Long poem by
Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King | Details |
Set upon the new world stage within the burning fires of hell. Silently posed factions of the elite, suppress the true inherit of Mother Earth. The meek children bending over for millennium, taken spankings of bare bottoms, pelted slavery.
Upon entry to rule, the open stage of smoked mirrors began to reflect back upon the podium of lies. Taught by scholars from university books of political science. Fearful of leadership matching mirrored images, of false pretense, babbling rhetoric. The stirring masses of discontented, individualistic, thought of as dead - enders, trouble makers, and rebel rousers, rallied aimlessly.
With super hero, Captain Do Gooder, bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street. Weary lost hope combatants mustered courage, and accepted destiny. To this point, someone shouted against the wind of change. Felt by all who sensed the importance.
"To death do us part of the purpose to which we, the united, stand for justice".
The chant began, as Captain Do Gooder was dragged away, and cuffed, once bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street.
Damn the torpedoes. Damn the torpedoes.
Captain Do Gooder, fallen, bruised ego matching skinned knees, lays helpless. Who will save them now.
Second glances from high rise penthouses. Serving champagne and caviar. Brought iron clenched hands once hidden, to draw the stage curtain down.
With Captain Do Gooder nowhere to be found. The voice that came from pain of pupil. Born within broken dreams of promised lands. Realized nothing was coming cheap on this occupation.
The dusty streets found Captain Do Gooder aimlessly stepping against the winds of change, down Wall Street. The well-intentioned, arrested and broken spirited, lost hope of recycling any salvage rights taken from them by Metro.
Was this the end of the well thought out, pushed down occupation.
Was this the beginning, of the underground faction. Where was senior generation X hiding. Only Captain Do Gooder and the well-intentioned, world stage occupiers, hold the key to that Pandora's box of hope.
The peoples across the oceans were already springing far ahead in their own, more brutal campaign. For they had no cushion on which they were raised to kneel against. Tyranny ran over them. A lesson yet not felt, or learnt, or taught, in the new world. No chance of city mayors issuing eviction notices. Bullets, tanks and bombs were of the order. Brought down the line, traced back to the ones our United Nations to this day, refuse to acknowledge.
While leaders there home internet shop, and pump out the lies. Everyone dies.
In the heart of the continent of center, where unto which as mankind sprang forth, for its first and ever conquest.
The lights kept dim, to obscure the violent cleansing. A facade to disguise once moreover, the brutal tyranny for which the greed of the elite, control the dimmer switch. Diamonds and oil fuel the fire of war and oppression, on this stage of greed and guilt. Too far away, and too many distractions upon center stage for one to see or care. Thought and looked upon by most as racially motivated. The origins of all mankind, to be left, far too far, behind. The true forsaken people. Why is man unkind.
So..........will Captain Do Gooder raise the bar to which drinks for the house, and all around, will quench the thirst felt by ninety nine percent of the people............mother knows best.
Yet, still, self-inflicted roadblocks of appointed destiny, drop kicked long days past. Faint light shining far ahead, within the tunnel of hell, brought up to land. Firm above the depths to which it sprang. The truth of world order.
Wait......what do we see......do our closed eyes deceive our cries........................................
We see Captain Do Gooder catching second wind.
She breathes deep now and all can hear her war cry, no longer whimpering softly. As in past tense situations, given way to dazed and confused wall street *****es.
She builds momentum, as our brothers and sisters lay dying and bleeding. On the streets of some not so distant for telling, of what's to be, will never not be coming full steam ahead and plowing through the hidden agenda. One step beyond the line drawn in the sand of time, we thought would never be crossed. Give way thoughtless future tellers, and takers. Still holding firm with paper cuts, deep into the hands who printed and prepared such slave papers, kept by the elite bankers.
Captain Do Gooder returns renewed and refreshed. Our true Mother.
Captain Do Gooder feels strong, as bruised knees and scraped hands heal.
Brush of destiny sweepstakes, allots winnings of earth shaking, volcano erupting, tsunami tidal waves, with bonus draws of worldwide chaos. Future draws are to be held with worldwide winners. Grand prize, dead oceans rising.
