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Best Drug Poems

Below are the all-time best Drug poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of drug poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Drug Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Drug poems are below this new poems list.

Drug Warnings by Haight, Sandra
My Tranquil Drug by Hand, Sarah
My Favorite Drug by uptain, brandy
Truthful drug by Bohto, Holly
My Drug by Webb, Brandon
My drug hard to swallow by Bohto, Holly
Poetry is my drug by Harvey, Aa
Drug Abuse by EM, RHOMA
That Colourful Drug by crisp, jordan
That Colorful Drug by Dietrich, Andrea

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The Best Drug Poems

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A Long Loud Sigh

sometimes you are in its minimal spotted light...sometimes!
other times you just know you've been touched and you freeze,
moved but a stranger it moves in, does its work and leaves.

...maybe it's been a while since you two spoke...
when the dead sea still hosted life,
the hanging gardens of babylon grew in sinc with the breath of the planet,
before the tower of pisa started to lean or mayan buildings were in ruin.

so you write words...any words...they might at least soothe your hurt
hold your heart in a protective shield.
you know how crippling unrequited love can be.
do you still dream of its hug...genius?

life and love share more than a first letter
(like the first letter you wrote under the veil of inspiration).
they also share good and's a flip of the coin.
either way is fine with you. you'd bathe in holy water or sell your soul.
life, love...passion...somewhere in lives, genius.

all of nature a reflection through its transparent figure glows dark 
like the shadows live in the radiant illumination of evening rays.

so let me speak of us!
recently when i tried to hold you...
you were like a ghost in the bright of day,
a phantom out of its element...
there was nothing of you...i could embrace.
when i tried to enter you a freezing cold ran through me like a winter brook.
you exhaled me 
as if i were fog on a deserted country road invisible to absent eyes.
still you were my drug of choice.
addicted, i chased the

memories fill me...
days when we would paint words,
stitch in a metaphor or two,
weave in music, 
write instruments to fill in the spaces,
ordain a voice.

i remember...

you wanted to taste me
i was overwhelmed 
how you put your fingers on my lips 
how you licked

you were that giant pine i would climb in the dead of winter
(why do they say that "the dead of winter"? winter will die 
when hell freezes over. winter isn't death it's purgatory.)
the one with the needles that punctures human skin.

come to me again and touch me...
like the butterfly does the wind...barely but thoroughly.
(is it true that just a tiny flutter of their wings could be 
the start of a hurricane? are the icebergs melting?)
i didn't just write that out loud...did i...with you I'm shy...genius.


don't show yourself.
don't speak to me.

don't bother with rising the sun today.
forget those showers you create your magic arc with,
vacuum away all the plants.
lower your wall of blue.
i'm not interested anymore in those pillowy shapes i use to love so.

i've always known it is fire that cleanses, water that burns,
it is the moon that breaks the heart,
the stars that slaps the face...with...i don't know...reality.
i've always known by the time we see a star...
in real's already extinguished...already dead.

it is our friends that will use us...our heroes that will lie to our face...
our blood will betray our trust...our teachers will fail us...
our leaders treat us like just another job...
the devout that will exhibit hatred.

still i believe. no matter what else...the rose will always survive.
the petals deceiving. they will repel all that is unholy.
grab it by the neck and squeeze out its black ooze,
leaving a gentle soul there to admire its adversary.
don't even get me started on the orchid
or even the flowers all...alphabetically.

i dare confront the beauty of nature's art unframed...
canvas loose to admire...genius!

i miss you but i am out of tears.
do drop in though. 
i can offer you a cup of dry warmth...
soothing like burning logs that crackle with laughter.


take you to my secret place.
behind the camouflage of forests dense,
where vines grow through spiral staircases 
made of turtle shells and dressed in discarded snake skins.
green is the theme there. it is everywhere,
unabridged, unabated, unaffected, undisturbed 
with a fuming, burning, yearning to be touched.
so let's...let's grab...hold...squeeze..
feel free from the cheap paradigm offered.

i don't think you know, even while you sleep, i hold your hand, genius.

dream a full rainbow on a fingernail moon night,
feel february twenty ninth its absolute might,
taste fully the slight of a pheasant in flight,
yearn eternal life, wish a vampire's bite,
concoct rhymes nicely fluffed with built in sight.

on this sombre morning the sun is blinding.
damn my eyes.
there is a negative entity drapes our children's world.
shame on us...shame on you...i need you.
i am reduced to an objective observer.
life glides on the little wings of its carrier,
its final resting point in the hands of the wind.
another life carried away on a worker bee,
busy stealing nectar from a succulent bud.
a stowaway hangs on for dear life to the flyers leg.
gets off at the next flower.
meets up with a companion to create a new life.

everything changed when I met you.
was the sun rising or the mountain sinking.
was that an orange globe against a blue sky
or a lit round hole in a sad wisp of air.

i'll play a keyless piano if you'll paint me a horizon I can reach.
i'll sing you a ballad with a single note...

i walked into my life without consideration.
maybe crawled.
all the same...
when do I get a choice.
when will they stop holding death over my head.

if i could direct a few more plays with you as my guide...
my art, my life! genius i long for your influence...
even one last time to see your face, 
unite and give you one last kiss...goodnight.

