a Mason jar for his unearned tears
She kept a wooden box full of nails
To hold up the boards
That blocked the sun
And kept the birds out
He wanted to jump off a mountain cliff
To feel free in the fall
To prove her wrong
She had a cat of nine tails and a whiplash smile
When he asked her to dance she said it wasn't her style
from Bipolar Confessional
http://bipolarconfessional.blogspot.com
© 2010 by James Arthur Casey
Hariharan S Oct 2015
It is safe.
The road is.
I have tried it.
My feet have walked it.

Let’s leave.

Let the pen stay.
On the desk, untouched.
Let the book remain.
On the shelf, unread.
Let the wealth remain.
Unearned.

Life is on the road.
I give you my hand.

Are you coming?
Keith W Fletcher Jun 2016
Broke
Unable to finalize any purchase
Checking
For change in the last places that one searches
Insufficient
To the point I'm unable to ward off the throes of destitution
Bankrupted
By devaluing those who have not made restitution
Insolvent
To the point of having to fight off the urge to curse
Disallowed by the prose that places value and give credit....to verse
Denied
Any credit accrued....maybe even unearned
Reevaluation
With no accounting for the time you
SPENT
Learning what you have learned
Depreciation or Appreciation
Cannot be quantified by the lack of someone.saying thanks
Interest will eventually be of value
Once accrued... but for now I must accept
That I'm simply overdrawn at my memory banks
Investment in my own value
Will allow me growth
In my own ...
......personal
Checking account
Helping me in balancing  the books
Keeping me payed up and happy
BY
Always giving others their true valuation
  So that ego doesnt become a currency
That is subject to... such a devastating inflation
No more of talk where God or Angel guest
With Man, as with his friend, familiar us’d,
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
Rural repast; permitting him the while
Venial discourse unblam’d. I now must change
Those notes to tragick; foul distrust, and breach
Disloyal on the part of Man, revolt,
And disobedience: on the part of Heaven
Now alienated, distance and distaste,
Anger and just rebuke, and judgement given,
That brought into this world a world of woe,
Sin and her shadow Death, and Misery
Death’s harbinger: Sad talk!yet argument
Not less but more heroick than the wrath
Of stern Achilles on his foe pursued
Thrice fugitive about Troy wall; or rage
Of Turnus for Lavinia disespous’d;
Or Neptune’s ire, or Juno’s, that so long
Perplexed the Greek, and Cytherea’s son:                        