The next generation have no fear digest writes the next chapter.
Hold the press down firmly wall street backbiting backbenchers. Drawn into the crossfire, on her mark, place the x on the next general who dares not fall into civil disobedience.
Captain Do Gooder has grown teeth, and she is biting down hard against the line to pipe riches, spoiled from her lands. Stolen from the first pilgrimage, fifteen thousand years old, lost empire.
How dare you steal from, and pollute the minds of her children. Yet old enough to drink and drug and die in war. How dare all of us.
Meanwhile back at the ranch. Captain Do Gooder hugs tight that tree of life, to which sprang all this elbow rubbing and diversion. Wall street huddles in her corner, painted red to match the lengths to which an end will surely bring to it.
Painted red for all to see.
The end to friendly letter writing, give peace a chance, make love not war, generation taking a bow, and snow birding it, to false sense of security land. Like the ostrich with its head in the sand.
Long poem by
Carrie Richards | Details |
"It is a sin to kill a Mockingbird.
When playing games with rocks or guns, defray,
them, please, ...shoot old tin cans!" "Whispered words
of Mockingbirds, only heal wounds of the day"
Virtues are cultivated, children are weeds,
exploring a small southern town. Seeds, so rare,
spread moral ivy, filling knotholes, threading trees,
lining streets, during mad-dog summers.
Scout, one sprout with solid roots, sifts wrong from right
in spite of bull-headed pride. Stirring
up dust, where resistance incites,
although, brother, Jem, gently, grows more reserved.
Scout, Jem, ...best bud, "Dill", are bronzed by summer's sky
Moral's compass guides them home, as night returns
Moral's compass guides them home, as night returns
yet challenged, the precocious child
making assumptions. Folks would confound her!
Some people were an oddity and quite beguiling
Summer would sigh with ceiling fans, softly purring,
people napping, long afternoons. Wilted yawns
of a lethargic town, might seem undisturbed,
with complacency, behind pruned shrubs, tall grass, mowed.
Yet stilted air, would suffocate, with racial slurs
and secret hate. Some hid by day, and spending
their nights in masquerade, while crosses burned.
We'd see a face, pretentious smile, falsely blend
Integrity, at bitter cost, split wide the seams
in 1930. Civil rights were just a dream
In 1930, civil rights were just a dream,
and motherless children were coming of age.
Bare feet were swift. Bandaged knees and hands unclean,
would slam old screen doors, to seek lemonade.
A ghost, they feared, in the raw sided house,
watched close. A tree in his yard, hid treasures he stashed.
The three Musketeers, upon discovering, shout!
Armed by bravado, they are ready to dash.
Putting yourself into another man's shoes,
is a lesson, soon learned by Scout and Jem.
They've faced their fear, and will make a friend. "Boo",
the 'phantom', a new best friend left trinkets and gems.
Kindness learned, role model intact, was Atticus Finch.
A measure of integrity, inch by inch.
A measure of integrity, inch by inch,
advocate for those who won't stand a chance.
Folks down on their luck, where dollars won't stretch
in a depression full blown. Money is scant.
Fighting for the underdog, who have no paycheck.
What's right is right. What's wrong, is wrong.
Someone must stand at the end of the day,
where flies fill a courtroom and tempers grow stronger.
Regardless of skin, be it black, be it white
Unfit, by standards of talcum shaved chins,
if injustice is war, he'll give his lot.
The falsely accused, he'll defend, to the end
Those who wallow in mud, eventually sling lies
when honor goes to hell, and folks sit idle
When honor goes to hell, and folks sit idle,
false accusations can simmer, slowly inciting
bigoted people, into mobs, spewing cries
of hate. Screaming "rape" into the night.
Ignorance and prejudice, are all of one stuff
with corn-likker sauce and gravy mentality,
amphibian worms, as if from a trough,
gorging on mania. They covet brutality.
Led by Bob Ewell, with arrogance oozing.
Clan- fed, tantrums squirming out of control.
Small minded men, choosing squalor, alluding
the truth. Some would sell their mother's soul.
