Best Apathy Poems | Poetry
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by Loo, Laura
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by Borgo, Louis
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United States of Apathy
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The Best Apathy Poems
It is quiet tonight.
The only sound is coming from
the soft murmur of the television set.
I don't know why I don't just put it on mute.
I don't want to hear what they have to say,
but I guess it is better than the sound
of silence which is deafening.
It hurts my ears, it hurts my heart.
Yesterday I was happy, but that was before,
before I stepped into the dark abyss.
I think I may have been pulled in
by the apathy of death.
Death has such long arms.
I won't ask why, I know everyone must die.
But you left on a happy day, a day we were
making plans, and I had hope,
hope that we still had time,
time to share those plans.
You made me laugh until I cried that day,
and then death swooped in
and took it all away.
It is so quiet tonight.
© Connie Marcum Wong
August 10, 2016 Poem of the Day
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2016
upon it, care for
our lives and all that
will occur if we cannot
consider beyond ourselves,
if we are guided by uncertainty,
when we fear the unknown, when we
shun those who differ from us in skin color,
in sex, in persuasion, if we turn our eyes away,
when we dance upon the hidden strings of politicians
or cunning puppetmasters, when we swallow the lust of war,
when poets languish in isolation, without ear or encouragement,
when we torture, when prejudice blinds us to the humanity of another,
when our deluded misconceptions will go public with ready trigger finger,
when we mistake violence for the solution, when we fail the worthy person,
when we won't bother to look past the wheelchair and to whom he really is,
to say his real name, when the most expected thing we will share with him
is discrimination, when we forget that here in space we are in this together,
when tomorrow is the day that old and young will die in roaring explosions,
in quiet corners without notice, when people are driven from their homes,
when women must live in fear, when we steal identities, when evil hides
in anonymity, when we rest in apathy, indifferent to the pain of others,
when our fellow creatures are in chains for our profit and amusement,
when hunger and hatred are accepted, when malice shrieks loud,
when we cut baby girls due to generational gender inequality,
from psychosexual ignorance and hard superstition;
when we deny justice to one lonely voice,
our world falls, stretching itself
into a teardrop.
December 26, 2016
For FJ Thomas's contest - 'Concrete Crush'
Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016
Her trembling twilight is dimming
with streaking purple tears
bruised by youthful years of bleeding pain
hurting but never hugged --
locked in the arms of atmosphere’s apathy
that smeared with fiendish fingers
a contusing plum palette
across any hope in her godforsaken horizon ~
this sorrowful songbird
who sings with the shattered purity of violin strains falling from Heaven
finds her bemoaning musical notes adrift - lost on breezy deaf days
as she is once again thrown down from the self-serving skyscape
by the hateful hands of the wildcat winds.
In the deep inkwell
of lullaby-less lonely nights
where never a tender nursery rhyme
has ever set her free
are memories scribed of storm-battered days
and weighing heavily on Libra’s scales
are the injustices
of dreams she will never live
nor flights of fancy she will never take
as the scorching sire of solar flares on withering warpaths
sleeps soundly on a bloated bed
over-stuffed with betrayal and broken promises
while merciless moonbeams
do not wander the coal-colored haze
with lanterns lit
beaming to find her frail fractured form
lost in the eclipsed puckered pleats of the blood-red mistress’s skirts.
the stricken sparrow folds her fledgling wings
never to fly again…
will the skies miss her?
March 4, 2018
Contest: Favorite Free Verse (not for contest)
Sponsor: Laura Loo
~ POTD ~
March 5, 2018
Copyright © Susan Ashley | Year Posted 2018
R e l i e f:
the f o g,
b l urri n g
of your pain.
Can you feel
anything at all? I
watch you drink your
life away, far too many
moments lost, forgotten
in that h a z e. I watch as
you f e e d your disease,
suck yourself dry before you
suck me dry, draining me
like one of your bottles, till
I'm empty inside. But I can't
wait around for you to snap,
to throw me against the wall.
I won't shatter like a bottle.
I won't burst in a mosaic of
glass and light. You cannot
b r e a k someone who is
already b r o k e n. You can't
fix someone with s l u r r ed
apologies or promises that
smell like stale alcohol. I
can't be there to drown at
the bottom of your bottle.
I’m done with rock bottom.
For Anne's "Battling Addiction" contest
Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2013
She kept it all inside her
and never spoke a word,
though her thoughts flew and darted
like a trapped and frantic bird.
Inside her was a garden
that was hung with Spanish moss,
like the massive oaks were weeping
to remind her of her loss..
The spider wove at breakneck speed,
a perfect work of art,
watching it, she had her doubts
that humans were so smart.
