Three pounds a month they
ask, save the Tiger, save the
Panda, save the Jaguar, save
the rain forest.
Three pounds a month for
the children's hospital and
for the save the children's
fund, the RSPCA, RSPB,
Cancer research, just, only
three pounds a month, now
my pockets are empty with
all these donations.
Our governments, they also
donate, mainly to the
FAT CAT SOCIETY
yes those poor sods who
caused the majority of man's
suffering with their greed and
Please just three pound a
month for the Daniel
Cheesemans poetry fund.
Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010
Stranded in this place
I cannot recognize
Abandoned and lonely
No one hears my cries
AS i walk through this wasteland
Of wilderness and desolation
I am consumed with anguish
I walk this road with hesitation
On every turn that i come upon
The is more pain than at the last turn
Agony and torment spews from my pores
With every step i take more pain i earn
Until i am enveloped with grief
Buried alive on my feet
Dirt in my eyes,nose,mouth,and lungs
I throw up my flag of defeat
Each painful blow leaves behind a deep gash
That is constantly reopened never able to heal
Infection has now set into my heart
Slashes and scars on my body reveals the detail
Of the despair embedded deep in my soul
That tells a tale of a soul so lost
A soul wandering through this wilderness
A tale of what being born black cost
Copyright © April Mitchell | Year Posted 2013
He's staring off into oblivion;
dead-lights, who of their own free will choose to illuminate
the gray matter microwave that is TV:
too vain, too vulgar. Thought Vanquisher,
brought to you by your friendly-facade-keepers:
the politicians pussyfooting on a pedestal
built of an uninformed (yet united) public -
whose belief in "connection" is in reference
to a wall socket. Not love. Not kindness.
Who unwittingly become hamsters on a wheel,
convinced of stars held in our pockets; while promises of prosperity
dangle on a string. Like Maya's caged bird we sing
- but not of freedom - to sing of that would be akin
to declaring the sun has risen in the east. Freedom is a given,
at least that's the belief that's bandied about.
There's a boldface lie in that belief . . staring us in the face.
Are we too ignorant to see or too coddled to care?
Organic antenna, playing a fuzzy station;
our loved one's voice like a pesky fly -
six-legged silhouette on precious phones.
Halfhearted hmms-and-yeahs exuding from lazy lips. A lone
wolf, misunderstood youth - the euphemisms of today,
tomorrow's regrets. The diarrhea of words floating
in cyberspace; ricocheting off planets, but never touching earth.
The constipation of passion - nonchalant bloodbath of values -
no one strong enough to carry the hearse. We'll have to work
together - in unity redirected - to carry the load of our ancestor's past.
We descendants who reap the aftermath; let's carry on and forgo the calm.
Complacency is no destiny to pursue; crack the bottle against the bow,
that ship has sailed. Let us dabble in truth, instead of sugarcoat lies;
deception maybe be sweet, but give it time, it'll go straight to your thighs.
Embrace controversy with a bear hug, and give tyranny a timeout.
And should our words sharpen swords instead of mold minds,
may the massacre be only metaphorical - and the white flag of truce
be mistaken for a canvas - painted with the blood of your passion.
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2015
People make me smile the way
their eyes shine when they talk
about something they love
when they feed me food. Or tell
me how much they love me
when I look into someone's
eyes and see it I see that look
in their eyes I see love in them
When I see someone laugh and
have fun in what they do
The way they cry for there lost
When they give me a smile and
tell me how beautiful I am
People are beautiful well some
are and I wish someday I can
find someone who will look at
me and say "you have that look
in your eye" what look?
I want to find someone so
beautiful in the inside I can't
stay away they amaze me with
what they say an do how they
will dance in the rain and know
every detail about me
Will bring me Starbucks on a
rainy day and just talk about
I want someone beautiful
Copyright © brittney lopez | Year Posted 2013
I sat on the edge of your mattress, unsure what to expect; I kicked off my shoes and took in
your bedroom for the first time: the bookshelves, the plastic stickers wreathing the windows,
your little brother’s action figures mid-battle on the carpet, the clothing stretched out into
long piles beneath your feet.