If answerable style I can obtain
Of my celestial patroness, who deigns
Her nightly visitation unimplor’d,
And dictates to me slumbering; or inspires
Easy my unpremeditated verse:
Since first this subject for heroick song
Pleas’d me long choosing, and beginning late;
Not sedulous by nature to indite
Wars, hitherto the only argument
Heroick deem’d chief mastery to dissect
With long and tedious havock fabled knights
In battles feign’d; the better fortitude
Of patience and heroick martyrdom
Unsung; or to describe races and games,
Or tilting furniture, imblazon’d shields,
Impresses quaint, caparisons and steeds,
Bases and tinsel trappings, gorgeous knights
At joust and tournament; then marshall’d feast
Serv’d up in hall with sewers and seneshals;
The skill of artifice or office mean,
Not that which justly gives heroick name
To person, or to poem.  Me, of these
Nor skill’d nor studious, higher argument
Remains; sufficient of itself to raise
That name, unless an age too late, or cold
Climate, or years, damp my intended wing
Depress’d; and much they may, if all be mine,
Not hers, who brings it nightly to my ear.
The sun was sunk, and after him the star
Of Hesperus, whose office is to bring
Twilight upon the earth, short arbiter
“twixt day and night, and now from end to end
Night’s hemisphere had veil’d the horizon round:
When satan, who late fled before the threats
Of Gabriel out of Eden, now improv’d
In meditated fraud and malice, bent
On Man’s destruction, maugre what might hap
Of heavier on himself, fearless returned
From compassing the earth; cautious of day,
Since Uriel, regent of the sun, descried
His entrance, and foreworned the Cherubim
That kept their watch; thence full of anguish driven,
The space of seven continued nights he rode
With darkness; thrice the equinoctial line
He circled; four times crossed the car of night
From pole to pole, traversing each colure;
On the eighth returned; and, on the coast averse
From entrance or Cherubick watch, by stealth
Found unsuspected way.  There was a place,
Now not, though sin, not time, first wrought the change,
Where Tigris, at the foot of Paradise,
Into a gulf shot under ground, till part
Rose up a fountain by the tree of life:
In with the river sunk, and with it rose
Satan, involved in rising mist; then sought
Where to lie hid; sea he had searched, and land,
From Eden over Pontus and the pool
Maeotis, up beyond the river Ob;
Downward as far antarctick; and in length,
West from Orontes to the ocean barred
At Darien ; thence to the land where flows
Ganges and Indus: Thus the orb he roamed
With narrow search; and with inspection deep
Considered every creature, which of all
Most opportune might serve his wiles; and found
The Serpent subtlest beast of all the field.
Him after long debate, irresolute
Of thoughts revolved, his final sentence chose
Fit vessel, fittest imp of fraud, in whom
To enter, and his dark suggestions hide
From sharpest sight: for, in the wily snake
Whatever sleights, none would suspicious mark,
As from his wit and native subtlety
Proceeding; which, in other beasts observed,
Doubt might beget of diabolick power
Active within, beyond the sense of brute.
Thus he resolved, but first from inward grief
His bursting passion into plaints thus poured.
More justly, seat worthier of Gods, as built
With second thoughts, reforming what was old!
O Earth, how like to Heaven, if not preferred
For what God, after better, worse would build?
Terrestrial Heaven, danced round by other Heavens
That shine, yet bear their bright officious lamps,
Light above light, for thee alone, as seems,
In thee concentring all their precious beams
Of sacred influence!  As God in Heaven
Is center, yet extends to all; so thou,
Centring, receivest from all those orbs: in thee,
Not in themselves, all their known virtue appears
Productive in herb, plant, and nobler birth
Of creatures animate with gradual life
Of growth, sense, reason, all summed up in Man.
With what delight could I have walked thee round,
If I could joy in aught, sweet interchange
Of hill, and valley, rivers, woods, and plains,
Now land, now sea and shores with forest crowned,
Rocks, dens, and caves!  But I in none of these
Find place or refuge; and the more I see
Pleasures about me, so much more I feel
Torment within me, as from the hateful siege
Of contraries: all good to me becomes
Bane, and in Heaven much worse would be my state.
But neither here seek I, no nor in Heaven
To dwell, unless by mastering Heaven’s Supreme;
Nor hope to be myself less miserable
By what I seek, but others to make such
As I, though thereby worse to me redound:
For only in destroying I find ease
To my relentless thoughts; and, him destroyed,
Or won to what may work his utter loss,
For whom all this was made, all this will soon
Follow, as to him linked in weal or woe;
In woe then; that destruction wide may range:
To me shall be the glory sole among
The infernal Powers, in one day to have marred
What he, Almighty styled, six nights and days
Continued making; and who knows how long
Before had been contriving? though perhaps
Not longer than since I, in one night, freed
From servitude inglorious well nigh half
The angelick name, and thinner left the throng
Of his adorers: He, to be avenged,
And to repair his numbers thus impaired,
Whether such virtue spent of old now failed
More Angels to create, if they at least
Are his created, or, to spite us more,
Determined to advance into our room
A creature formed of earth, and him endow,
Exalted from so base original,
With heavenly spoils, our spoils: What he decreed,
He effected; Man he made, and for him built
Magnificent this world, and earth his seat,
Him lord pronounced; and, O indignity!
Subjected to his service angel-wings,
And flaming ministers to watch and tend
Their earthly charge: Of these the vigilance
I dread; and, to elude, thus wrapt in mist
Of midnight vapour glide obscure, and pry
In every bush and brake, where hap may find
The serpent sleeping; in whose mazy folds
To hide me, and the dark intent I bring.
O foul descent! that I, who erst contended
With Gods to sit the highest, am now constrained
Into a beast; and, mixed with ******* slime,
This essence to incarnate and imbrute,
That to the highth of Deity aspired!
But what will not ambition and revenge
Descend to?  Who aspires, must down as low
As high he soared; obnoxious, first or last,
To basest things.  Revenge, at first though sweet,
Bitter ere long, back on itself recoils:
Let it; I reck not, so it light well aimed,
Since higher I fall short, on him who next
Provokes my envy, this new favourite
Of Heaven, this man of clay, son of despite,
Whom, us the more to spite, his Maker raised
From dust: Spite then with spite is best repaid.
So saying, through each thicket dank or dry,
Like a black mist low-creeping, he held on
His midnight-search, where soonest he might find
The serpent; him fast-sleeping soon he found
In labyrinth of many a round self-rolled,
His head the midst, well stored with subtile wiles:
Not yet in horrid shade or dismal den,
Nor nocent yet; but, on the grassy herb,
Fearless unfeared he slept: in at his mouth
The Devil entered; and his brutal sense,
In heart or head, possessing, soon inspired
With act intelligential; but his sleep
Disturbed not, waiting close the approach of morn.
Now, when as sacred light began to dawn
In Eden on the humid flowers, that breathed
Their morning incense, when all things, that breathe,
From the Earth’s great altar send up silent praise
To the Creator, and his nostrils fill
With grateful smell, forth came the human pair,
And joined their vocal worship to the quire
Of creatures wanting voice; that done, partake
The season prime for sweetest scents and airs:
Then commune, how that day they best may ply
Their growing work: for much their work out-grew
The hands’ dispatch of two gardening so wide,
And Eve first to her husband thus began.
Adam, well may we labour still to dress
This garden, still to tend plant, herb, and flower,
Our pleasant task enjoined; but, till more hands
Aid us, the work under our labour grows,
Luxurious by restraint; what we by day
Lop overgrown, or prune, or prop, or bind,
One night or two with wanton growth derides
Tending to wild.  Thou therefore now advise,
Or bear what to my mind first thoughts present:
Let us divide our labours; thou, where choice
Leads thee, or where most needs, whether to wind
The woodbine round this arbour, or direct
The clasping ivy where to climb; while I,
In yonder spring of roses intermixed
With myrtle, find what to redress till noon:
For, while so near each other thus all day
Our task we choose, what wonder if so near
Looks intervene and smiles, or object new
Casual discourse draw on; which intermits
Our day’s work, brought to little, though begun
Early, and the hour of supper comes unearned?
To whom mild answer Adam thus returned.
Sole Eve, associate sole, to me beyond
Compare above all living creatures dear!
Well hast thou motioned, well thy thoughts employed,
How we might best fulfil the work which here
God hath assigned us; nor of me shalt pass
Unpraised: for nothing lovelier can be found
In woman, than to study houshold good,
And good works in her husband to promote.
Yet not so strictly hath our Lord imposed
Labour, as to debar us when we need
Refreshment, whether food, or talk between,
Food of the mind, or this sweet *******
Of looks and smiles; for smiles from reason flow,
To brute denied, and are of love the food;
Love, not the lowest end of human life.
For not to irksome toil, but to delight,
He made us, and delight to reason joined.
These paths and bowers doubt not but our joint hands
Will keep from wilderness with ease, as wide
As we need walk, till younger hands ere long
Assist us; But, if much converse perhaps
Thee satiate, to short absence I could yield:
For solitude sometimes is best society,
And short retirement urges sweet return.
But other doubt possesses me, lest harm
Befall thee severed from me; for thou knowest
What hath been warned us, what malicious foe
Envying our happiness, and of his own
Despairing, seeks to work us woe and shame
By sly assault; and somewhere nigh at hand
Watches, no doubt, with greedy hope to find
His wish and best advantage, us asunder;
Hopeless to circumvent us joined, where each
To other speedy aid might lend at need:
Whether his first design be to withdraw
Our fealty from God, or to disturb
Conjugal love, than which perhaps no bliss
Enjoyed by us excites his envy more;
Or this, or worse, leave not the faithful side
That gave thee being, still shades thee, and protects.
The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks,
Safest and seemliest by her husband stays,
Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.
To whom the ****** majesty of Eve,
As one who loves, and some unkindness meets,
With sweet austere composure thus replied.
Offspring of Heaven and Earth, and all Earth’s Lord!
That such an enemy we have, who seeks
Our ruin, both by thee informed I learn,
And from the parting Angel over-heard,
As in a shady nook I stood behind,
Just then returned at shut of evening flowers.
But, that thou shouldst my firmness therefore doubt
To God or thee, because we have a foe
May tempt it, I expected not to hear.
His violence thou fearest not, being such
As we, not capable of death or pain,
Can either not receive, or can repel.
His fraud is then thy fear; which plain infers
Thy equal fear, that my firm faith and love
Can by his fraud be shaken or seduced;
Thoughts, which how found they harbour in thy breast,
Adam, mis-thought of her to thee so dear?
To whom with healing words Adam replied.
Daughter of God and Man, immortal Eve!
For such thou art; from sin and blame entire:
Not diffident of thee do I dissuade
Thy absence from my sight, but to avoid
The attempt itself, intended by our foe.
For he who tempts, though in vain, at least asperses
The tempted with dishonour foul; supposed
Not incorruptible of faith, not proof
Against temptation: Thou thyself with scorn
And anger wouldst resent the offered wrong,
Though ineffectual found: misdeem not then,
If such affront I labour to avert
From thee alone, which on us both at once
The enemy, though bold, will hardly dare;
Or daring, first on me the assault shall light.
Nor thou his malice and false guile contemn;
Subtle he needs must be, who could ******
Angels; nor think superfluous other’s aid.
I, from the influence of thy looks, receive
Access in every virtue; in thy sight
More wise, more watchful, stronger, if need were
Of outward strength; while shame, thou looking on,
Shame to be overcome or over-reached,
Would utmost vigour raise, and raised unite.
Why shouldst not thou like sense within thee feel
When I am present, and thy trial choose
With me, best witness of thy virtue tried?
So spake domestick Adam in his care
And matrimonial love; but Eve, who thought
Less attributed to her faith sincere,
Thus her reply with accent sweet renewed.
If this be our condition, thus to dwell
In narrow circuit straitened by a foe,
Subtle or violent, we not endued
Single with like defence, wherever met;
How are we happy, still in fear of harm?
But harm precedes not sin: only our foe,
Tempting, affronts us with his foul esteem
Of our integrity: his foul esteem
Sticks no dishonour on our front, but turns
Foul on himself; then wherefore shunned or feared
By us? who rather double honour gain
From his surmise proved false; find peace within,
Favour from Heaven, our witness, from the event.
And what is faith, love, virtue, unassayed
Alone, without exteriour help sustained?
Let us not then suspect our happy state
Left so imperfect by the Maker wise,
As not secure to single or combined.
Frail is our happiness, if this be so,
And Eden were no Eden, thus exposed.
To whom thus Adam fervently replied.
O Woman, best are all things as the will
Of God ordained them: His creating hand
Nothing imperfect or deficient left
Of all that he created, much less Man,
Or aught that might his happy state secure,
Secure from outward force; within himself
The danger lies, yet lies within his power:
Against his will he can receive no harm.
But God left free the will; for what obeys
Reason, is free; and Reason he made right,
But bid her well be ware, and still *****;
Lest, by some fair-appearing good surprised,
She dictate false; and mis-inform the will
To do what God expressly hath forbid.
Not then mistrust, but tender love, enjoins,
That I should mind thee oft; and mind thou me.
Firm we subsist, yet possible to swerve;
Since Reason not impossibly may meet
Some specious object by the foe suborned,
And fall into deception unaware,
Not keeping strictest watch, as she was warned.
Seek not temptation then, which to avoid
Were better, and most likely if from me
Thou sever not: Trial will come unsought.
Wouldst thou approve thy constancy, approve
First thy obedience; the other who can know,
Not seeing thee attempted, who attest?
But, if thou think, trial unsought may find
Us both securer than thus warned thou seemest,
Go; for thy stay, not fre
ConnectHook Sep 2015
☮ ☮ ☮

