Long poem by
cassie hellberg | Details |
sometimes i talk to myself,
my mind is racing,
i dont know what to do...
so hard to explain.
depression isn't a stage
or a faze some kids go through
it shatters you...
i saw it all.
she cried silent in her bed,
blood stains covered her favorite jeans,
her every shirt,
long sleeve ofcourse...
she suffered through it all with few people to call friend
and more to call enemy
even more to say where quite dissappointed....
her first name in school,
not started by a bully
or a mean rival,
but by her sister,
and it echoed through her soul,
repeating in her mind... over and over again,
like the ripples of still water
when a pebble is dropped
flash frozen in time
over and over again...
It was the first name they gave her,
millions where created over the years,
some repeating again, just as the first had..
gothic they called her,
emo, fat, ugly....worse things.
but in her mind, things where worse.
everything was repeating,
over and over again,
finally she believed it.
she asked for help, from everyone
tried to explain to parents she wasnt well,
got called a psycho for asking to see a theripist,
not from a teacher,
not from a class mate,
but from her own father, who wouldn't, couldn't,
believe there could possibly be a thing wrong....
finally, crying, she confessed her bloody secret to a teacher.
rather then giving her time,
she is sent back to class crying her eyes out, as if she wherent going through enough...
she is sent to the principals office a few minutes later, after breaking down in class...
the princlipal says she needs help,
sends her and her dad for a risk evaluation,
her dads crying as she shows him her cuts...
they walk into a hospital room,
it smells of chemicals and hand sanitizer,
the lady at the desk gives her a smile.
then she goes into a room with a lady,
her cheeks are sunken in and shes wearing way too much makeup,
the girl is gaging on her perfume,
and she looks really intimidating....
her dark brown hair looks dead and flat
even though its a bit wavy,
and she wears somewhat of a mocking frown.
asks her all these questions,
is mommy beating her?
is daddy raping her?
is she doing drugs?
is anyone beating her?
did anyone molest her?
oxcarbezapine, trazadone, citalipran, clinazapam, colonipan,
valium, lithium, more.......
and thats what they gave her,
some numbed the pain
some brought it out
tearing through her organs,
she became an addict by the time she was fourteen....
over dose after over dose
some for pleasure
some for pain,
gashes on her legs getting deeper,
this time she didnt tell a soul,
not even those she had come to call friends....
wakeup she screamed in her head over and over again
as she dropped weight like it was nothing....
you cant controll it she argued as things became worse.
at age fourteen she attempted suicide,
she didnt quite succeed.
the medication took away her aappitite....
she liked it
she hated her body
felt out of controll
found a new way to cope
as she shoved tooth brush after toothbrush down her throat
to keep her body from nuitrients...
as she whent weeks and weeks spitting food into napkins and making excuses
I ate at my friends house....
spoken as a whisper
heard like a sentance
echoing in her mind over and over again,
along with that word, all the words,
ugy, anoying, stupid, fake, worthless, nothing...
one bite she would say
rocking back and forth
craving nothing but food
her body racked with hunger pain
one bite and there she was again
over and over and over again
back to a toothbrush
this time she sees blood
she saw her ribs
she saw her bones,
it wasnt good enough,
she almost died, again....
choking on this deep dissappointment in herself,
gaging on everything they where pushing down her throat,
their words, and their insults, their criticism.... their drugs
all shoved down her throat like candy
and just as she was was trained to do she swallowed despite the bad taste
or the hurt
or the fact that at the rate she was going she would be dead soon...
and you know why?
because daddy yelled
and couldnt accept what was happening
not because he wanted to hurt her
but because it hurt him,
and she let him believe,
because she could take the hurt if it meant he didnt have too.
because mommy didnt want to sit in her room all day
practically having us raise ourselves,
she didnt mean to take anger, or frustration or hurt out on her daughter
she suffered everyday in her solitary confinement,
and from a young age she accepted her bedroom was the cage
her mother had created for herself.
because sister didnt want to effect her the way she did
she was just frustrated
fed up with the way things where
scared, she needed someone to take her cruelty
and to help heal her pain...
because people in school
who where so cruel
had to have learned from somewhere
and she wasnt going to play into their games,
and they knew she was an easy target
because she would never attack someone so weak
and she accepted her suffering was a sacrafice
to help all these people....
to help her dad,
every person who was beaten abused or hurt
and felt so weak at home they wanted to feel strong in the one safe place they had.
because depite the fact she had died inside,
and almost passed away on the out,
it was a saccrafice she was willing to make
so that no one else would have to feel that kind of pain,
and they all inflicted it and broke her down'untill there was nothing left but a shell
of somthing that could have been
and never had the chance
because she would take it and wouldnt strike back,
because sometimes "just taking it"
isnt so much about the weakness not to do anything
but about the strangth not to hurt others the way they hurt you...