April 1 2015
Maurice Yvonne
Sponsor: Linda
Contest Name:A Million Dollar Poem

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015

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Cry of the City

We will walk then, you and I

When daylight shuts her weary eye;

Down the streets where beggars sleep

And drug crazed addicts spend their keep.

On streets that wind through thick and thin

Past monuments of broken sin

The painted whores who smile a lot

A rejected child that time forgot.


The evening hymn that sorrows sing

The call to prayer that church bells ring;

The sounds and smells that rape a city

The calls for help that won't find pity.

Do we have time to heal the curse

That captures all the universe

Or would it really be worthwhile

To quell the question with a smile?


But we have walked these streets before

And hoped our ears could dim the roar

Of silence gripping cold nightmares

That come unbidden up the stairs.

We share the night with lesser fools

Who stake their plight without sound rules

For each new challenge finds old pain

That lives to give then comes again.

Copyright © elizabeth wesley | Year Posted 2012

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New World Order

While Bureaucrats grow rich and fat
              in six-star luncheonettes, 
and Bankers beam Their self-esteem
              (bailed out of broker's debts),
the deep, devout and down and out
              sink, sallow silhouettes.

Tycoons hold reins (arrayed as chains)
              where words have mesmerized.
So, mild and meek, we turn our cheek
              to worlds They’ve polarized,
and march to war, through Satan's door,
              watch cities vaporized.

The Lord of Lore tells tales of war,
              of victories far away,
where eyes stare stark within the dark 
              and death is painted gray
on faces cold, some young, some old,
              all lined with jaded clay.

We're taught at school the Golden Rule
              for all to live in bliss.
But in the wars on foreign shores
              the only rule is this:
'Yo! You and I must fight and die
              inside the black abyss!'

But well alive, the Merchants thrive
             on sales of armaments
that Barons built (with pride, not guilt)
             to quell the dissidents,
while Artisans are posing plans
              to conquer continents.

But back at home, the rumors roam
              'Good times are soon to come,
despite the breeze on frozen seas
              in weathers wet and numb.'
They fantasize with fleeting lies
              and pray we'll all succumb.

A Tabloid screams of phantom dreams
              to keep our minds at sea 
and TV skews the evening news,
              ensures we all agree:
'With dynamite we fight for right
              and not for tyranny.'

The brain aborts when drugged with sports
                and fashions of the day,
and sevenfold, men think as told
               and so are led astray;
and like some sheep (unless asleep)
              they baa when they obey.  

In search of sense in sounds intense
              of droning drum tattoos,
souls, thin and worn, file by forlorn,
              in tame and tattered shoes -
their tears of pain, like streaks of rain,
              have strewn the avenues.
Along the roads, the future bodes
              in legends made of dust,
and ashes gray the alleyway
              'neath lampposts scaled with rust.
While Divas dine with cakes and wine
              pale orphans share a crust.

Dead colonies of bumble bees,
              a ravaged hornet's hive,
rain forests, dales or minke whales
              soon nothing left alive…        
a world laid waste is to Their taste,
              as long as They survive. 

The Moguls wield a silver shield,
              wear golden coronets
while warders guard the prison yard,
              boast brazen bayonets;
and unicorns sport ivory horns,
              defend the Martinets.

Ten thousand eyes belong to Spies
             who watch you day and night
to track your trails and read you mails
              and say They have the right
to know your thoughts and thwart your plots
              to cease Their oversight.

Behind the scenes, behind the screens,
              the rules are fixed, arranged
(contorted smiles conceal Their wiles -
              Their goals have never changed).
When upside-down, a grin is frown
              and common sense deranged.

As sunlight wanes in winter rains 
              and sullen shadows crawl,
the evening ebbs, and spiders' webs
              seem tattooed on the wall.
And in the night the Masters write
              The Final Protocol.

Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2015

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We Rulers Of The Earth

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Homo Sapiens we call ourselves, rulers of this Earth,
Intelligent and civilized, but what is all this worth?

We're working hard to conquer space—we landed on our Moon.
We better solve our problems here, or soon we will face doom.