Society needs more Social Justice.
Humanity needs peaceworkers.

Peace and Social Justice must be promoted aggressively. There are inequities that must be addressed. Power is not equally distributed. Neither are resources or wealth. Neither are poetic gifts or vision equitably distributed. Unearned privilege is rampant. Poetry must confront this global crisis of capitalist exploitation and manipulation. Poetry must speak to the masses. Poetry must radicalize and inform consciousness to new levels of social change. Marginalized citizens must be empowered. All ******, gender-based, racial, religious, age-based, homophobic, xenophobic, and gynophobic bigots must be brought to see in a new way through our poetry. Community building and local empowerment are of the order. Our poetry must be global in scope – yet rooted and grounded in local community empowerment. Selfless acts of service to promote and increase Social Justice are needed. Lives selflessly devoted to establishing social justice are called for. Our poetic lives must be laid on the altar of the dis-enfranchised and unrepresented. We, as consciously aware poets, must advocate and speak out for those who have no voice.

We, as poets, must, through stirring words of Social Justice, embody through our radical verses the burning hope of a just and sustainable future. This future must become increasingly collective as formerly marginalized consumers become empowered community-builders  –  through our poetry. As poets of the sustainable future we will empower and inform. Our poetry must collectivize, entitle and enslave. We must speak with ONE VOICE: the voice of change and social justice. Our words will rise with healing in their wings and lift whole communities from despair to radicalized self-awareness in communities filled with strident, intolerant and maniacal practitioners of PEACE & SOCIAL JUSTICE. All poets who do not lay their entire creative and lyrical selves on the altar of struggle to bring CHANGE and SOCIAL JUSTICE will be LIQUIDATED by our own EMPOWERED POETRY. IN THE END WE WILL WRITE A PURE POETRY OF SOCIAL CHANGE, ALL IN CAPS, AND THIS POETRY OF SOCIAL JUSTICE AND EMPOWERMENT WILL BE READ OVER THE GRAVES OF ALL SELL-OUT, CORPORATE, FASCIST, SNITCHING, SELFISH, UNEMPOWERED AND UNEMPOWERING TRAITORS AND ENEMIES OF SOCIAL JUSTICE.  IN THE END THERE WILL BE NO PUNCTUATION OR EVEN WORDS ONLY PURE IMAGES OF CHANGE + VISIONARY COLLABORATION IN SOCIAL TRANSFORMATION/MAYBE SLASH MARKS/OKAY MAYBE EXCLAMATION POINTS TOO BUT ONLY THOSE !

WHY? BECAUSE THE ONLY GOOD POET IS A LIVING POET WHO HAS LIQUIDATED EVERY FALSE POET NOT COMMITTED TO THE STRUGGLE FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE !

LONG LIVE POETRY IN ACTION THROUGH CHANGE!
WRITE/SPEAK/AGITATE
FOR  **SOCIAL JUSTICE  & EMPOWERMENT !