Long poem by
ravin Gupta | Details |
MY PRINCESS OF IMAGINATION
You are an empress of Heaven who descended on earth
A dear angel of God has taken birth
Your presence brings an awesome fragrance of joy
You are more beautiful than the Helen Of Troy
You resemble a symbol of peace, calmness, wonder and cheer
Like numerous scented flowers engulfed the entire atmosphere
Your presence enthralls the atmosphere with such an ardent passion
Flowers bloom, birds sing, oceans roar, Heaven rejoices in a supernatural fashion
Being a stranger but yet so familiar is an experience of mystery
I wanna be with your present, wanna be with the dreams of your future but never become your past history
I know nothing of you... but your life is a holy book written so well
Synonymous in nature to a religious novel
Every word of which would be so pious and divine
Their utterance will strengthen my soul and make it purely refined
And every word of which I wish you would share with me
And I would keep on listening with extreme curiosity
Hope this book of your life is so lengthy never ending and complicated
That while explaining me with clarity, your entire life is dedicated
Going through your inspiring life will make my mind so captivated
That in things of the world my attention will be never diverted
I would sync deep into your thoughts dreams and emotions
Explore your life like navigating through the depth of mighty oceans
The facts of your life will be as delightful as your nature
Synonymous in experience with a lifetime adventure
to be remembered forever
I wish I was a memorable entity always alive in the vicinity of your thought
Some one who gifted u a special feeling which is beyond the scope of being bought
Spiritual connection with you is magical pleasure. My soul rejuvenates a lot
Your life is extraordinary, it is an eternal bliss
Similar to such a wonderful voyage, the bitter past I shall never reminisce
Your soul resembles heaven's beauty filled with an angel's grace
I wish to find rest and comfort in such a sacred place
Worldly creatures are mesmerized by your supreme fragrance of serenity
The peace u provide, the calmness u bring resembles an heavenly entity
Synonymous to a medical replenishment of decaying souls to repair all their defects
Such that all disturbance, grief and sorrow are conquered and lose their effects
By the holiness of your spirit every evil existence shall perish
This divine revolution will leave behind only sweet remains to cherish
You bring forth the delight of eternity, a heavenly aura and shine
Which enlightens, encourages depressed souls, their lives renewed and new hopes defined
The everlasting impact of your presence inspires me to build an immortal attachment
And reside under your shadow which symbolizes an abode of holy settlement
I observe a pattern of silence in your behavior
I am unsure if this is part of your natural gesture
What is the reason for this sense of melancholy strain?
May be there is some trauma which brings you pain
Some moments of life you spend in mere solitude
What made u acquire such a lonely attitude?
I pray in your life there must not be any sorrow
Even if there is, I would willfully like to borrow
Any cloud of darkness over your life is beyond my tolerance
No power can besiege your holy throne of reverence
Alas and at last, there is something to say
I am striving with a pathetic feeling of dismay
Why I am so helpless that can not talk to you
Why are you a stranger? Am I some one so new?
Albeit a stranger, why I feel myself so close to you
Its my dream to talk to you for indefinite moments
To disturb this peaceful conversation, i would'nt prefer ugly opponents
The passion of my imagination is beautiful far beyond the facts of reality
Where in I understand your holy life book in the sacred place with sanctity
I believe you live on earth but exist in the wonders of heaven
Alas your presence in my life may be something I am against hope hopen
Wish for an opportunity to express myself to you
Seems an awkward desire as u consider me so new
In the vision of my imagination, I will always find you near
Your divine presence eliminates any syndrome of fear
And I promise to cherish your presence in my memories till my days are over
I recognize your adorable nature rather than your beautiful look
I already defined you Synonymous to a precious holy book
Wish these feelings on your mind will have a profound impact
Finding acceptance in your life is still an unknown fact
Unknown is whether I bear that supreme fortune to experience your acceptance
Or Else you would consider me unimportant and indulge me in repentance
Wishing you all the best in your future endeavors
To honour my thoughts, please do me some small favours
Give me a true promise that you will forget me never
Request you to cherish these thoughts in your memory with pleasure
And edify yourself as heavenly princess as you are an eternal treasure
Long poem by
matthew harris | Details |
Pardon any absent adulation, bequeathed capitulation, devoted dedication, indiscretion, blabbering peroration, improper salutation or any unintended vexation if this unknown earthling sent a nearly identical message. He over-looked a small number of errors and hoped that this version accepted as the most satisfactory to me.
Oh please for the sake (and sock e) of brethren deemed friendly, i beseech ye with genuine humility to desist launching nuclear missiles!