I remember thinking you so strong and confident, wondering how we ended up beneath the
covers together. You reassured me as you crawled out to take down your blue jeans. I looked
away for fear of seeming too eager. (I wanted to look.)
Your hand trailed over my back, tracing my stomach. I had never been touched before;
every inch your fingers followed burned a path into my memory. I was sure there were
scorch marks on the sheets.
We kissed and kissed and I gasped and we kissed and I fumbled, I heard my pulse throbbing
in my ears and we kissed and I couldn’t believe I had gone my whole life without knowing the
feeling of skin on skin.
Then, you were forcing my lips to part with yours, and your tongue surprising the inside of my
mouth, a slippery, rubbery thing. I let it wander.
You curled a loose hair behind my ear. I imagine you framing my face in your hands and
bringing my chin for another kiss, but I find my memory inventing moments between us that
But, I am sure of the sleepy look on your face every time we pulled away, the half-pouted
lips, and the pressure of your hands on my back, urging me to never stop.
Copyright © Robin Lane | Year Posted 2010
I bent down to pick up a penny from the frozen ground.
I could smell myself, the acrid stench of sweat and soot,
the taint of vapored vagrancy
that marked my movements, masking me from the reality that used to be.
I hate me and what I am, more than you could ever think to,
but more so becuase you do, with your limp laughter and scared stares.
I never knew my life never needed me to know it could all go away in a single day.
I see it all through dirty windows draped in singed eyelashes and gutter grime,
the pathetic gazes from afar as another afternoon of sale shopping and shoe sizing is ruined
by my appalling appearance.
"How dare you be here! What's wrong with you?"
"Go get a job you junkie, you slob, just jump a bus so you can't disgust us with your sewer
shoes and hard luck blues. You deserve the dirt and a kick in the teeth from the steel-tipped
toe of a jackboot too. No one wants to see a scummy sack of crap like you, bending down to
pick our scraps off the frozen ground."
The helping hand of man slaps the taste of humanity from my mouth with each volatile volley
of acid arrow analogies angrily slung and fired furiously from the bows of bastard
businessmen and bleach blonde bimbos.
My weary wounds fill with the sea-salt of sarcastic statements and unflattering finger
gestures from frat boys as I bend down to pick up a penny I found on the frozen ground.
"Head's up means luck," Abe smiled at me, and suddenly my thoughts began to run
I took a long look at the lingering light of one of the sweetest sunsets I had ever seen, and
the simplicity and majesty washed over me.
There was no use in listening to abuse and accusations and obtuse observations any more.
I was being shown a door.
Wrapped in the warmth of the amber and amethyst glow, I finally smile for a little while and
close my dirty windows against the icy winds of waning words.
Tomorrow, someone will bend down to pick me up from the frozen ground.
Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2010
What it is, this pain that kills my joints
This strange duvet of darkness while
I try to brush my teeth
What it is, the distance to my wheelchair
seems to have increased
in this small room
What it is, this self-inflicted isolation
This fear of seeing people
and of losing them
Swimming in a dark damp pool
Hearing people talking yet
Can't see them, here's the fool
That wants to dance but stays in bed
Splendid colours hurt instead
What is not the wish to block
While at the same time all is gone
And nothing stays in harmony
They speak and I hear their concern
It does not concern me, still it gnaws
My consciousness, my shame, my guilt
I better not be here, they better
off without me
Don't worry, I'm only showing you
The me I am when I'm depressed
But everyone is not going through
The same, we're different: at best
We share the overwhelming sadness
That has no words enough to describe
What it is. But this is what it always is:
Don't leave us please, for even at the
point of our deepest rejection of you,
it really is a cry to stay!
How contradictory we are
This is for me, it is for every person who
Is right now in dire need.....
Here are my hugging arms 'round you
Until you're back on your two feet.
Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017
She holds my hand like I’d never
wake up after passing -out and drinking
one last lick from a broken bottle, only to
find myself needing another round of gin.
Yet, my woman cuddles me as if this
hair isn't filthy even though I haven't
hit the showers, even though I can’t
take my body to rest, to act functional.