POETRY IS STRUGGLE☻
STRUGGLE IS CHANGE☻
CHANGE REQUIRES SOCIAL JUSTICE☻
SOCIAL JUSTICE BRINGS PEACE☻
PEACE BRINGS WAR☻
WAR BRINGS CONFUSION & DEATH☻

(SO DON’T BE CONFUSED)
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2014/04/03/agitating-the-spin-cycle/

☠☻☭
New Zealand culture,
a fragility,
tainted by violence.
Colonisation.

Writers have examined,
the loss of Maori land.
Less common however,
is writing concerned with
the benefits,
accruing to white people
as a result of the acquisition
of this land.

Colonisation has provided,
Economic and social advantages,
to white people,
in contemporary New Zealand.

A hierarchy,
white Western culture,
sitting uncontested,
at its pinnacle.

The cultural capital that whiteness provides.
Unearned advantages at our disposal.
Live our lives with greater ease:
Homeownership.
Health.
Education.
The ‘Justice’ System.
Institutional privilege.
A political separation.

The white New Zealand system,
designed for whites.
To get through school,
have good health,
get jobs,
get a little justice.
If the system was designed,
for Maori people
it would not be the way it is now.

Overrepresentation of Maori,
in every
negative
New Zealand
social statistic.

The persistence of *******.
Society provides greater opportunities,
to white people,
by disadvantaging those who are not.
Unacknowledged,
debilitating, racism.

Being oblivious,
sustains a belief,
in white superiority.

While factors:
socioeconomic status, gender,
sexuality, disability,
may impact the degree to which,
individual white people,
can access privilege.
On some level,
every white person,
in New Zealand
benefits from their skin.
Maori are made fun of for being benefit users. The title is a pun given all the benefits white people get.

Also this was a found poem from the academic article White Privilege: Exploring the (in)visibility of Pakeha whiteness by Claire Frances Gray.
onlylovepoetry Mar 2019
~for Wendy ~

with my almost two years old poetry advisor,
who loves her Sunday rituals, an extra sabbath,
of waffles and Shrek, kid’s gym and artistic endeavors,
cozying up with Nana and siblings in a big old bed,
snacking and chewing on the good silk sheets

as always, she and and I go off to have an intellectual conversation,
letting the older ones to do kid stuff, while we converse and debate
topics of nature vs. nurture, the weather vs. climate change,
and the future of everything, unbeknownst to everyone else

which is greater, love or honor, she inquires,
sensing my thoughts are preoccupied with matters of honor...
as she strokes my itchy, scratchy day old face,
insuring her having my full attention, while
taking advantage of my loving weakness

grandpa:
honor over everything my opening gambit,
while she coyly harrumphs in response,
one can love without reason for such are
our natural souls programmed,
but honor needs concentration and contemplation,
and if done right,
then love will surely follow!

She-Woman:
ah ha! once again you sidle up to nurture,
cause love is too inexplicable,
old man, old man, did I not love you before
any season of reason crossed my brow,
and my vocabulary consisted of just
more, no, toy and hungry

what did I know of Aristotle, logic, codes of conduct,
the definition of honor yet abstract,
while love is nature’s illogical construct,
coming first without restrictions,
while honor is malleable and
property of the eye of the beholder

grandpa:
wise beyond your tears, you are, and unquestionably correct,
but while coming first, love cannot last,
until cover-coated with honor,
for honor gives us the because, and locks down the why,
honor gives the insight, the rationale, the rules of how to say
yes and no, when love is tendered and an R.S.V.P. is requested

She-Woman:
absent experience, for now will concede,
but be warned this is not over,
fo you have not brought me a definition of what truly honor be

grandpa:
honor is the housing of love, and though you granted me your favor,
comes the day that you will demand proofs that
what was unearthed & unearned
is now earned, a course in credit, a baccalaureate in life’s lanes,
when to heed them, when to crossover, when to say I do, I do,
no to someone else alone, and yes to your honorable self

She-Woman:
adult double speak, I suspect, and you will rue the day
when forced to concede, with a wrenched
‘child, I do not know,’
meanwhile change my diaper
after I karate chop your knee

Grandpa:
yes child, but know,  two of your requests/notifications are
honorable acts and/know real love can be ONLY be exchanged
tween honorable humans
see photo for her  in position preparing to strike

3/3/19 9:45 am
Paul R Mott Mar 2012
A child without water,
a rich man drinks his coffee.

A father unable to provide,
a rich kid gets a new car.

A mother lies awake, body ravaged by AIDS,
while the Hollywood hills expose their costly ills.

The dream of equality is nowhere to be found
while the lives of the many are repressed and pushed down.

Executives and suits lived gluttonous youths
while a father works to death to fill his children’s mouths.

There is a solution to this problem of society,
one which the telethon celebs won’t give up quietly.

It doesn’t involve guilt-trips on TV.
It doesn’t need attention constantly.

Socialites shouldn’t seek their own satisfaction
if the only result is our continued inaction.

What is really necessary, what really needs doing,
is to get out there and get ourselves moving.

It’s the work of us commoners
that will fill up the bellies.

It’s the donation of the middle class
that will educate young ladies.

The revolution of giving needs to be started
or else who will care when our own lives grow stunted?

The world all together relies on us all
to give out our hand and make our brothers stand tall.

It’s these simple acts which will strengthen the pillars
of mutual respect for our society’s sisters.

So don’t wait any longer for a celeb to rise up.
It’s these people below them who’ll fill up the cup.

No debutante or heir can fill every belly
by thinking of their pride and unearned glory.