New industries and factories constructed every day,
And poisoning the air we breathe—is this the price to pay?

Energy sources are shrinking—what happens when they're gone?
Will Man of Earth ever learn to work with Nature as one?

Some in this world are starving still while others hoard their gold.
Intelligent and civilized, at least, that's what we're told.

We cure disease with drugs that may cause sickness as result—
How many dearly paid for this ‘experimental cult’?

We have become a plastic world where everything is fake,
From the foods we eat to how we look—when will we awake?.

We're civilized we tell ourselves, but fight our fellow man,
If only we could solve world stresses through a better plan.

With government corruption and morality sinking low…
The price of progress we may say—is this the way to grow?

We have upset Earth’s balanced ways, destroying Nature’s scheme—
We’re intelligent and civilized—is it all a dream?

Will we ever walk on Nature's path, take her by the hand,
Restore the beauty meant to be on Earth, our dying land?

Homo Sapiens we call ourselves, rulers of this Earth,
Intelligent and civilized, but what is all this worth?

Sandra M. Haight

~1st Place~
Contest: Best Old Poem
Sponsor: Judy Konos
Judged: 12/17/2015

~2nd Place~
Contest: Let ’er Rip – Shoot from the Hip
Sponsor: John Lawless
Judged: 04/06/2015

I actually composed this poem 30 years ago…but it is still appropriate today for venting because nothing has changed.  Homo Sapiens means “man of wisdom” in Latin.

Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2015

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''and that comes from within''

if I had all the money that I ever wanted,
                  I suppose that I could travel the world;

       live in a better home, buy designer clothes and stuff,

  if money was no object in my life . . . 

                     but you see money cannot help me,
each day my health is more delicate, slipping further away;

       and all the money in the universe will not change a thing,
                               this is my struggle and my daily reality . . . 

                                         the things I give myself are simple,

relaxing music to soothe this weary soul;
peace, tranquility and love to ease my pain,
and I ask the Lord for acceptance . . . 

             in meditation I try to fathom the why,
                      of course, with money I could go to a fancy retreat;
but a corner in my bedroom is set aside for meditation and relaxing,
and it is there I have placed peaceful things that cost very little . . . .

     perhaps with money I could get better drugs,
                but no drug is going to change this girl's destiny;

                                                this I know deep in my heart and soul, 
                       I have for a long, long time . . . 

I think a lot about my past and life so far,

                              the paths I took or did not take;
                              the things I said or did not say,
        could money have changed my journey in any way . . . 

                                     a warm bath, a cozy bed, a sweet purring cat,
                                                    paper and pen so I can write;
               my laptop within reach, a walk in nature listening to the birds,
      a loved one to hold my hand  . . . .

      these are my indulgences and they may not seem like much to you,

                              but I feel like the wealthiest person in this world;
              for money cannot buy happiness nor can it buy life,
                                      all I need is the indulgence of tranquility . . . 

                            ''and that comes from within''

January 28 , 2015


For the contest, Poems That Are Soup Favorites,
sponsor, Shadow Hamilton

Tenth Place 

Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015

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The Malkavian..Part 1

The Malkavian..Part 1

His mind has all the meaning of a madman that is screaming
Tortured and tormented, a life lived to be lamented 
His family, drained and defeated, finally retreated 
Leaving him believing that he was beyond redeeming 
The doctors sent in talked of hope and healing  
The drugs administered only made him more demented  
Cementing the feeling, that his life is just an echo 
Of the endless, timeless, all consuming screaming 

His best friend is a dis-proportioned bird appropriately named Buddy 
Who’s monotonous motion in drinking is somewhat soothing to his being 
Though not potent enough to stop the persistent pounding of the screaming 
Often he stared into the emptiness of nothingness contemplating the beauty of its 
Only to find his mind is drowning in a confounding conundrum he can’t quite define 
It's hard to be philosophical when your mental testicles haven’t dropped to the appropriate 
So sometimes he whispers tongue twisters until his brain blisters 
Madmen mask madness in mindless task of mass mayhem 

It was easy for him to pretend to be prim and proper 
Just a mask to don in order to dupe his doctor 
Circumventing the system that couldn't’t save him 
He was as he always had been and would be 
In constant pain and agony with no desire for sympathy 
Just in need of some freedom from his prisons and medications
Meditations and mantras had given him a sentiment of a design
On how to inhibit the screaming and maybe even end it
Four years preparing and plotting the perfect moment of promise 
A fire formed from a single flame fueled by an accelerant 
Raced through the halls up the walls and killed all the residents 
Eighty-eight inmates and staff burned alive in what seemed like and instant
Such little time to search through the bodies looking for a single person 
He found her on the fourth floor clinging to the bathroom faucet 
He lost his virginity to the burnt corpse of nurse Denise 
And to his amazed mind he was astonished to find the  screaming was silenced