This American bloke put his lock, stock and barrel of gunmetal faith in mister Dennis Rodman to serve as a figurative lightning rod against any aggressive actions that would set in motion the end of civilization.
Not only would the majority of homo sapiens (yes, some clusters of earth-linked yahoos might still remain a live) suffer a nasty, short and brutish death, but also other flora and fauna could be equally annihilated!
Understandable, those grievances against sanctions against the populace of north Koreans (who most likely experience unfair hardship) fuels resentment against the hegemony of western powers. Many of these societies authoritatively brandish their devout pledge for concurrence with democratic principles.
Any endemic protestations declaiming objection to the American way affect an immediate alarm. Imposition of so called "puppet" regimes get forcibly installed sans those countries leaders who run counter to capitalistic productivity.
This one anonymous citizen of those fifty states also takes umbrage how the might of american to predominate and demand that other nations follow suit solely based on what agrees with those like minded in power sans the brotherhood/sisterhood of vast swaths of the global population.
No great expectations (by dickens) to affect passionate sentiments per those peoples somewhat hermetically sealed off and separated (viz - by the demilitarized zone) from the billions of other human beings.
Thy sole missive from one older mwm dreads the catastrophic chain reaction of events once atomic warfare triggered by the disgruntlement over some differences in outlook could possibly resolved via "active listening" and access to exchange a word of reconciliation.
As one flawed chap prone to his own bouts of anger, he attests that more positive pleasing results can prevails with the treat of world war three diffused in a manner that plays less havoc once unleashing of weapons of mass destruction occurs!
This notion came to me while tending to a basic bodily urge, thus intent to share my poem whence sitting
Upon the porcelain goddess,
A most brilliant idea in me mind did lit
This sole seasoned bugs bunny car tune character son of kit
Soon after on the road his imagination
Fired up with gaseous fleeting thought that softly hit
Attempting with futility to net ideas in me mind that flit
I yam a poet favoring words that rhyme a bit!
Iambic pentameter strands crochet themselves
Magically into verse
Interleaving like boughs of an arbor
Shielding this solitary soul
From shafts of sunlight that doth dapple
The canopy affecting shadows to disperse
Ebbing and flowing in tandem & sync
With circadian metronome this troll
Transformed by serenade from Mother Nature
With hand doth scythe lent curse
Congregating amongst a distinguished flora and faun
The latter sending tendrils
Poised on the brink of some philosophical revelation
Delicate as hocked china
Which capricious metaphorical musings
Resurrected from propriety
Devoid of any vicious evocations nor premonitions
While ensconced in eyesight of my adobe
Dwelling away from mass of society
Return of this native son harbors thoughts
Against madding crowd that cease to dwindle
To less than the effect of a mosquito needling proboscis
In the nape o me neck
As this contemplative human being feels
Leaves of grass each like a spindle
Completing a colorful pastoral palette
Of utmost verdant splendor upon flotsam speck
Allowing wisps of euphoria
To warm thine psyche easing books set afire to kindle
Under the azure vault
The entire warp and woof of one mortal male as he does lie
Where arises finding incriminating fault
Beneath the celestial sphere transfixed where mysteries catapult
As those simians who preceded him
Millenniums before similarly inebriated
From wondrous panoply of one star
That comprises a near infinite candelabra
Guiding the mind to posit the universe
This mission must come to a HALT!
From - one whom u kin newt re:fuse
No claim to be Walt Whitman only venturing forth
That all of mankind we lose
In the event of such apocalyptic once the fuse
Lit to launch missiles meant to zero in and cruise
Upon the masses a severe planet earth detonations
Inflicting concussions more fatal
Than the most lethal booze.
Long poem by
Carol Eastman | Details |
A little girl lost her home this year, for her, Christmas wouldn't be there.
Her family was angry from all the troubles, they simply couldn't repair.
Don’t bother us about presents her parents said, they were depressed by their fate.
With bitterness they said, you’d be lucky to have dinner tonight, or even a plate.
Life was harsh, nowhere to go, anger and fear had put their souls, in a terrible place.
The little girl had found no hope or joy, lurking near their old car, of late.
The car was their home, gas money was scarce, and with few places they could park.
Yes, their troubles had slowly extinguished, that precious hopeful spark.
Without that spark, they’d never find their way, from this terrible place of cold and dark.
And life’s darkness grew deeper nightly, as hope vanished under a reality so stark.
Even the very fiber of her family, seemed to be shattering slowly, slowly, apart.
The child felt alone here in this dark car, as sadness tried to engulf her little girls heart.
The future seemed filled with hopelessness, as shame and dread, were leaving their mark.
Embarrassment to be seen and turned away, made it hard for them to reach out, to restart.