And she gleams like she can't smell
the reek of alcohol I am breathing…
how my heart aches for the last time
her mouth kissed me on the face
after I broke a promise I couldn’t
possibly fulfill-- a lowlife freak, rogue of a man,
disappearing into bars and more bars
to silence fears so I cannot hear
old ghosts on the walls, in nightmares,
within her embrace,
… but still
I can’t love myself the same way that
she loves me like I never
told her to go lose herself,
banging the door--
telling her that she was worse
than my compulsive urge.
She loves me -- a reckless quirk--
believing I will see THAT day
when I can Change.
Creep Contest for Silent One
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2016
She's sliding and if you look past, if you watch her.....
maybe you'll capture a glance of her yesterday.....
“Sunrise only falls when you don't believe tomorrow exists,” I explained, in my most
She bit her lip and shook her head, she followed me into my room and shut the door, she
locked us in, for an hour it seemed, and whispered in my ear....
“I can write pain better than anyone,” she informed me, “I'm brilliant at tears.”
And with this she tore pages out of my beloved sketch book, the one that no one is allowed
to touch, and just when my jaw fell with the shock of her brazenness, I shut my mouth as I
watched her pen turn letters into sobs....
I followed the words as they ran down, as ink turned into pretty swirls that screamed art
and I told her...
“Your angst belongs in a museum.”
I had never seen her smile before, I had never heard her grin, but her lips parted at that
moment as a single curl dropped down her previously wrinkled forehead and I saw the beauty
in eyes that cry and knew that she had realized I accepted it.
“Oh, but who would pay to hear me scream?” she asked, almost joking, as she crossed her
legs and sat forward a bit, as her teeth tugged on her bottom lip, as she looked more her
age and resembled a child instead of me....
“I would,” I replied, as I pushed back her hair and kissed her on the nose, “I would, if I
didn't hear you in my dreams almost every night.”
Copyright © JeanMarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007
Trapped like a bird in this filthy cage
Where I am starved of compassion and understanding
Left to survive on meager crumbs
Of affection and tolerance
Held captive and unable to fly and be free
From the physical and emotional restrictions
Placed upon me by my keeper
Who’s only reason for my presence it seems
Is to stay its loneliness and insecurity
To feed its selfish need for control
Through its twisted concept
Of love and adoration
I am looked upon as a possession
Other than the living, breathing individual
That I long to be
So now I sit upon my proverbial perch
In my so called gilded cage
In the confines of my seemingly mundane existence
And walk though my mind confused and alone
Aimlessly wandering through the now empty spaces
That no longer hold the dreams or aspirations
Which I once thought gave my life purpose
Memories which were bright and alive
Full of promise and hope but have faded away
Into a past that is now grey and bleak
Devoid of anything worth remembering
My footfalls echo in the silence
Giving testament that these memories
Have been empty and forgotten long ago
My only hopes now are that my keeper
Will grow tired of my deliberate silence
And obvious disdain and release me
Whether through life or by death
At this point either would be welcome
How I long for the freedom
And comfort of the clear blue sky
The ability to soar like a bird
High above the reaches
Of those who only want to keep me
And fly towards the bright and colorful horizon
Where I know my future waits
And new memories and dreams can be made.
Copyright © Thomas King | Year Posted 2014
Don't want to leave
want to pick you up
in my arms
kiss you and tell
you - I have
stored away and
this love I have for
Don't want to feel
Like the only way
heart is when it's
Making it seem as if
I hate you
When I just don't
want you to hate me.
I even dislike
I have endured-
Because I hoped,
and took the shots.
Realizing that my
defense was strong
my retaliation could
kick you into
I Love you
too much, to let
you continue hurting
yourself, to hurt
You won't see me
As I aggravate
your condition on
as I remind you of
well held onto
The truth is I want
hold you and tell
I want to clear your
let you see that
the love is here
It cannot be
I cannot complete
the task;until you
Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2014
To have meant well is like a promise never made but kept.
Copyright © dave archuletta | Year Posted 2016
If I had a choice to go where I wanted,
I wouldn't go where it's crowded,
where many eyes see and judge and turn-
these lessons so painful that I learned.
If I had a choice to say what I wanted,
I wouldn't say the truth to whoever demanded,
where so many ears shut and block and deceive-
believing what they hear; hearing what they believe.
If I had a choice to stay where I wanted,
I wouldn't stay in this world where I'm haunted,
where many words and the impalpable hurt-
and once vacant and stripped, thrown out and deserted.