Copyright © Nate D. | Year Posted 2010

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Screaming at the Sky

Screaming at the Sky
Mothers screaming mournfully at a deaf sky holding their heads helplessly as they cry pitiful tears for innocent, defenseless children slaughtered in fatal cross fires, deadly drug wars drive-by shootings, and cases of mistaken identity on blood-splattered streets, senseless endless violence; but who really gives a damn, only grief-stricken mothers screaming mournfully at a deaf sky.
(Form – Enjambment posted as Verse – 8 lines with 7 words in each line. The 1st line and the 8th line are the same) 10-21-2014

Copyright © Pandita Sanchez | Year Posted 2014

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Why must I Cry

   I come to the garden along, while the dew is still fresh
on the meadows. Early in the morning do the bird's sing
praises of roses and peddles.  I cry, because there is no
refuge finally from the pain.  
    Yet long ago, a child was born, to become king, and yes
there is hope, just for believing in his name. Where is this King!
when I'm hurting and alone? He's just a prayer away, don't give
up, for he's Alpha and Omega, which means, just be strong!.
So they sent me to a place, to turn my life around. I cry, be-
cause, I am somebody no longer am I bound.
     Now I know that Jesus is my refuge and no more drugs is
there for I. Thank you Lord, for the method, that's "Why Must
I Cry".

Copyright © John Streeter | Year Posted 2009

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Devil's messiah

Drug addict hooker - raped violently and left for dead
Lying in a coma unaware of the seed that breeds inside
Months later a boy is born, but mother does not survive 
Unfortunate angel lets infant fall from her fragile grasp
Demons pounce to infiltrate child and slit angel's neck
What a shame he did not die inside his mother's womb
Doomed childhood lies ahead passed from home to home
Abused, raped and humiliated, voices plague demonic mind
As his foster parents molest him - virginal innocence is lost
Manic voices seduce him to murder them with brutal vengeance
No prison sentence - judge rules self defence - hellion is free
Bullied and mocked in school, voices return to haunt him
Hundreds of students die when food is poisoned with arsenic
He walks away with satisfaction - school never found the killer
An appetite to kill hungers inside him as he plots further victims
Randomly killing animals - manipulating and violating children
Thinks he is invincible perverting the streets as a free man
By chance he meets his demonic queen - to share their malady
Within the ecstasy of masochistic desires, he begs for more
He develops an acute messiah complex ready to rule the world
Demonic duo plan a barbaric killing orgy on an Halloween night
The predators ambush innocent children luring them with treats
Throw them into the basement to feast on them one by one
Hands tied and mouths taped no one can hear their cries of horror
Excited by their successful hunt - they engage in perverted gratification
Caught in a moment of passion the queen slips and breaks her neck
In disbelief and utter shock - angered he decides to set the house alight
As the house blazes - a moment of regret sets in and he tries to escape
but the smoke is too strong and overcomes him - he perishes in flames
When the fire brigade arrive they only find two charred bodies
No one checked the basement - the fire had destroyed the infrastructure
A new home was built over the damaged site - its owners unaware
The mystery of the missing children was never solved - nor their crimes
But the new house is always changing occupants - as screams echo in its corridors

The Silent One
21 October 2015

Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015

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That Period of Life

Orange is more appreciated by the tongue that tastes lime to do so, if not now, when would be the time? Senses and instincts are the same to all gender deaf ears are given to morality sender. So much energy seizes from the heart its license exhibiting any act irrespective of sense. The road to harm and danger is direct to such travels, curiosity stands erect. Every bad move has an allocated score a rotten seed spreads its allergic spore. Hate the rules, damn the instructions utilizing body parts to their full functions. Following the media and not wanting to be left behind slippery rocks and rusting metals placed around the mind. In the room of so much entertainment, bodies lay hoping the pleasure will be long and will stay. Drugs, sex, alcohol and violence all giving this shade time passes, leaving the young heart the need of an aid. Habits learned and adopted to make or to go astray when maturity sinks in, the wise simply walks away

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2016

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A Small Stain Of Blood

an early morning rise,
up the stairs
walk into the bathroom 
in the sink
a small stain of blood.

less than a measure of yesterday 
pulling a baby out of the womb into my arms.
on the sheets
a small stain of blood.

midwives  wrap
my first born
snug and warm.

when her mother
finally gets her initial fill
she hands me this precious
new life.