But life goes on, and we can’t fear to rebuild, or the future will be hard to impart.
The girl suddenly declared there’s more to life, and she wouldn't let it conquer her heart.
She decided triumphs will come, and all will get better, if she held to that hopeful spark.
Seeing the desolation and anger here, she couldn't stay around, she had to get away…
So she climbed out of the car, and she walked into town, not so very far to stray.
She went and looked at the store windows, where Christmas was being displayed.
The music and people filled her heart, lifting her spirits, deep inside, that day.
She noticed a store, way down at the end of the row, on the next block, where it lay.
No one was there, it seemed lonely, and the darkness was again, spreading it’s decay.
She ran there in time to see an old man closing up, with sadness on his face betrayed.
What use were his goods, if no one would shop, or come down along his way?
The super store down the block, was daily making him lose more and more in the fray.
He could no longer afford to hire people, and the season had very little time, to stay.
As they talked the girl saw that she couldn't let the darkness take another, so she prayed.
Then she told the old man, if he’d open the shop, she’d bring customers down his way.
She added, she’d find reasonable workers, if her family could live upstairs, she portrayed.
First bring the customers, he said, and the rest will be yours little friend, he conveyed.
She had him put his best toys, as a contest prize, and to add lots of lights on the display.
He set a contest, “Winners-the best collectors for families in need” on Christmas Eve.
He put out a bright contest sign, but still nobody came to his end of the block, to survey.
So she had him call the Salvation Army, for a kettle, Bell ringer, and Carolers, who came
Lickety split, their way.
Then she had him call a dear old friend, and farmer, to bring a tractor full of bails of hay.
Another volunteered his horse and sleigh, both, to see the city lights thru New Years Day.
This was a great idea, since the older drivers, could use the help, for their bills to pay.
The girl ran all over spreading the excitement, and to come see the prizes, his way.
The families suddenly started heading toward his door, and to those wondrous rides.
At that moment her parents came, and she explained what her hope, had improvised.
Her father talked a contractor into building a disabled family a home, to help advertise.
He could get a tax break; come to this store for supplies, and hire unemployed workers, he devised, so wise.
In the end, each night grew brighter, because of a girls hope, and heart-warming delight.
And the old man began smiling for the first time, in a long, long, time, starting that night.
All was saved, a home was found, and another built, as a sad little girl taught grownups to smile along the way…
You might say, A Spark of Hope lit a candle, then a raging fire, which was burning bright by Christmas day.
The moral to my story is:
Never give up on Hope; it’s your best friend, as life brings its troubles your way…
Know that with time, a good heart, good will, and friendly ways…
You can find God’s gifts again, if you don’t let the dark take you away…
Long poem by
Ravindra K Kapoor | Details |
Pink- Pink- Pink-
Every peak has its own attractions,
Like the mountains,
The mounts of a woman,
Have always remained,
Her pride possessions. 01
It has the charms,
More intoxicating than wine,
As it reveals the beauty,
Of a woman's alluring binds. 02
These mounts gives,
The wings of imagination and colors,
In the mind of an artist,
And they arise the passion,
In lovers mind.03
Their rise and fall,
Has shaken great empires,
Under their cool and peaceful shade,
The dreams of a child form shapes. 04
Its serenity has given birth,
To most pious and holy figures on Earth,
And their warmth have shaped the dreams,
Of many powerful kingdoms on Earth.05
They feed life giving milk,
To every new born light,
Every time they laugh and cry,
These lofty mounts,
Help in forming shapes,
When the child begins its story. 06
But these pride possessions,
Of a woman,
These lofty inspirations,
Of Poets, Writers and Artists,
These magical charms
Which often become more attractive,
Than the face of a woman,
A wide spread pollution,*
Which is the unwanted gift of
Modern living and
They are also the gifts,
Of worst living habits,
Adopted by thousands,
and millions of woman,
As they fall prey,
Before the charms,
And shows of modern generation. 07
Many such wonderful women,
Who are in the grip of this pollution,*
Have brought this curse on them,
Of their own follies and errors. 08
Many such suffering women,
Can really get rid of,
From the curse of this pollution,*
If only they can show,
The courage to adopt,
The natural way,
Of living and breathing,
Possible under the boon like shade,
Of real Yoga. 09
Of the distortions,*
Of their pink pink ribbons,
Are mainly the results,
Of their own creations,
And these results,
Are not something,
One should blame,
The destiny or God every time. 10
Some of the serious reasons are,
Not caring rightly,
For one’s own pride possessions,
And the lack of,
A cool and calm mind,
From morning till night,
All the junk foods and wine. 11
Beyond all time limits,
your peaceful mind. 12
Running and more running
To catch others,
So that you may not leg behind. 13
And madly crying,
For more and more wealth,
Even if you have sufficient,
For your life time. 14
Are the reasons,
Which invite the pollution,*
To sow its rotten seeds,
The enchanting valley,
Amid the mounts of,
Pink pink flowers. 15
Can still be derived out,
With the little practice of Yoga,
But it remains untouched,
And unsung about,
By most of the modern women. 16
These otherwise elegant women,
Regularly face the problems,
Lack of peace,
And sound sleep.