If I had a choice to do what I wanted,
I wouldn't extirpate myself - I couldn't, I'm interdicted,
chained by your emotions, your pity, your thoughts...
Hence I wander still, forevermore lost.
-July 11th, 2015
Copyright © Bre Varzena | Year Posted 2015
I hope you're having fun. I hope your life is good.
I wish you well, but I'm curious, do you wish the
same for me? I mean, you don't even talk to me
anymore. When you do talk to me, it's to question
me about my sexuality, what clothing I'm wearing
at the moment, basically anything relating to sex.
So, it's hard to tell you apart from those perverted
old creeps you might see on TV, looking up the
skirts of MILF's as they stroll on by.
It's not about looks. It's about what's inside.
It's not about sex, it's about the love in a relationship.
It's not about having to lie to me and make me feel
like you love me, because there are millions of girls out there.
I'm not the only one to chase. I'm sure there are lots of other
girls who would just love to let you chase their skirts and
hear you lie to them repeatedly. I'm just sick of it all.
I don't need you, and you sure as hell don't need me.
You built me up,
you broke me down.
You got what you wanted.
I hope you're happy.
Wipe the smirk off your face,
I don't care that you've succeeded in making me fall for you
I don't care that you're freaking gorgeous.
I don't care.
I am not your toy.
I am not your slave.
And I am most definitely not your 'baby girl'.
Just because you have my heart doesn't mean that you can control me.
I'm not yours.
I'm my own person.
And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.
But never mind that now, I must go. Mother is calling me to come to supper. Until next
time, you traitor.
Copyright © Kristen Wallen | Year Posted 2010
There's a void, now
Where once a steadfast heart beat time
The soul in perfect harmony with life's uncertain pulse
With those who clambered eagerly in solace or in joy
To scale that mighty pinnacle
The Rock, within the bosom of the family
There's a void, now
But marvel at the structure, the firmness of the ground beneath
The strata richly layered with wisdom of generations past
A fault free seam constructing firm foundations
Binding those within the bosom of the family
There's a void, now
A hollow cavern
echoing the anger and the pain
Trust time; it has no fear of finite elements
The source of unremitting pain
Within the bosom of the family
There's a void, now
So fill the emptiness and catalogue the memories
Harvesting the richness of their meaning
The fullness of the seed sown long ago
To bloom forever within the bosom of the family
Copyright © CAROL ROBINSON | Year Posted 2007
Storms above me, storms below,
Storms of violence, Storms of sadness,
Storms of anger
Storms of people laughing,
mocking my existence
Sorrow, and the joy of the few lights
of hope and friendship echoes
Through the storms
The storms surround me night and day
No land sight Poseidon’s rage is all I see
No mercy found, twix’t night and day
But for the brief repast
The gift night brings
To weather the storms
I travel unseen, unheard
Past those who give
the storm its powers
To the places in my dreams
Where night and day are side by side
And Wolves gather
below the moons
Midday and night, to sing
Their songs of peace
Of legends from long ago
Of loyalty to their pack
And the fight to survive.
To weather the storms
I look to the wolves
As a cub, to the mother
The strong live to be the hunters
Whilst the weak
become the prey
The storm takes all
Partial to none it hunts
One by one, boat by boat,
all fall to the storm
Human, Animal, Angel, Demon,
the storm resides in us all
waiting to take hold
to drag us to its depths
when hope is gone
until the Light is found
hope is gone
Copyright © Wolf Lief | Year Posted 2012
Even in the dark, it doesn't feel right.
Even in the silence, I know it isn't you.
But I'm young, and I'm scared,
And he gets me through.
The first was lips,
Just a sweet, common meeting.
Only, I can't call myself his anymore.
It was a moment, short and fleeting,
But I won't belong to him ever again.
Three rotations around the star, He is all I know, so I let it be.
He promised it was friendship, and he wanted nothing more.
Then why is this happening to me?
The drink swims in my brain,
Watching the waves lap at the shore,
And I can't remember a damn thing,
I don't remember a thing more.
Scared. I was scared.
So, silent I was.
My heart was hidden, lies were snared.