i hold her knowing
there is nothing,
better then this moment!,

sweet scented perfection!,
lulls me into a peaceful bliss.

as she grows,
i spend my best times with her 
and later her sister too.

my daughters own me 






 i still see your
baby green eyes
reaching out to me.

i still smell your
childhood scent.

i can still taste
your hopes and dreams.

i can still touch
your youth as if it were now,
hear your tiny voice

 "daddy i love you but you're my best friend too".

there is nothing,
better then this moment!,

you're now twenty two.
in the sink?
a small stain of blood.

in your bedroom 



i clean 
carefully picking them up.

i know you know you're playing
russian roulette with your life.

the drug convinced you 
your life isn't worth living.
that's what drugs do.

they're that snake in the garden of eden
and you know eve ate that apple
and you know she sacrificed everything
for a fruit that would never taste that good again.

evil always presents itself as the only choice
while good seems too tough an alternative
but the truth is, the harder you have to work for it 
the better it feels and it holds its feel with nothing to chase.

you can't hear me
the monster deeply 
imbedded in you.

but Ali i love you
and Ali my heart weeps
and on my chest sits
a small stain of blood!

June 3 2015

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015

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Thief of the sea

Being low class and living in poverty can sure be tough When life offers you little, the life of a pirate is an attraction Learning to deal with sea sickness was just the beginning There was no glamour living life as a thief of the sea Villainous activities are nothing like what you see in the movies The smell of death became a drug as did the greed for money But, there was never much treasure to share between us Rubbish food and poor health saw many a comrade die young Oh, it was no fun living life as a thief of the sea Most of the days were spent with menial sailing duties Life sailing upon the magnificent oceans was never easy Battling against the rage of the sea, an everyday battle I would be a liar if I said I took any joy in the killing, the savages amongst me took great pleasure in the rape of women The only think that really mattered to me was the promise of treasure Silver, gold, diamonds and pearls were all that mattered to me So, this life of a pirate was just me being a thief of the sea Now I sit here, too old and fragile for the sea, thinking about all those years living upon the ocean What has become of me? What have I achieved? I leave behind no legacy, no wife, no child, simply nothing All the treasure is gone, oh how I regret the day I became a thief of the sea A Pirate's Life For Me contest by Kelly Deschler 28 September 2015

Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015

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Curse the Hour

I’ll not be the mask of your madness
I’ll not be the whip of your demands
I’ll not be the drug of your habit
I’ll not be the dough in your hands

I’ll not be the doll that’s your play thing
I’ll not be the container of your need
I’ll not be the victim of your anger
I’ll not be the object of your greed

I’ll the bread that he feeds on
I’ll be the water that he drinks
I’ll be the cloud that he walks on
I’ll be the thoughts that he thinks

I’ll be the tent that he dwells in
I’ll be the heaven that he dreams
I’ll be the angel that he wants
I’ll be the sparkle in his stream

I'll be the star that he follows
I'll be the sun’s warmth on his chest
I'll be the moon that allures him
I'll be the treasure of his quest

I'll be the fairy of his woodland
I'll be the seductress of his need
I'll be the breast that he lies on
I'll be the dogma of his creed

I’ll be the honey that he savors
I’ll be the dessert that he craves
I’ll be the sea that he dips in
I’ll be the virgin he enslaves

I would have been all that to you
I gladly would have made you king
But you gave all that to another
Now you must taste my bitter sting

You must watch his hands caress me
You must see his mouth devour
You must hear my sighs of pleasure
You must curse the betrayal hour

Eileen Manassian Ghali

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2013

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God , we are sorry,
we need you  in this time of fury,
we are broken and blackened,
 we are slaves of someone else all shackled.
the chains hurts our feet our legs 
but we can take  all that we deserve this toll
we just don't want them to take over our souls
we don't want to be mind controlled
our will is one thing You don't even interfere with 
then why do You give them a space in our brains to sit
 yes we are disobedient, drowned in our arrogance
but we never denied Your existence  never denied your magnificence
we came to you with all our issues all problems
we ask you for help in every form of danger
yet You turn your back on us like we a stranger
You know they are evil, u know they are wrong
but why is it that You see us take the fall
my heart cries with the death of all your men
we sacrificed  our kids our parents our country as a whole
God, i respectfully ask you, how much more?
how much blood, how many tears?
Is this the price we are paying for having a divine fear?
please forgive me God, i dare not complain
You have blessed me with so much that its  hard to  explain
You are the all  kind all gracious
but why is your creation so ferocious?
why don't they know how to love  why cant we be  ever in peace?
have we been mislead from Your path and now are paying a fees?
my  lord, my king please bring down mercy upon us
open our eyes,please keep us away from lust
let our kids breath the fresh air that you made away from all those drugs and meds
please don't let them put chip in our heads
please make us honest and make us love our friends
alleviate us from the differences of black and white no matter where we are born and bred
let us renew the  beauty of freedom of speech
where everyone is allowed to let their minds speak
where we don't  make fun of  people who disagree and call them freaks.
please destroy all the evil that makes us fall apart
that brings hatred and greed in our hearts
Take us somewhere else ,oh lord
where you are proud of us and the world is not all fraud
where the people   think before making a decision
where we are not lab rats put in horrible conditions
where the people are obedient to You and not the politician
where big fish eating weaker ones is not considered a tradition
I know You arelistening,You always do
please save us today, We all need you more than ever
and whether You help us or not,it doesnt matter
because I know You are the merciful we are  in Your debts forever!