The southern air was sultry
and the sea salt cloyed the skin,
the yard dogs dug depressions
and the alley cats grew thin.
The black top roads got sticky
when the southern sun beat down
and the heat forever rises
forming monstrous thunderclouds.
When the blue sky rolls and blackens
soon the thunder shakes the ground
and the southern landscape flattens
as the blinding rain pours down.
Nostrils flared, she filled her lungs
with the dank and heady scent
of peat-rich soil, decay and loam,
of lavender and mint.
And in her secret garden,
reptiles raised their faces high,
and blessed the cooling water
that came pouring from the sky.
She loved the iridescence
of the blue-green dragonflies
and marveled at their flying skills
as they went whirring by.
The rain soon turned magnolia leaves
into miniature garden ponds,
there the dragonflies must lay their eggs
before the rain is gone.
Wrens and sparrows chirped and chattered,
they enjoyed the cooling rain,
but the squirrels were wet and grumpy
and the jays were raising Cain.
The girl did not seek cover
and the rain ran down her face,
on her lashes rain drops trembled,
much like crystals gently placed.
The thunder never frightened her
nor did the lightning scare,
to nature she was connected,
to living things, aware.
She lived in every moment,
soon the thunderstorm would end
and the dark earth would start steaming,
then the heat would come again.
Suddenly all fell silent
in her garden of delights,
all living things were quiet
as the steam began to rise.
The gray squirrel broke the silence
and if squirrels could really speak,
she knew he would be cursing,
surely swearing a blue streak.
And then she saw the blue jay
madly pumping out his call,
his angry face was comical
Mohawk feathers standing tall.
She swam the Sea of Apathy
and the Ocean of Ennui,
there the waves upheld her gently,
washing over memories.
And the earthworms turned the soil
in the garden of her mind
and the trees again were weeping
from the echoes left behind.
Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2008
Universal elegy grieves and yet embraces shifts of paradigm
New beginnings consciousness initiates comprehends and thus proceeds from
Illusion’s delusion collusions misconceptions in the irritating
Vortex whirlpool immanent void of false containment
Enlightenment modern postmodern retro visionary futuristic aspirations
Resound in dialectical rebirth rejuvenation germinate constructive
Sense meaning reflect serenity’s tentative confidence that the
Agony of climate change greed warfare ignorance destructive apathy
Liberates fusion confusion necessitates Aquarian communication of
Antagonism’s polar opposites contradictions complements
Cycles spheres of influence of grave repression gravitate
Revolve resolve with pushing pulling moons in metaphorical
Orbital mental psychological initiation shape incidences
Synchronicities collateral communal reason feeling responsibility
Transformation of the global madness inhumanity conjoins
Idealism and the darker side’s fallacies of fabrication
Conspiracy of muted spirit silence violation fade away transform to novel script
Communication courses discourses concur in co-operation
Obvious obscurity in the blip of human race’s evolution delimits
Limitations iron cages hopes for new time place of reason beyond
Laissez-faire and hippie psychedelic stream of consciousness afar from
Anarchy self-righteous slavery rebellion mindlessness
Big oppressive bangs big brother’s obliterating over-information with
Onslaught of technology fail and falter when simplicity and esoteric
Rationale comprise enhance encompass the necessary world view shifts
Ascent and ever changing climax revitalizes humanness thus gifts
Truth deriving comprehension from ‘objective’ communal subjectivity with
Intuition insight inclination outside from the rigid boxed conformity
Order may be found again in the chaos of our time of misrepresented bedlam
New Age Aquarius delivers acts upon fresh constellation contemplates the Universe
Celebrating the adventure of Advent this one is written very uniquely.
During this transition Oh, the ubiquity of perception, reception most gratefully
Each new day begins with one’s first thought, amazingly
Though, this thought did not require any forethought, excitingly,
I thought, what if I thought in forethought, demandingly
Boldly I choose, a path of understanding. Then Daringly,
Choosing to forgive myself, then choosing to forgive everyone else. I gratefully
wished upon distant star and my cry did travel far. Vega, amazingly
did answer my call, in a dream from My whispering old cemetery scene . Excitingly
I dashed out of my bed, outside looked to sky, then cried Eternal welcome to Aquarius demandingly.
The Joy of this revelation, thought and manifestation determining one’s destination. So, daringly
I choose to be enlightened by the universal code, which is downloaded to each individual uniquely.
Travel I have far and wide, and gone I have, from high to low. Amazingly
though, I realize know, that I had always been seeking to know. Excitingly
turning each new page, certain and determined to be my own sage. Daringly
I vied, nothing would make me swallow my pride. Demandingly
I had thought, When we get there that all would play fair. Thought I did, uniquely
as most should do. Now, A little Alliteration to say we too are gratefully
The stranger within me does no longer be because know I see. Life does have excitingly
creative individual versatility. Change it does for you, whom call upon it consistent and demandingly.