I made the dark vacuum seem like a torrent of sound.
When his ideas of happily ever after fell through,
He ran with one last plan.
He ran squealing like a pig to you,
And I almost lost everything I wanted.
I let the lies break,
I let the tears fall,
Because although seventeen,
I felt so very small.
I promised, I swore,
And to that I've kept true. I
I've never again
Cheated on you.
Copyright © Erika Raiken | Year Posted 2012
We the old and broken, have become the pawns
in the grand game of politics. We are as in the game
of chess of the lowest esteem, expendable
if not worse unwanted, a barganing chip.
For three years we haven't even received
a cost of living increasee
while their income they have
They have as they so often do broken
their promise to us. Social security was a
promise made by them, that we paid
for when we were able to work,
extracted from every pay check we earned.
Those revenues where to be put in a trust
for us to draw from when the time came
that we had need of them. However our
government for decades have used those
funds as they pleased, for things other than
what they were intended for. Why am I not surprised?
because our so called public servants have
broken countless promises and in the process
lined their pockets from the spoils of their deceptions.
The Bill of Rights and the Constitution
they have shredded and the first casulity
was the truth, now we are the second.
Most of our fatrhers fought and many died to
defend the rights that they have cast into the
the trash heap. Our national debt is now beyond
any hope of us ever repaying, robbing the young of
any hope of a future or even a job, taxes they will have
to pay tremendous to pay for there folly. China Told
President Obama, We're not going to lend you any more,
sure can't say I blame them, probably never pay back what
we already borrowed form them. England is burning because
of the same folly of the politicians, won't be surprised
if the same thing takes place here. People with no hope
and no future what do they expect. They'll go on filling their
pockets with the taxes we all pay, the don't care it's all
well and fine for them. Will give themselves another big
pay increse next year, you just wait and see. Like mother
Hubbard everyone elses cubbard is bare, no bone for
the doggies anymore. They have destroyed everything
Along with, "One nation under God". This once upon a time
good nation has quite literally gone to the "Dogs". The only
Thing that I can say is that I wouldn't have said before,
I'm ashamed of what this nation has became.
Copyright © Jack Ross jr. | Year Posted 2011
I have the fury of hell trapped inside. I’m so angry that words can’t express how I
feel. Nothing in life could have ever told me that these emotions existed. I’m mad at
you, at everything you ever stood for. At the very fact that you were so charming
and happy in life only to die and leave me alone like you did. Angry at the fact that
your death could have been prevented, Drinking and Driving - were you just stupid;
careless. Did you think that you would never die? That you were immortal and could
defy even God. Well you weren’t, I guess you know that now. I still can’t believe
that your life could be wasted because you were too arrogant to wait till you got
home. You should've waited...
Copyright © Tirzah Conway | Year Posted 2010
not speak,so wrecked
shy and meek,because idyllic
to any attack, vulnerable
always wrong,for long
no worry,there's money,
days are sunny!
no worry ! no worry !
never glad,things go bad
for strange mood
at zenith to watch
and outside stand
and scorching sun
to burn his brain
eventually diabolic !
A word dealer,,,,,
*The brainy one*
Copyright © Lonely Shepherd | Year Posted 2015
(The writing exercise was to choose three poetry cliches and make them fresh)
(back stabber, after my own heart; and a soul of discretion; maybe more...)
He was a back stabber
After my own heart
Meek and sleek and sneaky
He wormed his way in
And 'innocently' uncovered
Skeletons in closets
They were all fair game
He was a back stabber
Not to be trusted
Such a sweet smile
That promised a soul of discretion
It was too easy to believe him
It felt good to trust him
He pulled his victims in
And it wasn’t until the court case
And the jury voted for him
That you realized he was a back stabber
He pulled it off with such panache
You had to admire the guy
Even while you staunched your blood
I wish – oh I wish
I had his skills
He was a back stabber
After my own heart
Copyright © KJ Hooten | Year Posted 2011
I have a secret place to go whenever I feel the need. It is a place that is visceral,
dark, and so unforgiving that the joy of being there sometimes makes me want to stay
longer than a moment. There, I am like a beast uncaged, running free, and devouring all
that I see. When the beast runs, there is no stopping it. There is no leash or muzzle to
keep it at bay. There is no place that it cannot go, and its desire for retribution is
like an insatiable hunger in its belly. The beast there is ever hungry. "Where is this
place?" you may wonder. I always try to remember to take the key with me. For it is the
barren, lonely, and impassable door you cannot reach...it is the Id within me.