Which ultimately take away,
And coolness of mind,
Resulting in strengthening more,
The un sprouted seeds of pollution.* 17
Still it is not too late,
If they can only change,
Their life styles,
Their eating and drinking habits,
And adopt from today,
The way of natural living,
The boon like Yoga. 18
As the practice of Yoga,
Not only add years to your life,
But life to your years, as well. 19
Kanpur India 15th Nov. 2012
*Pollution- The other name of Cancer.
Those who want to share their views on My above Poem may
write to me on my yahoo mail id: firstname.lastname@example.org I
would welcome your brief comments and if possible I will reply
you. Thanking you in anticipation. Ravindra K Kapoor
Inspired by Poet Destroyer I am dedicating this Poem to all those women of the world, who are facing any such problem of Pollution* And to those also who are not facing it, so that their life my feel the joy of living under the blessings of Yoga.
TO OVERCOME OR TO TAKE PRECAUTION ON THIS PROBLEM UP TO SOME EXTENT- ONE CAN START WITH ANY ONE OR TWO OR THREE OR ALL FIVE OF THE SIMPLE YOGA EXERCISES I HAVE GIVEN IN MY ‘YOGA IN POEM’ SERIES 1 TO 5 ON POETRY SOUP IT- SELF. YOUR COMMENTS WOULD BE HIGHLY APPRECIATED. http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=490745
IMPORTANT NOTE: The best effects of Yoga can only be obtained if it includes the main exercises of essential ‘PRANAYAMA’ otherwise it wouldn’t yield the desired results and PRANYAM should be learn properly first. Ravindra K Kapoor
Long poem by
Chris D. Aechtner | Details |
A Cardinal darts past, and I cannot quite discern if it chirps out of nervousness
towards the impending storm.
If so, the twittering of cell phones sound far more nerve-wracking --
portable typewriters encased in the soul-less facade of laissez faire;
of keeping track, of minding the flocks.
Yes, everyone is a poet these days, tapping away on miniature, plastic typewriters,
typing away the next narrative filled with prose pretending to be free verse.
Whether the majority is truly poetic or not, Frankenstorm surely is poetic;
named after Mary Shelley's, Frankenstein.
The poetic justice of it all amongst a tragedy of broken necks and drownings,
for the Shelleys were the epitome of Romanticism --
not of ritualistic bouquets bought from the florist who sells porn on the sly,
or of waxy chocolate made by children in clandestine factories built from the bricks
of Mao's dreams of anthills and selling short the power stemming from another poet
turned arms dealer.
No, the romance for life itself; to become poetry as poetry turns into us.
To find mystery in everyday moments; to distil this mystery, offer it to the reader,
so that the reader becomes drunken, swooning in a stupor towards worlds
that are 1,000,000 light years away.
Frankenstorm, the Haunting of Shelleys, lashes out at the dead poetry of today;
at the empty, listlessly inane, lazy poetry of today.
The brightest stars are falling into a void, turning away from the very essence
they so wish to express....only because they want to be unique, to be original,
to carve their own niche into the Jack O' Lanterns of a Hallowe'en quickly turning into cheap, dollar store decorations.
They still have hope. They still have hope, even if many further detach themselves
from their emotions with another dose of prescription pills meant to pacify;
meant to reign in the emotional beasts of imagination, until only zombies preserved in formaldehyde, remain.
I can literally feel the Haunting of Shelleys ask wot has become of us.
It used to be about work ethic and soul - one had to kick, tear, bite, simply to publish
a pamphlet that might be read by 10 people.
Nowadays, everyone is a supposed poet. A few clicks, 'submit', and people from all
over the world can read cotton-candy couplets, or a free verse rendition of another grocery list.
But we must embolster this with:
"They are only beginning; they need to express themselves;
they just don't care."
I don't want to be told about the pain, the tragedy, the beauty, the love.
I want to be shown.
I want to feel it.
I want to feel it squeeze my gray matter into a bitter-sweet drink;
I want to feel it go down.
I want to feel it warm up my heart, grip my stomach until the bottom falls out
and I am left careening down a shaft in an elevator with a broken pulley and rusted-through brakes, and just when I think the end has come, the elevator bursts through
a bottom which is actually the ceiling of a world now turned upside-down --
and by the time I right myself, have read the last line, there is still a remaining mysterious periphery of the cats that reside in the corner of my eyes;
purring, waiting until I come back to re-read that particular poem,
for it is so tantalizing, I want to come back to it over and over again
for the remainder of my years.