They have lied on the stand, where justice treaded thin.
Where white man's word, over a black, always wins.
Where a white man's word, over black, always wins,
was a rule of the thumb, during those years...
The innocent man, Tom, shackled, condemned,
taken away and waits to die, and endure
With Indian summer, waxing and waning,
Atticus chooses the simplest words.
His children need, wisdom, and calm understanding,
in trying to explain, that most men are good.
He tells them, gently, how someone so crude,
even Bob Ewell, no matter how evil
perhaps in his life, was misunderstood.
The hellish of summers begins to unravel.
But another ill wind, would brew up a storm,
to bring more than a flurry, into their home.
To bring more than a flurry into their home,
burnt embers of color, drift down, red and yellow.
Carved pumpkins, and a grieving autumn, looms
in the night. Roaches encroach, deep in the shadows
As Scout rushes homeward, behind her on the trail,
a whiskey-breath nightmare, with evil intentions
Then, someone appears! Halts this devil,...,Ewell
is not immortal! .....as we come to conclusion.
A guardian presence, waiting to rally
has kept a vigil, guarding children who run,
swiftly through thickets. Lonely Boo Radley,
appeared like an angel, a bird seeking the sun
So pure of heart, and a thing so rare
It is a sin to kill a mockingbird
Long poem by
Vee Bdosa | Details |
The Serb Dog by Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
There was a bunch of soldiers standing around watching
a house burn and somebody said "Was that somebody screaming,
did you hear somebody scream?"
"Shut up idiot," said the lieutenant. "You don't want
the Serbs to have anything when they get here do you?" He
was from Dodge City and some of the other guys called him
Cowboy. Most of them had joined the unit in Naples and this
was their first assignment in what used to be Yugoslavia.
Now it was Hell.
They could hear faint gunshots coming from over the
hill and everyone knew time was running out. Around the
corner a bunch of people was being herded out of town but
not everyone wanted to leave. They could hear some of the
older peoples voices pleading not to be put on a bus, but
nobody knew what else to do. The children only cried and
some of the soldiers tried not to think about the children
crying. Finally they heard the bus door slam shut and the
sound of the engine as it roared into movement then
gradually the sound disappeared behind the distant gunfire.
"I heard they signed today," said one of the soldiers.
"Did you hear,
lieutenant, about them signing a ceasefire?"
"Let them sign," replied the lieutenant "I will sign,
too. Torch that house over there. Who cares about another
"Why didn't you join the Croats, Cowboy? What ever made
a nicefellow like you sign on with us cut throats?" Everybody
snickered but Cowboy got over being irritated by their
remarks the first week.
"They didn't offer enough money," he snapped.
Suddenly a dog came running down the road and one of the
soldiers said "Get that damned dog!" Everybody started
shooting at the same time and the dog started running and
jumping and yapping all at the same time then disappeared
behind a house.
"That's one lucky dog!" somebody said.
A captain came running up and said "Why were you guys
shooting at that dog?"
One of the soldeirs said "It was a Serb dog." Somebody
else said "It was in heat!"
"Well don't shoot no more dogs," said the captain.
Then the dog stuck its head out and a shot came from across
the road, shattering the stone building right next to the
dogs head. The dog let out a yelp and started running down
the road, away from the soldiers.
"Look at that dog run!" shouted the captain. "Don't
anybody shoot! I like that dog! Run Dog! Run Dog! Don't
let them shoot you!"
Just then a volley of gunfire echoed from behind
the buldings and bullets could be seen hitting the ground
all around the running dog, then some bullets struck the
dog and it fell over without a sound. Some other soldiers
came around from behind the buildings across the street
from where the dog had been and they were laughing.
"That was my dog!" yelled the captain to the other
"That was your dog?" asked one of the men.
"Yes, I said so!" repled the captain. "Didn't I just
tell you it was my dog?"
"You just killed our dog!" snapped the lieutenant.
"We thought it was a Serb dog," the soldier said. "How
could we tell it was your dog?"
"Well, you be careful about shooting dogs from now
on!" snapped the lieutenant. "Good dogs are hard to find
"That dog was rabid!" laughed one of the soldiers
who shot the dog.