Never before has it felt so right
to be the common man, helping a peer in his plight.
Carla Blaschka Jul 2015
Fig Pizza melts on my tongue
Dark Chocolate lightening my mood
I could be squashed on the street
Run over by revolution
But I’m not
I could be shot in the abdomen
1…2…3 times for not paying a bus fare
But I’m not

My mood is blue
But my skin is white
I am fed, housed, clothed
Owe debt but cannot be jailed
Don’t have a job but have friends
I am not desperate
Just sad
I am not in isolation
Just a witness to those who are
I am not sick
But see its effects everywhere
I am not rich
But I am, I am
Written 1/24/15. In honor of Oscar Perez Giron fatally shot by police over a bus fare.
Yenson Nov 2018
A journo aware, equally at home in Palaces, Halls or the streets
Trained to vision duplicity slants and angles and know the crux
Able to see the story behind the story behind the story and more
In ethics robed proudly while mendacity and shenanigans cry shy
Show me the Dai Lama in a crack den or Bill Gates ******* in Goa

Semi demi illiterates with joined-up thinking or unthinking
Immatures lacking emotional intelligence or gainful statures
In groupthink mired settles on group delusions in vicissitudes
We're programming or flooding seeds of doubts or confusing
As if maladroit fantasies are gospels not simpletons' chicanery

Dismissives sad dolts duly outflanked and outclassed inherently
Ignoramuses crude and coarse in true form lacking introspection
Wear disgrace proudly in persistence and parade idiocy fittingly
Strength in numbers neither nullifying stupidity or indignities
Indulgent cowards and sick gate-keeps of unearned entitlements

Nonentities, rabble rousers shamed vigilantes in emotional dearth
Claiming and luxuriating in the depravities of their deficiencies
I remain what I am and no apologies necessary for august status
Your diminutive deeds merely reflects your statures and intellects
Little minds already condemn you to suicides of real aspirations



CopyrightLaurenceA6thNov2018.allrightsreserved
Graff1980 Aug 2016
Last night the truth was in the bottle. It may be a tad bit cliché, but the stripping away of my cognitive functions was a relaxing endeavor. Okay, there’s nothing cliché about that last sentence. Still, there I was past the crowded living room, cluttered with soda cans and people, past the small kitchen and the three guys playing cards, past the three wine coolers sipped through a straw, and the mixed drinks, pass all that there was the truth.
Dropping the regular essence of me, I slid behind the idiot clown. I tripped and stumbled, babbled and mumbled. My emotions unguarded, I spewed love almost as much as I spewed chunks of a greasy sausage pizza with little chewed up black olives. It was fun. One moment of not thinking. One moment of not dealing with the concrete and the abstract, the struggles and oppressions, my realistic paranoia and dark observations. I plopped limply down on the couch then slid off the side of it jokingly. The ground shuddered with a soft thud.  My friends laughed. I laughed. The truth is I like the sound of innocent laughter. It is a relief. All those synapse spitting out calming fluids. Till, what little stress that was left disappears.

     Before that the truth was in caffeine induced writing frenzies. There were small interludes of creativity swirling around dark depressive moods. I pushed and prodded the black keys as if I was chipping away chunks of stone on a marble sculpture; exposing myself and my truths.

     Someone told me that to be a great writer doesn’t require me to suffer. I thought it’s a good thing they’re not mutually exclusive, because the truth is I was suffering long before I started to write. The doubt which comes from learning more and more bled me to the verge of insanity. Maybe it was vanity that pushed me to seek the truth.

     Before that the truth was in quiet walks. The strolls down old dirt paths and memory lanes, crossing the mental traffic of past and present. I lingered at the jagged grey sparkling stone markers, sitting on newly grass covered plots, just hanging out at the graveyard because it was quiet. I wasn’t some emo kid. The truth was that I just preferred the quiet. It was the same reason I raced through the day to get to the night. Night was as nonjudgmental as the pine infested graveyard. No harsh sun glaring down. No strangers staring at me until I had to turn my head to the ground. The truth was the quiet, and the quiet was liberating.

      Before that the truth was in books. Kernels of wisdom locked in works of fiction. Little leather bound universes creeping in and transforming my mind.  Now, I prefer biographies; back then I loved the fantasies. Though in truth all nonfiction is fiction, because all reality is perceived relatively and written thusly. So, I stashed book in my back pack and back tracked down old alley ways to read away the lonely days. I sat in those dark corners, the dusty gravel biting my big bubble ****, but I was there for the quiet.

      Before that there was science. Beakers and Bunsen burners burning out atoms, and chlorophyll. I never really felt I had a talent for their postulates or formulas. Yet their subtle certainty, mired in uncertainty was appealing. They offered ever evolving truths. The strange transition from one logical position to the next and I was willing to adapt to any new facts.

      Before that there was god. I was his egotistically elevated idiot child. I could converse with adults on their level because in this they were as juvenile as I was; those ancient books that no longer make sense to me. Then it was the emotion of loving unearned certainty. The comfort of cowering beneath the awe and love of an all-powerful and all-knowing father figure, I called it the truth.

      Sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep, cause a life’s worth of anxiety was hounding me the truth was in the music. Soft sounding syllables serenading me to sleep, moving to the rhythm of a calmly flowing beat. The music gave me something to focus on. It was a converging point to calm the chaos. Once in a while the music would play out some story or point out some struggle. My Tracy Chapman that was the truth.

       Sleep was preferable to the waking madness of daily living. So, if I was tired I slept. People used to make me feel guilty about it. However, I realized that sleep healed the body and the mind. Sleep let me dream. Dreams let me do things beyond reality. They directed me to grand fantasies, or pointed out painful truths about myself. I could wake up crying, or I could go to bed sad and wake up content. That was the truth.  

       In-between all these things I pondered relative and certain truth. Was it constant or changing based on perception? People passed, none returned. I got older. Now my teeth are starting to rot right out of my face, but I still devour information; listening to the wild tales of strangers. Sometimes, I trust too much, other times I trust no one.

      The truth is I exist, amidst whatever this existence is. Beyond that I cannot clearly define this reality. What is the truth?
Hannah Currier Oct 2012
I join with you today.
the nation
in whose symbolic shadow we stand,
seared in the withering flames of injustice.
daybreak on a lonely island
in the midst of a vast ocean of material
architects -
wrote the sacred obligation:
give the people a bad check -
“insufficient funds.”
the bank of justice is bankrupt
in the great vaults of opportunity, of
the fierce urgency of now.
whirlwinds shake the foundations of my people.
by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred,
high plane of dignity - degenerate.
veterans of creative suffering! unearned suffering!
sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression
not judged by the color of their skin, but
by the content of their banks!
a poem constructed of lines from Martin Luther King Jr.'s speech 'I Have a Dream.' three words added.
Desire Mar 2019
GRACE | MERCY | LOVE | RIGHTEOUSNESS

"YOU DON'T NEED TO EARN IT...
STOP TRYING...
AMEN"

[DCNYC]

@desire.is.dope
20190317
2300HRS
UNEARNED | UNDESERVED
Dominion City NYC
20190317
@desire.is.dope
- Jul 2014
Do not let our love be forged in sweet ease,
Nor should vanity be used as our base.
Let not our joy be a product of peace,
Nor should we dwell on our warmest embrace.