Storms will always come and go,
but I sensed the metaphorical message of the Frankenstorm very strongly.
Yet this doesn't mean that I will turn the message into fruition.
But I will certainly attempt to do so.
Within my delirium, I will continue to try distilling the intangible
into a drunken tangibility; even for the sake of simply trying.
And as I ponder, as I witness the present decay of humanity,
witness the state of today's poetry, I can only wonder how many more
Hauntings of Shelleys are possibly already brewing.
October 31st, 2012
My thoughts go out to those caught in the path of Frankenstorm 2012.
Such events move me very deeply.
*I have already posted this prose in a blog, because at the time,
the character-count exceeded the limit of poem posts.
Long poem by
Brody Brown | Details |
So fuck it, it jus causes me
Your killing me i can compare
you to taxation
Your a constant source of my
Pretty soon there will be an
Due to my fucking frustration
Im gunna kill you both ooh,
how about castration? But it
was you caused it so fuck you
and the god damn explination
Shut the fuck up bitch im sick
of your all your exploytation
You used me you slut, thanks
to you i have inspiration to
send you to heaven,
Ha more like hell and youll be a
piece of shit call it your
I write with anger as a source
I wanna scream at you through
LOUD ENOUGH BITCH!
screaming at you is my way of
Because you dont fucking listen
I just had a hallucination, you
were going to prison
then you came to me looking
All i said was "congradulations i
hope you rot and suffer from
Well go fuck yourself, i wish i
could give the judge a
commendation for putting you
I hope you have a realization
that your a cunt, i only say that
based on true information I
hope they lock you up till the
end of your probation and thats
18 months with no chance of
early cancellation. Maybe youll
figure out what you did was life
altering and you realize your
actions are faultering your final
destination. Ill tell you where
you gunna go no where bitch
cuz you a hoe who has nothing
to show heres my explination.
Your Satan and thats just the
reality not my imagination
heres whats on my mind im
God you are my worst creation.
You're a fuckin' coke-head slut,
I hope you fuckin' die
I hope you get to hell get a
needle stuck in your eye
I hate your fuckin' guts, you
fuckin' slut, I hope you die
And you wonder you Why?
Why not? But, please don't get
me wrong, I'm not bitter or
It's not that I still love you, it's
not 'cause I want you back
It's just that when I think of
you, it makes me wanna yack,
what you did was whack.
But What else can I do, I
haven't got a clue.
Now I guess I'll just move on, I
have no choice but to.
But every time I think of you
now, all I wanna do puke my
guts out. Now jus fuck it all,
especially you. If i was you, id
be a piece of poo and yes my
album name is a fuck you so
guess what? Fuck you and that
asshole Tiger too! You call me
boo boo but thats what you call
him and every nigga youve
played too. So haha fuck you, i
hope the next time i see you
youll be in a casket and ill be
wearin all black crying boo who
(boo who) but wait i wont ill jus
laugh at you (haha) because
youll be dead and ill be
standing over you and ill spit
on you! (spit noises) how much
i hate you, you aint got a fuckin
clue and your love cant go to
two and im who you skipped
you fuckin shrew. Savannah
youll be the topic of my debut.
I wanna stab and burn you call
it fondue. Your the obsticle ive
gotten through. You played me
like a kazoo soo buzz buzz fuck
you! I need to wash you off like
some shampoo. your no longer
one of my worries Hakuna
Mattata just like your tattoo.
What you did to me you cant
undo. Theres nothing youll live
up to youll be a bum haha deja
vu. Huh, i gave you everything
look at it from my point of
view, you left me out of the
blue, deep in love i tried and
met the true side of you. You
know whats true im gunna be
big one day unlike you. So go
ahead hold your head high but
in the inside you know your
worthless and theres nothing
youll ever amount to. Im the
reason your wrists are bleeding
and cut too, and now im proud
of it that shit cant be
misconstrued. Ive got a large
list of things to do one is to kill
you, check, this verse just did
you wanna review? Haha fuck
you bitch, im done with you but
alas i still think about you. I
cant get you out of my head jus
like I cant end this with out a
simple goodbye and fuck you!
Long poem by
Vic Pister | Details |
NEWS Item AP: TOGO
LOME – In an effort to topple a government set up to end a 24 year dictatorship rebellious army troops seized the state broadcasting station yesterday, then left the building but returned several hours later and recaptured it. Up to six people died in the clashes. The rebels forced a broadcaster to report demands that the prime minister Joseph Koffigoh resign and dissolve the high council set up to oversee the transition from military rule to democracy.