Copyright © Daniel Cwiak | Year Posted 2011
She sits there in the back of the class, doodling on her paperwork. Getting lost in
the scribbles, tuning out the teacher, forgetting all the madness around her, her life
fading in the paper. Slap! The sound of the ruler splintering across the desk. PAY
ATTENTION! Head jerking upward, she sits up in her little desk. Pencil dropping from
her hand, rolling off onto the floor. She looks straight ahead, back straight as a
board, eyes glued ahead as the teacher drones on. Drilling things into their heads,
eyes sharp like an eagle. Looking for every chance to catch someone falling asleep,
to catch someone passing notes, to catch someone whispering. The little girl quietly
picks up her pencil and her mind drifts to dreaming of playing dress up, drifts to the
path the lead makes on the paper. The curves of a woman, not a little girl. Dreaming
of growing up into a woman. Confident, pretty, smart, strong....someone people will
notice....a woman with a voice. Slap! The ruler across her hand. She jerks it back,
clasping it to her chest. Instant sting, instant redness and she feels the tears start
to pool in her eyes, her lip quivering to hold back the yelp. Pay attention! You’re not
listening! I asked you a question young lady. Should I repeat it? She’s so scared
that she can’t even speak so she just meekly nods her head. Hard as steel, cold as
ice, the teacher repeats the question. She hangs her head and answers but her
voice is barely above a squeeking whisper. Speak up! says the teacher. The class
can’t hear you, I can’t hear you she says. The little girl raises her head and repeats
her answer. WRONG! Slap! The ruler across her other hand. See if you had been
paying attention instead of DOODLING, then you wouldn’t have gotten the ruler.
You’ll make sure next time you will listen now won't you. The little girl doesn’t
answer, doesn’t speak up. She doesn’t want the ruler again. So she carefully and
quietly lays her pencil on her little wooden desk that bares the markings of many
ruler slappings. And on her little wooden desk, she rests her hands that bare the
scars of many ruler slappings. She stares straight ahead at the chalkboard,
unwavering, searing a hole in the chalkboard. She tries to find the dream of dress
up, tries to find the girl dressing up as the woman she wants to be. But all she sees
on the chalkboard…no matter how hard or how long she stares...all she sees on the
chalkboard.....is nothing but chalk.
Copyright © A Rambling Righting Riley - Shauna Riley | Year Posted 2011
No news is good news we’ve all heard that before
that said I’d like less bills when I open my mailbox door.
If it bleeds it leads with more than enough yellow journalism
where facts are shifted and twisted then shown through a tainted prism
then a little tease to keep you hanging through long commercial breaks
this isn’t the news we’re being abused and it’s giving me a headache.
Copyright © Monty Newman | Year Posted 2010
They built the underground chamber well reinforced with concrete to the depth of
three miles into the center of the earth. NO steel girders were used. They did not
wish to be trapped when the atomics started dropping from the sky. They putt three
tons of food within reach for everyone to survive. Radiation suits with water in
drums to be used only in the event of the end of the world. They even used double
doors like saloon doors which could not lock them inside. But they forgot what could
happen iff Murphy is in charge. The SILO for this is the right title of this thing the
SILO for this is the designation of this thing the SILO drifted above them only 17 feet
away but it could not have been worse it could have been 17 miles for there were
no equipment down there for them to tunnel up or out. The spokesman for the
group turned out to be the worst the nerves evident in the strain of her voice there
is no reason left to us. So now we will die here entombed no one could foresee this
problem the concrete silo above us has drifted into the earth trapping us
underground for the rest of our lives. Which recourse will not be much longer now.
The lifer PFC Hice stepped up to the dirt floor roof just above them he took his
shovel from his pack then he began to dig slowly at first then faster faster he pulled
the dirt from the opening letting it fall behind him uncaring he begins to turn the
tunnel to the west to begin his task of getting to the concrete Wall of the silo.