"That dog was in heat!" laughed a soldier in the
"That dog is dead!" said another guy. Everybody
"Get back to torching those houses," said the
Suddenly they heard the dog yelping and when they
looked down the road they saw it running again. Everybody
started screaming and shooting at once and the dog
disappeared into a bunch of bushes just as some bullets hit
the dirt all around it.
"That's the luckiest damned dog I ever saw!" said
"Guess it wasn't a Serb dog after all," laughed
"Guess not," said a soldier. "No Serb dog could be
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Long poem by
Katie Pukash | Details |
When I was a child I only ever wanted to be strong.
I wanted to be able to compete with the boys
and when I foot raced them at recess I won every time.
They called me ‘She Hulk’ because of my muscular frame
and from the way I only ever wore soccer t-shirts and sweat pants.
After that nickname was implanted into my brain like a growing weed,
I’ve only ever wanted to be feminine.
I started wearing skirts and dresses
and in middle school they shrieked at the site of my makeup and done up hair.
But that weed inside of my mind only grew, and grew, and grew
until I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part anorexic and two parts lonely,
because I thought that the definition of feminine began with the word frail.
No one ever realizes how greatly words affect us,
how a simple nickname can turn a pretty girl into a skeleton.
I stood at five foot two weighing seventy nine pounds,
so cold and frozen,
yet I still considered myself a ‘She Hulk.’
You could see my ribcage through my t-shirt
and my spinal cord protruded loudly through my weathered skin,
as if somehow my bones were dirty knives
just trying to cut through the flesh of judgment.
As I grew older I became the girl that was never enough.
Not good enough to speak poetry.
Not good enough to lay paint on a canvas.
Not good enough.
Not tall enough.
Not big enough boobs for them.
Not primped to perfection.
Not undeniably straight.
Not smart enough.
Not dumb enough.
Not ditsy enough.
Not cool enough or fun enough.
And I began to believe, too, that I wasn’t enough.
I never told my mother that I had been in madly in love with a girl.
I never told anyone about the night we first kissed
because I was too vulnerable for the judgment.
And parents always justify saying that ‘kids will be kids’
But when we are kids our brains are still growing
and the smallest of seeds that get planted will one day bloom
into one giant regret,
will one day affect the choices that we make,
will one day influence us about the clothes that we wear,
will one day shape us into the person who we thought we would never be.
I only ever wanted to be strong,
and as a child I thought strength was only about being able
to lift a bar stool above your head.
I thought that strength was only about being able
to beat the boys in bare foot running races.
I was told that strength was something only
a man could have.
But as I’ve grown older I’ve realized that strength
isn’t about muscle at all,
but it’s about weakness,
and the ability to overcome the social anxiousness.
It’s about carrying around a lifetime of baggage
on your broken back
because the ones that kicked you when you were down
are going to be the ones that were ultimately wrong.
I thought that the definition of woman
began with the word disappointment.
And I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part freedom
and two parts Sailor Jerry
because every girl needs a stiff drink once and awhile.
We are not disappointments.
We will never be the ones who gave up on hope.
We will never be the ones who gave up on each other,
or our mothers.
We will always be enough;
enough for the ones who shunned us
enough for the ones that cursed us
enough for the ones the hurt us
and destroyed us
and beat us when we were covered in bruises.
But you see, bruises fade
and the scars of our flesh are only stories
things we have overcame
and there are things out there that we will overcome.
When I was a child, I only ever wanted to be strong.
I hid my vulnerability.
I hid the parts of me that were true.
I never told my mother about my girlfriend
because I was afraid she wouldn’t understand,
kind of like all those people who never understood
just how much words effect us.
I can’t say that I can beat the boys at foot races anymore,
because, well, I smoke cigarettes now.
And I can’t say that the nickname of my childhood didn’t affect me.
But I take that name now and embrace it.
Because I am strong.
I am the ‘she hulk’.
I am a mixed drink cocktail
with three parts greatful.
Long poem by
Raymond Ngomane | Details |
Today i was wearing my words in codes
Full stops and brackets covered me from sniper voices.