Let our love be a product of roughness,
Let it be steeped in our tears and shed blood.
Let our anger be the source of toughness,
And we will stand against the coming flood.

Let all the others take their unearned love,
With its ease and hugs, and their flowers, too.
So that when, as always, push comes to shove
We will stand as one, not apart as two

The flood will sweep away all the others
As we stand as the only true lovers.
My fingers have learned
how it feels
to get burned.
When your every
“I’m Sorry”, left a scar,
deep and unearned.

The words on your lips
whispered the truth
while you slept.
Leaving me no longer wondering
why you smiled
as I wept.

My heart finds itself smiling
into the numbness
of your vacancy.
Your memory’s grown silent
and is now dead
to me.
**Copyright @2014 - Neva Flores Smith - Changefulstorm**
The begging God
Holds forth His greedy hands
Palms up
Lifeline unbroken
A vending machine
Without a coin slot
Asks for a dime
Expects a dollar

A greedy deity
Who dances with demons
Listens to gibberish
Suffers fools gladly
Insisting
"This is the Way, the Truth, the Life
This is the way it's done, it's all you must do
This the truth: P.T. Barnum was right
This is the life, unearned and unpaid for
A wise investor's goldmine
A field of dreams for sale, barren
Blood money for more seed
It's yours for the asking"

The begging God
Patron saint of confidence and extortion
Comforts the elderly
Patiently waiting
For
The Big Payoff
For
It's easy to convince them
To expect a windfall
Green Granny Smith apples
On sale
Ten for a dollar
Tiny serpent worms munch tunnels
In nine of them
The gambling deity
Lays odds on whether or not
Their shiny skins will ever be broken
By coffee stained teeth or pearl shiny dentures
He knows they will
For
They are hungry, starving, famished
He also knows they will throw away all ten
When they bite into one bad apple
from Bipolar Confessional
http://bipolarconfessional.blogspot.com
© 2010 by James Arthur Casey
Jafer Ali Khan Jul 2018
Living in a different time zone, still reeling from past decisions.

Fighting venemous events to no avail,
not letting go of lasting mass incisions.

Excision of life's excitements.
Removal of my livers, kidneys, colons,
but still, I shiver in the coldness
of the living.

Admitting to the voices in my head,
that the Lord's mercy still extends,
into heaven for the choices of the dead,
who did the devil's bidding.

A foolish folly for a younger self,
to fall afoot amongst a rotten hell,
hellish landscape brought into the realm,
of mortals and the bedroom shelves.

All my dreams upon a table,
and in the dusty drawers there lies the pain.
Honestly I'm never able,
to entrust another lover with my reigns.

To fly I must begin to build momentum,
but something's caught up on me and instead preventing.

And slowing my ascension,

Also did I mention,
that every other moment that I spend here in atonement
is a ticking to a redder deathly sentence.

Repentance, with a mix of learned and unearned lessons, accuses those who lied.
Impresses extra stress especially when the ghostly men attend and lean up on my bedside.

I use to shy away but now I stare them in the eyes.

Fear's been long gone since childhood,
when crazy layovers in hazy places
played a part of strongly breaking bonds with those I thought were good.

I've felt my death a million times and dreamed it millions more.
And yet I never let myself fall victim to the final tricks of it's afflictions.

Meaning it's a situation still remaining unexplored.

I know what I lived for, and I know exists a future still in store.

But god ******* ****** life is such a chore.

Lord,
Give me strength and give me more.
She leans on faith
As victims do
To make it through
To heaven's gate;

And though she cries
Black swollen eyes,
Her feet two bleed
On sacred ground;

Her battered pride
She tries to hide
Under the guise
Of laughter;

She wears a smile
For every mile
Of sorrow
Life throws at her;

She shakes a dollar
From a dime
And makes
Her quarters cry;

She gathers pennies
By the roll
Until the well
Runs dry;

Her only vice:
A man of ice
Who brings her
Joy and pain;

From gothic eyes
To granite fists,
She's shackled
To his chains;

And scores of us
Who know her not
Do scoff
And call her names;

We judge her plight
From distant heights
Like Gods
Of her domain;

We know not why
She wears a smile
For every mile
Of sorrow;

Perhaps she knows
That woes unearned
Are all redeemed
Tomorrow ...

Perhaps she knows
That woes unearned
Are all redeemed
Tomorrow...

~ P
(#RedemptionSong)
3/20/14
Gods1son Oct 2019
Ocean deep, sky high
Your love for me knows no bounds
Even when I act a fool,
You never stopped being faithful
Sometimes I wonder what you see in me
It must be Your own image that you see
Even though I feel like I don't deserve it
Yet I wouldn't live a day without it
What can I ever do without Your love
I rely on it more than my blood
Your love for me is pristine & unearned
All I've got to say is... Thank You, Lord!
Emme Apr 2013
Younger men, much younger, wash up against me.
Sometimes desperation, sometimes belt notching.
It's not a matter of age or experience or skill.

It's the unearned arrogance and presumption that puts me off
And it has nothing to do with chronological age, either.

I don't want to be with a tally **' of any sort. And it's not about what he can buy with money. Thoughtful generosity is quite another thing, though.

I want...I want...someone who's been hurt, who's experienced loss and reeled under it, lived through it and who has survived and thrived.
Who is both softer and harder for it. Who has compassion for and expectations of me. Who can be harsh and tender with me.

And me no less for him.

//
What is physical attractiveness, anyway?
It's not conventional, plastic perfection. You cling to that fallacy, you lose.
Sometimes, I am toppled into vulnerability by the shape of his mouth, the feel of his cheek when I touch, the way light or emotion moves in his eyes, his voice when he is on the phone for work, the way hair lies on his arm, how he is in conversation with a child or pet, the strength of his legs, personal scent, the unguarded expression caught. The way he hums.

An unexpected sweetness that moves me.