NOTHING else matters now to most of them they sought out ways to help him. He
turned over here he is to sleep then wakes to begin the shovel urging the others
taking turns to come up behind him with the bucket then drop the dirt into the
kitchen or the stove they filled up every free spot in the effort to conserve room they
intended to win this fight for survival now. For where there is one free Man there is
hope for the others. It took too long to get the concrete tower open. They found
them there one September. They held open the tower door for the Prime Minister of
the world. He took one look to the Man on the tunnel floor. He smiled. It is my son.
He died he gave his life upp here down here trying to get them out he was trying to
save them. He brought him out into the light only to bury him further. Such is the
power of men. Such is there intelligence. One huge MegOHBlister.
Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2011
You gave out your heart
but only got back half in return.
It's only a small scratch, and you climb back right up.
It's okay, you say, whatever it takes
as you fill up the emptiness
with lies regrets and sin.
After winter pasts comes spring, where life begins
and flowers (love) blossoms
now you're more cautious, handling your half with care.
Alas, things aren't meant to last
he breaks it unevenly
and takes the bigger half.
The ground is kind to you, and you don't want to get up.
It's okay, you say, whatever it takes
as you fill up the emptiness
with false optimism, despair, and apathy.
Because seasons do not stop for love
and years will go by with springs and winters.
Your weary soul has losts its identifier
you no longer shiver with the cold, and flowers look like snow
so when you felt the warmth again you thought it wasn't so.
Was it spring? Could it be?
You look out the window, trying to find more clues
But it all feels the same, and so you decide against it
and lock the door shut.
Copyright © Bre Varzena | Year Posted 2015
A happy little girl. Bright colors and sunshine. She grows older and enters middle
school. She is teased constantly. Not the right hair. Not the right clothes. It hurts,
oh God it hurts. She forgoes colors. Black and gray are good enough. She gets older
and older still. High school; a new place, new adventure. Dare she hope...new
friends? Foolish, foolish girl. New friends? New enemies...new pain. Dyed hair...what
color? Black. Black hair, black clothes...black heart. Poetry, music, the only escape.
Dark, Pain, Despair...Destroyed. Heart bleeding and inside she's screaming. but no
one sees. No one hears. Alone...so alone. Who would understand? No one. Dying
inside. Drowning in pain bottled up. Invisible. Misunderstood. Who is she? Who is
she!?! Screaming, bleeding, dying. What a waste. That's what she is, a waste of
space, a waste of breath. Better off without her. The world's better off. Despised,
Copyright © Angelita Becerra | Year Posted 2011
A tight fist of emotion sprouts flames in my chest
and I fan the flames with a chilled smile
chiseled like the block of ice
stored in the freezer for the party.
I have stood empty as a discarded seashell, perhaps a clam's shell,
whose pearl should sparkle like the sun spattered sea, that is its home.
But it gleams like the moonlight
castings its light across surfaces- changing them to white or silver,
like the tops of carved glaciers, drifting as they change the shape of the earth.
Too heavy am I to walk on these surfaces,
even if they are frozen.
Seabirds wind up and spin lazily,
calling the wind for their flight- or at least to float momentarily,
like my spirit, needing so much to be released.
Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | Year Posted 2012
Plagiarism is the great liars tool to rejoice in others work with a liars pen,
They live a liar’s life and disguise their stupidity with a liar’s conscience,
We should pity the liar’s theft as the lying thief has no words of his own,
He revels in stupidity because he knows there are many words unguarded,
To surf the great networks of knowledge seeing how other people write,
The liar wants recognition but he knows his words are as impotent as he,
So he searches in the deep dark archives hoping he will not be caught,
Liars have a disease as does a sociopath he cares for no one but his ego.
Writers and the men of knowledge have integrity they respect, respect,
A liar is an outcast from this world because truth is the key for the door,
To smile into writers face then steal his jewels when no one’s around,
Liars feed from the gutter as their soft minds cannot raise any higher.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
It's a sick world.
Men of power,
greed, and cunning.
Banal and sophomoric,
ohhhh such vile, vile, vile men.
cruel and callous men.
May they drown,
in the blood of angels,
and vomit, vomit, vomit!
Copyright © Robert McCall | Year Posted 2011