Codes that smell choices made to cancel chances of painting pavements around angry gestures I had battery guitar sound effects attached to my metaphors Killing my new pair of rhymes
Snapping snaps of brain camera snaps that showered me in photographic memory Lefifi Tladi knows Africa's memory
I was confident in my African steps avoiding felonies
My walk spoke smiles and street smartness painting my fellow fallen niece and kings Fellow poets put together broken knees!!
Like verses that rebuke fire fighters who own dry lips and yellow teeth in the streets Those that waste water in their desert
Today i was wearing my respect, my colourless mind blowing words in a black tie that secured my images tying all broken knots that were secretly tailor made for joy
Gossips that emancipate heart burns burning safe houses in details Shots were taken from experience's tail telling tales wearing attitude and my brain Engels borrowed me wings to fly over long distant hatred Chances define spoken word fashion
Get lost in poetry's outfit while searching word designers
I address my visions dressing my body language in different stresses undressing my presence in fashion police poetry fashions
Blessed kings know my motive is to parade my voice in the streets of your desert The dusty land you set to sell ideas in slippery days Poetry's only red carpet in open mic pamphlets
Today i was wearing my pride and sniper mood in baby dippers Any bumper let loose all dirt in my head
Unpredictable i am
Like written revenge beautiful words don't ask for attention Attention hires beautiful words to word the spoken word in different fantasies Today I loved my dress code.
Myself loving words (c)
By Raymond Ngomane
Long poem by
Jorn Kolding | Details |
I am a virgin slammer,
Let me get that over with,
So if I stammer and speak like a bludgeoning hammer,
Let the record be clear: I’m just trying to go with this.
So I won’t walk the walk or talk the talk,
I may even stain the sheets while I am at it,
A crimson red outpouring of moonshine soup you best delete.
This isn’t going to be easy, I am feeling downright queazy,
Who do I pretend to be today?
How many second meanings should I hide behind?
Should I show my behind to get the right effect? Or be that disrespect?
Elloweeeze Eloise where are you, I need your attitude, right now,
Get your little sass into my face so I can pull this off with urban grace.
Second meaning by the way is not like second base..
It’s more like you understand that I understand that you understand what I understand,
Which is a very non-poetical way of saying you don’t get it.
Nah, you don’t.
Woaaa, I don’t like this tone or where this is going,
Better to slam this casket shut,
Close it man, bury it
This storm ain’t gonna get blowing,
Not enough to sack Rome with at least,
Chill down a bit, let it sit, slow, slow, slow, down
Into another town I must go,
Find another weather pattern,
Let it snow.
By the way, I didn’t finish my thought about second base,
Didn’t quite tie that one in,
So let me try to do something about that,
Fear, dust…. ? Oh, I lust…
By way of second meaning I will show you where its at,
You see (no you don’t) second base is not like second meaning
Because (I don’t mean to lecture you my faithful reader just stay with me
Together we shall taste victory)
Because… well just because (by the way I feel a buzz)
Because while second base is halfway to home second meaning
Is as far away as you can get from home,
At least the kind of home where your mommy and daddy live.
Oh, your mommy and daddy….
Or where doggies and kitties roam.
Don’t touch the cute doggy, its gonna bite you..
You see, second meaning is like dreaming,
Of worlds and words that get to go streaming,
Carried down a river, right smack into a gaping verbal liver,
On the other side of this metaphorical ride,
You can take what once was and use it to deride.
Did I make that clear, my teary-eyed poet little dear?
Am I filtering things enough for you?
So let’s get back to business and draw up another plan,
No diversions this time, I’m gonna be a man now,
The big poet man, destroy what I can,
That’s right, that’s what I am,
A big poet human flotsam sack of feathery fluff,
Whose gonna huff and puff and blow this safe-house down,
Into the ground
And bury all you living poets under a mound,
Of toothpaste carrion and jelly-shaking deception.
What kind of reception do I expect?