Revolution in Togo
I was lying on my lawn chair on a sunny summer day
With a dozen pack of Heineken and there I planned to stay
My wife came screaming from the house, most upset I must say
She knew there was trouble brewing, that I’d have to go away
In her hand she had the newspaper, waved it wildly in my face
I looked quickly at the headline and my heart began to race
What, I cried, a revolution? That could not be the case!
A revolution out in Togo? But we all came from that place!
“That’s impossible” I shouted, it is such a peaceful place
A revolution out in Togo? What a terrible disgrace!
I wondered what was brewing, what the problem there could be
My imagination then took over and the rest is history
I could see the picture clearly, I could see it all come down
It was all about the money, and the purse strings of the town
John Mulroy’d been in opposition for two terms maybe three
He was sick of watching the corruption and all the bribery
The foreigners came from Makaroff and San Clara and took hold
Taking all the jobs and contracts, lined their pockets with our gold
Johns support from Runnymede and Kamsack were stuck outside
Getting menial jobs and thinking they’d been taken for a ride
Rollie Hamel was Johns inside man, he was working for the town
Telling John what was going on and what was coming down
John was now determined to stop the debauchery
And raise himself an army to set the people free
He got the Nabe boys and the Burbacks and a couple of their friends
To mount an armed insurrection and bring this to an end
They quickly took the broadcast station in the back of Richies’ store
Within two hours the regular army came crashing through the door
What a standoff as they stared each other down with dirty looks
Talking about the law and the dubious entries in the village books
It was turning ugly for no one was backing down
But Richie’s store was also the only liquor store in town
In the meantime I had panicked with a sense of responsibility
For there are times when a man must fight to protect his dignity
I sold my house and all my toys to buy supplies and guns
To try and save the homeland from the invading Huns
I arrived in Togo just in time to get to Richies’ store
And found a bunch of bodies lying passed out on the floor
What happened? I cried, with dread to anyone that could hear
John Mulroy said, with groggy head, t’was the best party of the year
“We came down last night to have a beer and watch the hockey game
Drank a too much and passed out on the floor here, what a shame
We drank up all the whiskey, the whole supply in town
Then we finished off the moonshine as the third period wound down”
I said “What happened to the revolution going on here at home?”
He looked at my newspaper article and said “No, that says in Lome”
Lome I said, confused now, where the hell is Lome?
He said that’s in a place called Togo, I said well…. that is my home…..?
He said “No you idiot, that’s not here, it’s an African country
Everybody’s heard about it”, I thought “Yeah, everyone but me”
I said “Damn it, I’ve got loads of equipment, what can I do with it?”
He said “Sell it I guess, to tell the truth I don’t really give a shit”
So, I have two dozen crossbows, two hundred arrows and 3 Willis jeeps
I came fully prepared to fight the war, prepared to play for keeps
I have enough stores and weapons so any revolution I can dowse
I’m trying hard to sell it now so I can buy a house
Long poem by
gary thomas | Details |
Wobbly I stood and wobbly I remain -
The sole of my Soul untested and untried
Not trusting the firmament on which its stability stands.
So I must reach.
For a kind hand, a rock to assuage my rocky start.
Euphoria washes over me and I am utterly awed by this new and strange vision.
So that's a knee? And that a thigh?
And those are what?
What manner of visage is this?
This is not in my owner's manual -
Maybe I should call Tech Support.
I'm missing some parts I see in my minds mirror.
Do I cut or copy or paste?
Maybe I should just undo.
But, no, I have found the fork in the road and must take it
For better or worse, in richer and in poorer.
The intrigue of this countenance seduces me
And awe engages my every moment of discovery.
I must succumb to this rapture whatever my fate.
Be it ecstasy or defeat I will follow this sweetness or acridity to its end.
A flash of recognition burgeons briefly in my mind's eye.
Deja vu, maybe - but what the hell is a deja vu?
I have not been in this place before.
There is no trace of memory to beget such a sight
And who are these whose steps seem so similar?
A hand like mine and a foot straining as so
And a breath seems to be a mutuality unknown before.
I am behooven and beholden to acknowledge this other thing.
I cannot ignore so divine a connection.
But what is a divine?
What I cannot sense I am averse to imagiine
Lest my awe but supplanted by a terror.
A terror that could destroy "us" both
And who are these "us"?
I don't remember such a concept.
It must have been mentioned in the Prologue I neglected to read.
The Awesomeness of the first touch and the grasp of two hands are beyond all metaphors.
And what is this "two", pray-tell?
Again a new and strange and exciting experience -
The wonder that I feel begets a sanctity beyond any measure.