Copyright © mary abdali | Year Posted 2011

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Keep It Real:If I Could Cry

if i maurice yvonne could cry i’d spread my tears eternal over your  ( say it, dare to be bold) naked body (then she could taste your pain) but i can’t shed tears anymore (tell her why) (you need her to know) (no i can't she'll leave me) (get out of my head) my mind beats differently now i have seen the doctor i'm not well...kind of (you're blowing it) (can't you see her face) (quiet i'm trying to think) it's not like a normal doctor if i could feel (you use to. you did) i would touch you with the hands of a silk maker gentle and caring and with purpose. the doctor. my physiatrist. i was diagnosed as bipolar  (there you got it out) (was that so hard?) leave me alone will you no i'm sorry not you they gave me drugs  i don't feel like i use to not the mountain not the waterfall (give it a break just speak plain) (ok yes i will) i can't cry any more i have no sex drive it's the pills if i... oh my God  if i... i would and more i’d run beyond to hold you i would the pills they make me docile you'll laugh when you hear this because you are always with me (don't get all mushy with her) i miss you  (ok bud you did it) (let's just move on) i have no answers, but i know what you're feeling you want us to be romantic way back (i can't listen to this) (i am out of here) before being medicated i was passionate  so very passionate not anymore  i'll tell you though something’s got to give my god  something’s got to give.
Maurice Yvonne September 11 2014

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014

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Ghosts of the Sun Dance-Part 1

Ghosts of the Sun Dance

1. The Path

A quest dating back through our history
Surpassing the flesh, a spiritual path
Human endurance, road to mystery
Dark trail winding through the gardens of wrath

It echoes through me, this deep ambition
Half century of miles, lifetime compressed 
Much more than a race, a sacred mission
With light of hardship I hope to be blessed

To outsiders, an act of madness pure
What motivations could compel this feat?
Past limits of human strength to endure
Pushing the body well beyond defeat

Mind and sinews outlasting the firestorm
Transcendence, to shed our skin and transform

2. Sun Dance

Transcendence, to shed our skin and transform
Once, Plains Indians embraced the Sun Dance
Sacred solstice ritual to perform
Life’s rebirth to the sound of drums and chants

Young braves fasting in their preparation
A stout pole connects the lodge to the sun
Days of reveling unite the nation
Dancers’ exhaustion, they seek to outrun

Animal spirits drawn in by the rhythm 
Forked tree with bison’s skull, hooks in their chest
Buffalo, bringer of potent vision 
Delirious dancers complete their quest

The Spirit Quest resounds through history
Beyond mundane, to sacred mystery

3.To Endure and Transcend 

Beyond mundane, to sacred mystery
Japan's “Marathon Monks” of Mount Hiei
The key to their spirit quest victory
To walk a Marathon one hundred straight days

Famed spiritual leader Sri Chinmoy
Believed hearts and spirits could be mended
Through self-transcendence, and he did enjoy
Countless long quests before his time ended

Chinmoy’s best, a fifty day epic quest
A journey thirty-one hundred miles long
Few are those who have ever passed this test
His famous Self-Transcendence Marathon

Darkest night, the gateway to a new morn,
Through painful trials, seeker’s soul reborn

4. The Spirit Is Willing

Through painful trials, seeker’s soul reborn
Deepest pain kindling the soul’s ignition 
Follow the path supplicants’ feet have worn
Transformation’s crux, soul transition

Our defenses and walls cannot let in
Sacred blessings of the gods and spirits
Impenetrable, much to your chagrin
They cannot touch your heart if you fear it

Mortification, a tribulation
Humble display of the supplicant’s worth
A spiritual emancipation,
Pain always accompanies any birth

These transitions in few modern nations
Our world, rare rites of initiation

5. The Fall

Our world, rare rites of initiation
Deconstructed, traditions have been burned
Soulless life breeds infantilization
Perpetuating the puer eterne