Less than lukewarm I suspect,
This is a virginal conception after all, I am untouched you know,
Pure, white, light innocent snow,
Falling, slow, slow, slow,
Upon fertile land that has known no plow,
I feel a seizure… wouldn’t you know
ZZZZZsurprise, Johnny is back,
Let us pick up the slack, slam a knife in your poet back,
Have some fun, take out my horny verbal gun,
Do a zig-zag flyby, grab you by the wings, count your balls,
Watch as you fall
Into the bottle you go
(better to have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy) - that’s a quote “quote”
And that was all you wrote my little friend,
Buzz, buzz, buzz
What a killer buzz….
Did I tie in lust?
Well, if you have my trust,
I will get back to you on that one.
My girl in little red shoes, I will bring you news,
And tell you who I AM.
Long poem by
Teenage Frustrations | Details |
It keeps you going when you have nothing left. Amazing, isn’t it? How someone could have nothing but still reach out towards something in the hope that it will get better. Because in a world where everyone is shouting NO, hope is that little voice that whispers maybe.
And that’s why we need it.
Without hope we are useless corpses, our hearts beating but not truly alive, wondering about a barren land whilst everything else just passes us by in a blur.
I remember how we had this card with the word ‘hope’ written across it and whenever the anger built up inside me you slid it under my door to remind me that you gave me hope; because no one else could, right?
But as the months passed by nights got colder and harder. You’d sleep by the fire while I found warmth in lighters pressed against my skin and whiskey rushing down my throat. I
I remember the day that you told me not to be so hopeful, as if dreaming for the future could be a bad thing- not realising that if you search for the warmth blind then you end up walking into fire.
You told me hope would be the death of me, and that’s the truest phrase you ever uttered.
We’re taught that we need it to have a purpose. That only love can cure our sadness, our pain and our loneliness. Without another person we are seen as an incomplete, insignificant waste of precious space.
We romanticise love.
The first time I convinced myself that my heart could only beat for another was the first time I stopped breathing for myself. And in a world where you’ve only just cared for the oxygen you obtain daily, breathing it for another can become a dangerous game. Pick the wrong person and its back to square one, back to the world of crossing roads carelessly in the hope that someone will save you from the pain of living.
The dangerous part is that you’re so consumed by the feeling of your heart racing, your hairs standing on edge and your body shaking that you forget that your body also does those things when you’re in danger. Put in a pretty face and the right words and suddenly it’s a different experience all together.
You can’t be a whole two without a complete one, but the promises of happiness and the future consumed my being. I was a girl forced to grow up in a world where I believed no one could love me that when you told me those special three words I didn’t think you’d lie to me.
You said you loved me, but I guess actions speak louder than words.
It’s not always a good thing. I mean people change all the time for better or for worse. When you ripped my heart out I spent so long telling myself that you were not the same person that I first met. But as days turned to weeks I realised that you didn’t change I was just realising that I deserved better than to fall asleep crying because it was “so selfish” to call someone just to hear them say that they did care. Now I realise that maybe it was me.
Maybe it was the way you changed me.
Programmed me like your fucking robot to respond to every breath because it doesn’t matter if I’m on the floor wishing I was dead as long as you were happy.
No person, no distraction, not childish game can keep you from the truth.
I was a vibrant red and you were a dark blue. Each time you touched my skin my colour would fade, and in the quest to make me your favourite shade of blue I turned a deep purple. One look at me and you decided that purple didn’t suit you and left me, stained so no other colour would match me.
But honey, I just needed to find someone who saw the beauty in dark violet.
Long poem by
SillyBilly theKidster | Details |
My phone is always off. I then check and return my messages inevitably.
These are actually precautions I must take for my own personal safety.
If I happened to be crossing a busy intersection and my phone rang suddenly,
it would trigger a panic attack whereupon I'd pass out on that street immediately.
The same holds true for me at home whenever uninvited guests drop by unexpectedly.
I'll be relaxing on my couch, petting my cat while watching some TV
when all of a sudden my door bell rings and completely paralyzes me.
I try to call out but it's difficult to speak when you're desperately trying to breath,
and the more that door bell continues ringing, the more I continue weakening
at losing all control of the panic attack now attacking me,
but I always beat these home panic attacks successfully,
However, it is never at all very pretty.