In this palm-womb I place my serenity and my security
I am past the point of no return
There is no more amnion
And water is thicker than blood now.
My sustenance must come from somewhere, or something or someone else.
And what is an "else"?
I'm confused - why am I getting no help here?
Oh, of course - the hand.
My Power depends on the benevolence of this "other hand"
And what is a Power?
Another secret withheld
Left for me to define and, hence, acquire?
Who is dominant in this partnership?
Whose will will hold sway in time of danger
A what is a "will"?
Oh, I remember now - something having to do with this "power" I quake at.
My imagination runs rampant
With such a thing as a will -
From whence it comes is suspect and
What shall I do with it binds me in the strongest of fetters.
To break the bonds, to break the bonds - that is the question
And I am again beset with the sensation of this other hand - this bindless bond.
The way to break these bonds,
My raison d'etre
The modus operandum of my purpose,
However gauche,trite,quotidian,cliche-ish and common-place it may be,i
Is to love unconditionally.
To revere, venerate and forever worship this, no MY mutuality,This soulful symbiosis.
This is a god of my construction,
A divine gift.
And what is a "divine gift"
Tune in next week - the denouement is just around the corner.
And, oh, the step, the step , the step - i almost forgot.
One day when I am old I will remember this moment.
And my heart will ache for the breach that time has rent.
And my heart will ache for the breach that time has rent.
G Tiberius Thomas
Long poem by
Adefemi Adejuwon | Details |
It is a fever.
They found the poet outside the park
His steps spoke many words of wine
His upper half seemed half asleep
And his feet walked a crooked line
His arms were spread as if to fly
His lips apart as though to speak
The telltale flush of liquid joy
Told tales of rum from cheek to cheek
The night herself caroused with him
Drunk on sadness, drunk on care
And drink they drank, the weary lovers
Setting wine against despair
The bonds of reason, broken down
His mind amok, and absent sense
The world in woe, the world in glory
Lay before his presidence
And it was then they walked to him
Rudely rousing man from dream
Casting eye on village bard
Taking man as man would seem
"Sing for us again, o bard
Cast your words at senses keen"
This was why they broke his peace
Winters twice his summers seen
"Sing for us again o bard
Spin sweet words from bitter truth
Stir the embers of your heart
Dig through elder years to youth. And
Let the fountain spring with might!!
Showering us with wisdom earned
Showing us the link in hand
Of teachers harsh and lessons learned
Free yourself from wine's embrace!
We would hear a tale or two"
Turns to them, a wizened face
"Ask not man, but what is due."
Graying eyes regard the gathered
Moving on, from face to face
"The world whirls in the hands of time
And yet all things remain in place"
"As yet all men remain the same
The board reset a dozen times
Pi-eces unaltered, so is game
Though rearranged, the given lines
You come to me as bank to debtor
You plague me with unbridled want
Says at last, man to tormentor
'Cease at once your unjust haunt""
It is a fever
"It is not a gift so given
It is not a boon bestowed
Nor is sight beheld as blessing
When the eyes have overflowed
With the sorrows of existence
Pain cavorts with all men born
Know the price of your persistence
Hear the words of man forlorn
What is loss compared to weakness?
What is pain compared to need?
When the soul suffers from sickness
To give blood to those who bleed
O for those suffering in secret
O for hidden scars concealed
Know a secret's mark of secrets
Is in wounds that never healed
The world at large, and I remain
Numb in spirit, numb of mind
My inner coldness feed by pain
Reaped from years left far behind
It is a fever that I have
It is an illness I possess
It is a symptom that you worship
It is a sign that you profess
To love, to need, to love to hear
While I remain diseased of soul
You chant and clap then disappear
Then falls to me, each telling's toll
It is a sadness that I feel
It is madness that I suffer
When the muses offer gifts
Turn your backs and run for cover
Talent has a price, and paid
This price I have, each passing day
Rise to cup and rise to can
Drink my fill then come what may
All my masters come before me
Warned me of the poet's curse
Know you all of Byron's story
Know you all that Poe's was worse
Happiness is bound to beauty
Joy to all that beauty, see
But for those that birth said beauty
All is pain and tragedy
Listen to my fading voice, now
Listen to my silent plea
Know the doom of every poet
And ask of this, no more from me
I will fellowship with Bacchus
Gimlets of the finest sort
Rise to can and drunken glory
Fall to pleasure and cavort
Now my night bids me return
Wine is all that shields from sorrow
Sets me free from all concern
Trouble enough, will be tomorrow"
His soul unburdened, back unbent
All is caught in a lengthy pause
He turns to go, the air is rent
With sounds of cheer, and of applause
Now lowering balding head to ground
"Man may speak but none may hear
Sing for us again o Bard,
Has now become a thing to fear"