Being in the shelter is not planned by anyone who enters it's doors. Lost opportunities,drugs and alcoholism,gambling bad choices. Open your eyes to the road ahead,you are at a crossroads, make the right decision for a better tomorrow, create your destiny at this road as to ensure its a smooth road when leaving. Find yourself and take the right steps to your dreams. Don't be entrapped by complicity and comfort of shelter live. Chose the road of advancement of your live on this path. Be mindful that tomorrow your destiny will be decided by today's choices.Use the resources at your disposal for it will not always embrace you walk tall and proud when you leaveDo not approve yesterday's choices that brought you here. Fight with yourself and rise out of your addictions and bad choices
Enveloped within the ambiance of night where the moonlight comforts my soul—the absence of anyone else around leaving me at peace.
“Stay for as long as you need to”, a quiet voice whispered, “for no one can hurt you here.”
In that moment, I felt safe and a sense of freedom to be just who I am.
Amongst those stars, I found refuge and a place that I could now call home—the hours of darkness redefining its reputation.
And within that time, I became grateful for the silence of not being ridiculed amongst a population that normalizes cruel intentions.
Leave me here and let society carry on, for when the sun takes its position in the morning, I'll be a memory that daylight was never meant to hold.
In the centre of a bridge
and at a loss
neither there but here
only half-way across
coming or going
how would I know
as yesterday is far away
and oh so long ago
I'm stuck in the middle
but it doesn't show
forwards backwards
or over the side
I would jump at half the chance
if I could only decide
The wind blasts from the sea, a paper cup falls down
I’m gazing at the sand beneath my feet
Why should I listen to these noises on the background
Is there another small cafe around to sit
Time heals but it remains unclear what
The pain subsides, then it evolves into the new
And that new pain is just exactly like the old
Time’s not a goodwill paramedic in my view
Self-deprecation is a healer free of charge
A tunnel vision tunes the optics of the heart
Troubles diminish, and small pleasures look enlarged
The view clears up and there we are, never apart
Sometimes I’m able to perceive the memories
As if I’m living backwards, sit and wait
Just yesterday, I smelled your roses in the breeze
You said you’d called me, but I called you back too late.
“Forward Ever...Backwards…Never!?!”
With all
The progress
We made, how
Is it that we’re
Back to where
We once were
With oppression?
Did we become
So comfortable
That we failed
To see what
Was coming
To push us
Back and make America great again?!
How could we have simply missed
The vivid message of Stockholm,
Which, for us, here today, is now
A USA, Oppressor Syndrome?!
Imagine an alternate universe, one born in the reverse rhythm of our own Big Bang.
In this cosmos, the arrow of time flows backward, not as a regression but as an elegant symmetry, a dance of retreating possibilities.
Galaxies do not expand into the void but instead coalesce, condensing into radiant singularities, the luminous echoes of futures we can never reach.
Here, light emerges only to fold inward, its journey truncated before it graces the expanse.
It is a universe hidden from us not by distance alone, but by the very nature of its existence—its glow always arriving too late, its truths eternally just beyond our grasp.
Yet, even unseen, such a realm invites awe.
It suggests that reality is not a single thread but a cosmic loom, weaving countless tapestries in both directions of time.
It is a humbling thought, a reminder that the cosmos, vast and intricate, may hold infinities we can sense only in the whispers of our dim imagination.
they swagger in badges
hallways of fluorescent lies
drag me by the collar
into their personal theater of power
guns gleam like broken promises
questions barked through gritted teeth
hands cuffed before words finish
justice danced on cold linoleum floors
they say order is sacred
while stomping the petals of freedom
paper walls of our rights
tear under boot heels
every knock at midnight
echoes the guillotine’s whisper
we’re born equal on paper
but in their hands, paper bleeds dry
and still—
we hope for mercy
in the belly of this machine
Stobor, Robots...........Robots who walk backwards
Looking back, while looking forward
Am I really sate to go
Backwards, when I’m going onward
Pacing fast and sometime slow
One road ends, then goes another
Same exactly as the old
Where to go to, moving further
Do I really have a goal
Maybe I’m amnesiac
Partly this explains my doubts
If the memory I lack
Sends me back to same old grounds
How come that I feel uncertain
Within this unconscious drift
Pull down, or pull back the curtain
Either way makes no big diff.
Only lovers feel the pain
Smoke curtains blow
Blood on the wall dries
No one leaves tonight
He throws her out of his window
Who knew her bones were so brittle
She lands on her knees
Silent bleeding
But he is not a bad guy
He likes to test gravity
With other people’s bodies
Loud and dark
10,20 blows to the heart
Her blood breaks free
Soaking her insides
A butterfly on meth
Change is unstoppable
The rearranging of her organs
Those same old bones
Won’t stop breaking
No one hurts you in heaven
If only it existed
Within arms reach
The pearly gates open
Some of us grew up with words that made us think,
Words that on the blackboard came alive,
To change our lives.
The day soon came when pencils were the order of the day,
And then that special day when for a fountain pen, we could pay.
But those days are gone now I am sad to say,
As a photographic memory now is the order of the day,
With words no longer holding sway,
And a thousand words lost along the way,
For each and every photo that comes into play,
To push more words off the page each and every day.
I wonder how much we will have to pay,
If we lose the ability one day,
To think of any words to say,
As our thoughts only run to photos on display.
There is one more thing I need to say,
While words still hold some sway,
If we continue in this way,
And words are no longer on display,
How long before our voices too fade away?
And will faces without ears seem quite normal one day?
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A poem back to front
It's never done
Because
Once you start
You never stop the fun
And stopping just to see
What you might do
You never know
What an author might tell you
So listen closely to
That which I say
Please think about the words
I speak each day
A poem back to front
Back I go retracing steps.
Against the tide I must tread,
Following the arrows down in reverse.
Each arrow head points back to moments gone,
To a time before the dawn of days past.
The footprints I must retread
Lead backwards on the path trod.
Heel to toe carefully placed in reverse,
To echo the way I felt at each step.
To unravel the memories woven.
Rewinding your life's design,
Sopping up past tears you shed,
Muting the cries with rags and sound proofing,
Pulling back from embraces hugs and kisses.
Is the toughest part of these retraces.
With each step, a tale unfurls,
Of joys and sorrows retold,
Where songs I knew, old and new are unsung.
I walk through gardens which were once in bloom,
Where flowers long since withered, met their doom,
This journey back to the past,
Rejigs it, to could have been!
This is a story about Barry Hunt
Who tried to pull off a remarkable stunt
He tried a bungee-jump without using a rope
He then fell to the ground the silly dope
And now his head is turned back to front.
He now sees everything from the back
Which often leads to a panic attack
Because now when he needs a poo
And he has to visit the loo
He simply just doesn’t have the knack
It’s even worse when he needs a wee
Because Barry can no longer see
His aim is so bad, which really makes him sad
Cos to get bullseye he would need a degree
This story of backwards boy Barry
Ends with him finally becoming happy
He then got a job as a teacher, which became a magazine feature
And now he was a celebrity chappie
With his eyes now on ‘the back of his head’
He could see what the children had said
Although there was no cure, he got awarded Teacher of the year
And he celebrated when his name was declared
Barry partied all day and he partied all night
He danced the ‘backward robot’ until it was light
Despite Barry’s backwards life, that night he met June his wife
and now Barry and June are doing alright.
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