Take for example this panic attack episode that happened to me
when a Jehovah's Wittiness dropped by on me unexpectedly;
More times than none, when my door bell rings
bad news or tragedy is what it brings.
If knocking at my door should follow that
then I'm ten fold more prone to a panic attack.
If the knocking at my door should continue to persist
I'll curl into the fetal position as tight as a clenched fist.
My panic attacks are my ultimate test
of preventing my heart from pounding right through my chest.
My only strength is the knowledge of knowing that the panic attack will pass,
but as long as the knocking continues the panic attack will also continue to last.
More times than none the uninvited give up and go away,
but there have been some who continue to stay.
They'll just keep on knocking refusing to go away.
My panic turns to anger. Now the unannounced visitor must pay.
I open my door and what do I see?
A devout Jehovah's Wittiness smiling back at me.
"Good morning Sir. Have you welcomed Jesus Christ into your life?"
I try to remain calm. I try to be polite.
"I don't have time right now but I'd be happy to read
any literature you'd care to leave with me."
"You don't have time for God?" is what she next said to me,
and that's when I lost it ballistically.
"I didn't say that you ignorant snob
I don't have time for YOU! I Always Have Time For GOD!
but what I don't have time for is an inconsiderate slob
but I promise, right after I slam my door in your face
I'll fall down to my knees and pray to the Almighty Grace.
Dear GOD Please Don't Ever Again Send This Moron Over To My Place!!!"
and then I slammed my door hard and as loud as can be,
and as I had promised my visitor, I fell down to my knees,
but I most definitely wasn't on my knees to pray.
I was exhausted and 100 times more depressed than I'd felt on any day.
It's a two edge sword that I constantly carry around.
I beat my panic attack by exploiting my anger
on an innocent, well meaning, Child of God drone.
I guess the only way I can conquer my panic attacks truly and naturally
is to allow the darkness in me to break free occasionally.
It's not the greatest of methods but it's the only alternative for me
but it can be hurtful to others and that depresses the hell out of me.
I have confidence that my panic attacks will one day lessen,
but until then I shall remain a No People person.
Given all of the above I do occasionally
self medicate with Xanox when dealing with the above gets too overwhelming for me,
but that's only on a once in a blue moon desperate need
from dealing with my panic attacks naturally.
Most times just knowing that bottle of Xanax is on my shelf is comfort enough for me.
Long poem by
Mystic Rose | Details |
In the silence darkness shows his presence. A lull and then acceleration
A disturbance that awakens with dominance, the very heart of Evil
Dwelling within the inner sanctum of the Amityville House
The stairway banisters shake with intensity. A spectral quake and the walls
Become electrified with corporal power surges. Lights flicker on and off
The inward eyes of the house open wide as old bones quiver with anticipation
Like a hungry animal awaiting its feast on delivery, essence chills the air with
a frosty mist, and fills the house with an eerie ethereal oria.
Rawness takes hold of the interior house. A graveyard erected on unsanctified
Property. It has become a surge house for the supernatural. The un-dead feed
off the fear of men, who have been sapped of life force. Nothing left except
a dead corpse, caught between two worlds. A vortex un-attainable by doorway
or threshold.. There is a welcome mat marked by a skull n’ cross-bone, it reads,
“Dare not enter mortal flesh, or yea shall become part of this house. Blood legacy forever.” Voices within the walls scream with eternal fear, warning with howls,
“Get out! Get out!” The evil laughs are heard o’er flowery wall paper that drips of
Crimson Plasma. It cascades downwards from the ceiling, soaking the baseboards
Doors to the exist retreat and slam shut. The window locks turn inward, and drapes
Fall shut. No natural light to warm the icy halls. Trapped in a maze be-known as
the Amityville House. .Small fleshless hands grip as the hair rises at the nape.
A voice whispers into your ear, “I am here….with you” in the void you stand, alone.
Panic fills your inner being. You’re alone in the dark with the unknown.
A mortal clinging to the edge of reality. A rift is heard, “CRACK”Beneath your feet.