Grace
Im coming of age
In the era of the devoid
Hollow greed seeps unearned
from elephanitus of love  

all the dead *** heads
and the glorifed child **** stars
live in tandem with virginity commerce
a descriptive high full of lies

here we are raised to never forget
the look on a beautiful girls face
when the zippers break and all the mallets fall
when mud and blood and ***** mix to a collegiate concoction

Leaving her to bear the scabbing burns
The openings the ambrosia flesh wounds
The giant stamp of pulsing indecency

The markings don’t go so well with her hollow moon smiles
They don’t blend with her regal clavicles
To bend them in with a wrench
Would do no damage to this already feral *****

Don’t try to hide
The billboards may be sagging
But they carry the message loud and effeminate
All the drum ticks and coated arteries will explode
They cant be stopped

Mucho gusto, muy bien
All that we ever where locked into some
Tooth paste stained and tattered bibliomeca
It is true I have become that broken shameful collection
Which we are taught to stain in the wood works of our memory

I turn to page 1168
And I know that the bruises will be permanent
Surrounding the globe and bridging in the gaps
The ones that they left between your calamity eyes

Will they still love me with one foot locked in a bear trap
And a hobo having the last of my eyelashes ?
Or  maybe just the scary albinos at the san Francisco bar scene
Hailey Jujubeen Nov 2013
It’d be important to recognize a throat scorned
by the acid that boils deep from expired words churned
Unearned and unarmed a bruise that persists
Patricia Drake Feb 2013
When the sun in the sky projects
Its fabulous beams of light
I am able to view Earth's beauty
Which is hidden from me at night

So I watch her each day in awe
Of the beauty which light reveals
And I dread the darkened hours
When the night my sweet image steals

But I have a plan stored in my mind
Of a way to make sure that I keep
Having access to images clear
Of my love even when she's asleep

I shall go to that wheel in the sky
And bring back its forceful light
I shall give to my love precious fire
And never again fear the night

Help me, Helios! Give me your source
to illuminate all with its glow
Help me! Get down to Earth with the spark
So the secrets of night I shall know

Here you are,  my love,  here is your fire
I will ask you to kindle its flame
I shall sit here and watch as you sleep
And the world will remember my name

But the gods are not happy at all
They come knocking as soon as they learn
That their celestial privilege is taken
To inferior beings unearned

They'll want their revenge for my crime
So they'll put me in chains on a rock
With an eagle forever to pick
At my liver each day at at always o'clock
Maggie Williams Feb 2012
I flashed and flickered when I was young.
Now my years have stretched my rays.
Cretins stared through hollow scopes
And showered me with unearned praise.
Now my heart begins to fade,
Dying down like burned-out coals.
Emptiness expands my night. And
Some shall ask, “Do stars have souls?”
Could I but cry I’d shed a tear;
Eternity has refused to stay.
Night, my home, shall send me off
To twinkle somewhere far away.
Del Maximo Apr 2010
rising above aeries
thermalizing warm updrafts
arms and fingers outstretched and lifting
holding his head up and following his nose
escaping the earth
basking in sweet respite from routine
a lightness of being
floating towards sky
enjoying the rush of new found freedom
feeling the wind beneath him
hearing no other sounds
as clouds sing cerulean blues
but even liberty has limitations
and nature has her secrets
feathers, string and wax are no match
his youthful exuberance flew too high
climbing too fast
reaching sun before understanding
accomplishment without comprehension
unearned knowledge
feathers fall out in bunches amidst frantic fluttering
dreams crash like Icarus wings
in pieces on the ground
© April 23, 2010

Please note that this is not about birds.
Rustle McBride Oct 2016
Dad
Dad,

Where are you? Can you hear me?
Can we communicate right now?
It's your son, and I've grown older,
but still so much I don't know how.

It's just a few years since you've left us,
though for many you were ready.
I saw you fade  but to a whisper,
from a voice so strong and steady.

And though you may have thought
I couldn't wait for you to die;
Today, I stand bewildered.
I beg for one more chance to try.

To try to ask you how you did it;
be a husband and a dad?
Things I never thought to ask you,
or did not know how since I was mad.

But, they throw food across the table.
Constantly fight and misbehave,
and then my wife feels so defeated.
(You must be turning in your grave.)

I worry so I've failed my boys.
As I remember, so once did you.
Though my brothers and I, we made it.
Just exactly how, **I never knew
.

The things I never saw you do,
yet, you must've done somehow.
Solving all the world's dismays.
Never failing in your vow.

You made it look so easy.
So calm and  yet concerned.
No question left unanswered.
No compliment unearned.

You always looked undaunted.
Did you ever want to run?
Where did you find the answers
on exactly how to raise a son?

I sat smugly as a young man
dismissing all you said to me.
But, sadly now I sit here
wishing for one more chance to see.
raising my own boys, wishing my Dad was still around. I miss you Dad
RJ Days Nov 2016
must recognize our Form
in the mirror,
see our Face, and make our reflection
as we kiss it, though it regularly sickens
Us.

I

We are still Us, though
that probably means little if it ever did;

We have been amended beyond recognition
from centuries of lobbing
off limbs, appendages, stitching clauses
like bandages then forgetting about them
if we ever shower,
disfiguring the pale torso of our Body
politic, naked and middling before posterity
grotesque genitalia dangling
hopelessly, and useless
between marble columns
unable to unite in congress assembled
erasing pluribus unum;

We're our Legs, buckling under obscene weight
now cloture’s invoked, the question ordered
on history with yays and nays,
discourse long reduced to the nuances
of blusterfuck;

We're our Buttocks, passing gas
bills, denying a snowball’s chance of
melting in frozen hell or on house floor,
and our Brain, lobotomized
better half yearning “Yes, we Can…
…ada” beckoning the coasts, blue dots
on blue dot ever browning;

We're our Fists, clenching gavels
while advising Mother Earth to **** up
because even without her consent,
reality’s adjourned;

II

We're our Skin—yes, our Skin—, thin-
ly veiling contempt insufficiently concealed
by layers of spray tan and unmarred
by blood sweat tears of our foremothers
and our Brow, not sweating more perfect
when it's so easy to turn and follow storybook greatness,
when our Fingers, callused from tweeting
Little Bits of *****,
which though once again retitled
and re-released, remains a classic,
completely unrevised;

We're our Ears, nostalgic for the crack of doom
and we're our Tiny Hands, unable to help themselves
from popping a Tic-Tac and grabbing
onto those titillating, dusty buttons
on the hydrogen jukebox;

We're our Eyes, heavy
as a defeated queen
with makeup running, blessing us
all for this operant foray into madness,
ever observing how our Arms, which
(torches now extinguished)
flail in confusion amid incalculable darkness
still hoist our pitchforks low and
our Tongue still grievously petitions
for more deplorable words amid
hallucinations of victimhood;