To make our lives easier is progress, 
Yet soft life an inadequate mantle
We can also suffer when life lacks stress
True transformation is never gentle

Safety, the goal of civilization
Eliminate risk, its increasing role
Safety’s bitter fruit is stagnation
Comfort cannot forge a resilient soul

Building true human vitality starts
With substance to satisfy questing hearts

6. Aimlessness

With substance to satisfy questing hearts
We dream to build greatness from the humble
Miseducation, meaninglessness start
Intrepid young souls questing for trouble

Drawn to drugs and gangs, tobacco and booze
No deep satisfaction do they contain
Oft mistaken for paying adult dues
But lead instead to spiritual chains

Youthful misadventures, trouble and blues
Sterile environment will generate
Tribal belonging they mark with tattoos
Clumsy efforts to self-initiate

Conquered world without initiations
Life’s road of genuine tribulations

7. Warrior’s Quest

Life’s road of genuine tribulations
Awaits our youth, whether they are prepared
Or not, we note with building frustrations
Future leaders, we see grow up impaired

The warrior within’s heartfelt yearning
A righteous cause in which to do battle
Meanwhile, the subway turnstiles are turning
Young champions doing time as cattle

Quests can be found for the searching young soul
Alas, the focus of education
Not on the development of the whole
But fashioning subjects of this nation

The challenge of living with one’s whole heart
Yielding to those who have mastered the art

Copyright by Author
For contest: Heroic Crown of Sonnets
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Syllables confirmed by

Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016

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A Matter of Convenience

A grove of magnolias perfumes the air
as they sit absorbed in one another's gaze,
she with her crochet and he with his collectibles
uneasy in their pleasure in the evening of their years.

Lawyers control their affairs like vultures slavering 
their prey, waiting to swoop when the timing is right,
for what use is their wealth to them now? No kids, 
no convenient callers making spurious claims, 
the power of attorney running everything, 
in their own best interests, of course.

Summer Haven was the name of their new residence,
with their final resting place conveniently pre-selected.

But they still could make suggestions, could they not?
not really incompetent, simply eccentric and odd;
eating their meals out of red plastic bowls
and taking their medicines eight times a day,
convenient, and all for their own good no doubt,
but day after day of this treatment can deflate the soul.

One blissful moonlit night they'd had enough.
They packaged their drugs into secure containers
and shredded their records so as to break free.
They stole cartons of candy and five jugs of Ensure
and headed straight out the unguarded back door,
jump-started the motor-bike out by the tool shed
and roared off on a quest for their own 
     sweet convenience!

Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2006

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A Legend In His Own Mind

Who was that masked man?!?
Brian Williams, rides again.

He was in Amilia Earhart's plane;
even rode with the Dalton Gang.

The day the Titanic went down;
In the rescue boat when Rose was found.

He went on expeditions with Louis and Clark.
Once gave his seat to Rosa Parks.

He was actually the first man in space.
That shadow on the moon........ It's his face!

The earliest woman, they deemed to be
bones in the desert they named Lucy.
She was his niece, tho she drug her knuckles,
so he really is a monkey's uncle!

He walked miles and miles on the Trail of Tears;
wondered the desert with Hebrews for forty years.

He dated Cleopatra; drank wine with Moses;
gave the Queen of Sheba a camel and roses.

He's walked with Bigfoot in the hills;
been bitten by vampires, but magically heals.

He has had great adventures of every kind.
He's Brian Williams; a legend in his own mind.

Maybe I can be one of those news cast stars.
This is Arlene, reporting from mars........ 

Couldn't resist this little tribute to the wild stories of reporter Brian Williams who was fired for seemingly padding up his stories....

Copyright © Arlene Smith | Year Posted 2015

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Security Blanket

Security Blanket 

No chance of rain tonight,
No bogeyman, when I turn off the lights.
A phrase I found and adore with the warmth of your security.
You are the reason I attain true maturity.

I love when you lay down next to me,
Like the high tide of the sea,
You move all the warm emotions inside.
My arms are the comfort you use to seek and hide.

Your nestle holds a true rhythm that hums its own song~
Nothing comes close to breaking this precious bond~
A sweet cradle-song only I hear,
You play my grin, without the strings of a puppeteer.

My heartbeat needs its fix and drug,
Your sweet, charming smiles and hug, 
Is all I need to succeed, 
You are, my only creed!

A kiss, I give on your forehead,
Into a poet’s world where your blanket a dulcet lullaby, 
my arms are your bed.

“Goodnight Sweet Child, Sweet Child of Mine!”