You are left dangling with two single hands grasping you. It and You betwixt,
Towards oblivion. Splinters of light hit the ebony trees from a distance away, Neha the Sacred Heart Priestess refines the grounds with her finesse. Neha has a history of Exorcism successes. It includes haunted house clearings, demonic possessions by forcible Entry. She casts them out with her outstanding humdinger light. Her methods are un-cosher and as sporadic as whistling winds of tinnitus brawls. She grates on those fallen soldiers who find out too late that they have been duped in the army of Satan. Neya raps on a Skully warped door and scarfs the threats that groan their way inside of her. Speaking in an insolent way she lets them know they have met their match. Guttural sounds disseminate through the attic walls, and sent maggots scurrying at her feet. Undefeated, she picks one up and crunches it between her teeth. She presses the Sceptre hard against the thumping in the rug, “ Akin to bowl, bellows, n’ billow, make yourself scarce as a tree in the meadow” A howling screech is heard, a disembodied voice slam dunks her ear-drum and then with one last push n’ shove the spectral flees through a cracked window. Neha re-adjusts the amulet that had been strong -held round her neck, and says in a calm voice “ THIS HOUSE IS CLEAN” then she sets out North, to find her sister’s three in the heart of the Sacred Forest…
Written by: Mystic Rose & Cheryl Dunn
For contest: Halloween Co-write
October 13, 2014-10-13
Long poem by
Spenser Jones | Details |
God created hands for building things. Sometimes before you build something, you must first destroy something else.
Wildfires are never supposed to be put out. Their sole purpose is to burn the entire forest to the ground, transform living things to fertilizer, making room and preparing the soil for new growth.
It is almost paradoxical,
that there must be death before birth
My hands have stared the grim reaper’s reflection inside the pool of my best friends blood. An old student I used to tutor told me that I am the best brother she could have asked for
She said she will always love me
This was after I burned every bridge that traversed the gaps between us
Stared at her from across her desk
Told her that she will never be my sister. That our bloodlines will never match.
Our gene pools are just strangers that made the same wrong turn.
I spent so much time trying to find my way back that I never realized I was home in being lost I found something comfortable, without expectations. I only corrected myself after she spoke,
because I heard something familiar in her voice.
She sounded like family.
I have the scarred and wrinkled hands of a senior citizen
I’m only 22 years old
I once got my palm read
This gypsy woman told me that my lifeline should have been cut short when I hit 17.
That was a year ago.
What do gypsies know anyway
I have defied the odds my entire life.
Been broke down and built back up too many times to count
My fingernails chewed raw to the cuticle out of anxiety
I enjoy the taste of my own pain
Sometimes I use my own hands to destroy myself just to see who my real friends are who will build me back up when I can’t do it alone
My hands have a desire to learn how to cook, but I’m not that great.
So when I am alone,
I tend to be hungry, not just for food though.
I starve for someone to talk to
It never satiates, because it’s not you.
I know what it tastes like to completely give myself to someone.
My biggest fear is being abandoned.
When I look into your eyes, I am not afraid.
I need to cook you up a feast of myself, then feed it to you every day for the rest of our lives
Please tell me what I really taste like,
Years after my grandfather passed away, my grandmother moved into my aunt’s house.
Since I was 5, every time I speak to her she asks me:
“Spenser, did you thank God for waking you up today?”
I think to myself, I never did tell my eyes to open themselves. It just happened.
So I don’t know how to respond to her correctly.
I tell her that I love her, that I am writing a lot.
She tells me that she puts her hands together for me every night
Prays that I will get the job I want
I guess some prayers do get answered.
Sometimes two hands in the right position, matched with a conversation with God,
Can change things.
I even accidentally call that place home sometimes.
My dream is that my hands evolve into wolves, become part of a pack and work together with other hands to make a difference
Some days they will be the alpha male.
Full of confidence, at the head of the pack
Other days I need someone to show me the right way to go
Because if I’ve learned anything
It’s that I am not always right
I can not always be in control of everything
The only thing I have ever really wanted is to know
That my hands were truly
A part of something.