We're our *****, *******
on progress, except
which—failing to rise to the occasion—
nonetheless manages
to flop over and strike once more: a dis-
chord in common defense of
fragile white male privilege
always showing, never growing,
general welfare and tranquility flushed down
the toiletbowl of history
hoping those old turds never
resurface, still ignoring the stench of injustice
and the chipping of gilded porcelain;

We’re our Lips–which neither Broadway hits nor
newspaper clips nor high minded pleas alarmed,
and with Dr. Franklin’s warning notwithstanding–
We are our Lips on treacherous steps which will be
all executive power herein vesting;

III

We're our Palms, grasping rope amid air
saturated in deathly vespers, which tugs
down-up toward unearned heavens;

We’re our *****, pretending to be
our Mouths which chide & otherize, while
our Shins expose their cuts to ****,
bullet-holes welcoming the swift infections
in what dank sewage now pours from open
Overton windows, broken along with
any pretense of civility; ultimately,
the only thing we could shatter;

We’re our Holes, shamefully enjoying
the prodding and poking caresses
of anarchy, be-
moaning un-
Equal Protection law & order bestows,
depriving life, liberty, property
when our Hearts, weary of
the long hard due process, supremely
malign centuries’ holdings;

We’re our Immunity, sovereign it be
fighting all insults foreign and domestic
and our Voices rising in lamentation
for what we’ve lost and what we’ve barely kept;

We’re even our Hair, unkempt, distracting us
from enduring corruption of our Blood;

We’re our *****, too. No, never mind.
We never had any. But She did,
and class despite the strength
of glass;

IV

We’re all that still, and our Souls'
politic too, fractured much asking
what Un-
ited States we’re in;
September 17, 1787 – November 8, 2016. Not a bad run, I guess.
McCaslin Sep 2010
Same Soil
and Similar Fire
Forged in Battle
And tested by Flame
Raised Flags
Unearned Fame
Killers by Trade
Warriors by Name
None would stand
And not tremble at our Name
Not bonded by Blood
But by Oath
Never to Break
Never to Bend
Strong as Steel
Shall We forever Stand
Swords in Hand
With a Cry upon Lips
Victory
For Brothers
Not only by Name
You know who you are, and it matters not that you'll never read this.
But this is my testament to you.
Lo there I do see the line of my people back to its beginning and
they do call to me....
Amanda Kay Burke Nov 2020
We are truly meant to be with eachother
Intertwined from the start
Destiny pushed us together
The truth is you've always had my heart
I could never lose warm feelings
Enjoy it way too much
Things in life in the way
Never in the way of your touch
Because I have that in my life
Able to stop feeling sad
Knowing you actually care about me
Enough to make my day less bad
There is an endearing mischeviousness
In smile that makes me laugh
Reminding how much I love you
Joy a gift I love to unwrap
I carry love with me everywhere
Tucked away in my chest pocket
Words are valuable and so divine
Voices of angels in my locket
Even when face is stuck in a box
A small
Smudge-filled screen
Clinging to phone as if
In your lap clinging to blue Jean's
You have the charisma
You are smooth
Body and tone
Waited too long to inform you of your skill
Going down you make me moan
Stronger than any satisfaction felt
Never want to leave this bed
Never tire of your caresses
Choosing our path
One step ahead
Come with on this journey
We watch the world around us burn
Whatever you do
I accept it
Can receive the love unearned
I hope you decide what makes you happy
It's me or someone new
Can catch a bigger fish I'm sure
Ran but emotions only grew
See each day as a chance to start over
Will always be welcome in my heart
Do not take the home we made for granted
Know where you are accepted and where you aren't
The best times in life are owned to you
Your life more important than mine
In your mind you are scoffing at me
Bold remarks
Fading lines
Remember words every time you feel weak
Let them nudge
Make you believe
It is you that gives me absolute pleasure
Say yes
All we can achieve
Love is worth the struggle and sacrifice
Know it as well as I do
If we both give 100%
There is no problem we can't work through
I am not sure if I posted this one before but I dont think so.. I wrote it in 2018 for my boyfriend's birthday
Mohawks everywhere
along the river
selling souvenirs
colonial body parts
souvenirs
of a failed genocide
vengenocide
vengeance
reverse genocide
reaction to genocide
colonial bodies in the rivers
limp
slander in writing
souvenirs
history of slander
intervened
abandon ships
millions of colonists dead
an eerie and safe silence of colonialism
a genuine sense of unearned guilt
in the natives
now the currents
the currents
having tried to save the colonists
from destroying themselves
but with no other choice
but to exterminate
we do not mention those evil people anymore
those colonists that tried to get rid of us
ended up
getting rid of themselves
on the shores of Africa
colonists rotted on wooden ships
decomposing in the ocean
feeding the wildlife
ships piled up
colonists piled up
dead
the ocean shore is unsafe
diseased for a long time
waterlogged and dead
for opposing freedom
Anonymous May 2014
Pain unearned but still deserved
Served up as dessert
By her earthier friends
Laughing at her crying back
As she stumbles blindly home.

Ignorance is a crime
And sweet little puppies die all the time
But what makes them smile for a moment
Places her in confoundment
So sweet and remorseful
She takes her own life.

Bullies on the steps
Bullies on the curb
******* punks on the bus
Unexplained learning curves.

People are animals
Who can do better
If they want and are able
And not just something in the middle.

I wish she'd known me
Before she knew you
I can see you from miles away
She never understood public schools.

She needed an honest education
Never the misfired humiliation
But the streets run with rats
A fact we'll never get past.

Is social equality such an uneven street
That the fanciest of shoes might stumble
And the beasts ferociously feed?

A wake and a vigil
Candles burned for as long as boredom can stand
School bells ring
And it's business as usual.
I will not hide the disdain I feel, l
For the unfortunate weary souls
who have yet to see the light ,
The half men, who see it fit to belittle its enkindling
gifting unto the legions the absolution of our demise.
Unto them I see no clemency
I cede them nothing but to concede my absence.

Dam them to the merciless scowl of the unwritten histories.

Absolve them no protection,
let unearned, sweat of the brow pool
let it  saturate their scar less heads.
leave only the ice autumn rains to bathe  them
Ignore the frost redden pleas at the year’s end
leave them, to frolic in its benevolent grace.

To know,
To see,
To become,

because To know is to become human
and To be human is to see and do  everything else.
To be human is to be Mortal.

Mortal  
Graceful knowing,
Captivating, expanding, dieing
To be graceful at knowing and graceful at end
Human    

Human is To be free
A school project

— The End —