By; pd

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013

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Mama Swore It'd Be Alright

 I grew up shooting pool and dancing on the bar
 Mama said with enough buise anyone could be a star
 Daddy was in the back room chasin' skirts
 Mama was in the parking lot dancin' with Mary Jane just to mask the hurt

 I've spent my life walkin' around in a cloudy haze
 I'm taunted by the memory of my early days

 Daddy spent alot of time drivng an eighteen wheeler
 Each night Mama brought home a new "sexual healer"
 I didn't usually get a chance to catch his name
 But it almost always ended the same

 I heard her scream as glass would break
 My heart would stop with each breath I was scared to take
 Sirens and lights flooded our streets as I approached another long night
 As I dried her tears and cleaned her blood Mama swore it'd be alright
 She forgot to mention that it'd happen again
 Both my brothers had thier own bed in the federal pen
 Cancer took Granny's last breath right about then
 My sisters and I weren't strangers to rape
 As we grew older we each seeked our o0wn escape

 I guess I chose the hardest road
 Somehow I thought drugs and men could ease my burdened load
 While hiding from myself I lived a life of crime
 I earned a reputation and did my time

 I heard her scream as glass would break
 My heart would stop with each breath I was scared to take
 Sirens and lights flooded our streets as I approached another long night
 As I dried her tears and cleaned her blood Mama swore it'd be alright
 She forgot to mention that it'd happen again

Copyright © Sara Beaderstadt | Year Posted 2011

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Songs of power Paint it black

My mind is not at peace with the world an unhealed wound constantly violated by horrific memories that won't leave strange voices are driving me insane feeling deranged with paranoid thoughts my soul is in a dark place with no spirit emotionally drained - love is destitute physically weak - living but feeling dead existing like a cowardly wounded animal PTSD - combat fatigue, disorder, neurosis so many different names but no antidote no cure - the medication doesn't dull the pain my body is a cage to my fractured brain forever stuck in that traumatic moment unable to move past - an eternal nightmare struggling to acclimatise back to a social life drugs and alcohol cannot kill the ghosts slowly dragging others with me into despair run far away from me - my days are numbered contemplating an end - painting it black The Silent One 11 November 2015

Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015

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Old Age is a Buzz Kill- Two Lenses

How I loved summer fairs - the cool night wind in my hair as I twirled on the tilt-a-whirl or climbing into sky. . . then descending at lightening speed, stomach leaping at the thrill of it; I was buzzed, wishing it would never end. My fifty-ninth birthday at the state fair, I sampled again the drug I craved when I bought two tickets for rides. But my pleasure was short-lived. By the second ride and feeling nauseous, I had to accept I’d taken my last ride. Written 2/25 For the Two Lenses Poetry Contest of Sara Kendrick

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016

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The New Robbin Hood

The New "Robbin'" Hood This guy I describe can have many names. He’s greedy and mean and likes to play games. I’ll just call him Robbin’ with double-b, for he is robbin’ from you and from me. It’s possible he is from a real hood. A gangster he’d be then, up to no good. Oh yes, Robbin’ Hood (a fitting name, that), who hooks kids on drugs. A scumbag, a rat! A politician Sir “Hood” could be too, who’s secretly robbin’ from me and from you. Some rich CEO who plays on his yacht with money which from the public he got. He robs from the poor and gives to the rich. Yes, he is the worst, that son of a bitch. The new Robbin’ Hood who dirties this earth will find when he dies just what his soul’s worth. Written Feb. 12, 2016 for the twisted poem about Robin Hood Poetry Contest of CT

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016

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The Puppet

Slowly the curtains parted a head peeps out
Dressed as a small child so lifelike

Can see the strings working the arms
In a disjointed fashion
But the eyes.....
the eyes looked dead

The puppet danced. 
Drummed...played keyboard
So lifelike it was scary

The show had been running about half hour
When the strings slumped
The puppet slid effortlessly to the floor
Legs askew and arms folded

The puppeteer, made some comment
Slid the curtains closed something made me look 
To my horror, could see the man
Slapping the puppet shouting loudly

Then the puppets eyes opened
He looked straight at me 
Could see the pain in its eyes
The pleading for help.

When the police arrested the puppeteer
They found this dwarf figure of a man
He was the puppet.
Locked away were half a dozen more
Drugged into a deep sleep.

So next time you watch a puppet show
The puppets may look lifelike
Take a closer look, cos it just might be
They are.

Copyright © SEREN ROBERTS | Year Posted 2014

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That Colorful Drug

LSD, Ecstasy, Vicodin, Meth; I've done none of these - not even weed! My dealer is a muse who pushes poetry. I get high on rhyme, tripping on words swirling colors in my mind.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016