Remaining keenly observant in search for knowledge and do so daringly.
Questioning what dares seem query logic and reason itself. While never failing to truly uniquely
understand another for having their own uniqueness and being grateful
for be blessed with this, understanding of knowing each individual creation amazingly.
Target destination is fixed after course has been made demandingly.
Each individual soul being has chosen this mission daringly.
Having arrived in this Third dimensional reality to uniquely
instruct in the revolution of Love is a four letter word and do so very thankfully and gratefully
to each and every soul of light that exists. Uplifted into the light I call out amazingly.
Higher Power, The all High and Universal Father of All, whom is the one that is truly exciting.
Inviting all He does whom choosing a star path daringly.
His message has been sent to each and every one of you uniquely
in its own way. We should all give blessing and thanks, while being gratefully
for each and every new amazingly
fantastic and an Emphasis on an excitingly
creative Acrostic man day. After being both commanding humbly and so, demandingly.
Who is excitingly and amazingly, demandingly and
daringly to be uniquely and gratefully Different?
Copyright © Steven Henderson | Year Posted 2016
Blissfully ignorant and supine,
Lost in the economy line,
voters don’t have a clue
that liberty is through.
Apathy dictates all else is fine.
People keep telling me how foolish I am,
but frankly I don’t give a dam.
I’m going to tell you what I see.
You don’t have to agree with me.
In hatred’s name Moslems prayed at the mosque,
boarded planes and three thousand we lost,
Soon we elected a Moslem president,
his books words and actions self evident.
To prove he was islam’s extremist hero,
He allowed a triumphant mosque at ground zero,
Freedom of religion is what they subtly called it,
by a government that continues to overhaul it.
The American people look on as if still numb,
singing his praises as if deaf and dumb,
while a pseudo democratic uncle Sam,
in a forced health care plan,
continues to turn out liberty’s lights
by destroying other religion’s rights.
Thus the American people’s democracy,
is morphed into a dictatorial hypocrisy.
While blindsided by a frantic economy,
we apathetically lose our autonomy.
Allowed by deaf and blind voters in a loud voice,
Fooled by not freedom but license they call choice,
sly appointment of people who fulfill the plan,
A long range one by the “new” Uncle Sam.
a champion of abortion, killing future contenders
him and Herod; another of the great pretenders.
“Enlightened Americans have one point two children per family,
because of abortion, birth control and contraception
Moslems have seven; which is the anomaly?
We Americans treat babies as an infection.
Laugh if you wish; I’m just exposing the path,
You “enlightened” Americans: you do the math.
Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne | Year Posted 2012
I wonder what becomes of pieces of me
which I tear out and lay bare,
search through with loving care,
painstakingly gathering the fragments
and forming them into simple gifts;
I know it’s not much, but it’s all I have to give -
so I try to create just the right thing
that might reflect the essence of who I am
or how I feel about the person receiving.
What happens to these pieces of me that I share?
I take them and lovingly arrange them in layers
and wrap them carefully in a fragile shell -
are they appreciated and cherished?
I’d like to think they are placed gently
into the hearts of those for whom they were created
I want to believe that, once inside, they move and stir
and that, by them, I might make a difference to someone,
and that I might become a tiny part of their world.
What becomes of those pieces of my heart
when they are not seen as a gift imparted;
when they are not kept as treasures to hold?
Are they taken as something to be used?
Or swept aside like they mean nothing,
burned up in the fires of indifference,
blown casually away in an unresponsive breeze?
Maybe they remain, buried and hidden,
releasing a fragrance - a beautiful energy,
a positive force, of which my recipient is unaware.
Sometimes I wish I could take back everything I’ve given
which were unappreciated and cast aside;
gather them back, and store them all up
to replenish my limited supply -
because sometimes I feel I’m running low.
But, I can’t take back what I’ve freely bestowed.
So I hope that for every part of me
that is received with indifference or apathy,
there are many others that are being treasured
as the expressions of love they were meant to be.
This is a re-post... and my last poem here for a while. I'm leaving pieces of me here, in the friendships I've made, even the ones that have ended.
Copyright © Becca Teagan | Year Posted 2016
Pleasure threw a party for her friends to come,
she sent invitations out to each and every one.
There were 10 responses and Pleasure did assume
it would be fun to see them interacting in one room.
Unfortunately the 10 who were about to show
had issues with each other ,things she didn’t know.
Joy had left depression just a month before,
couldn’t tolerate his negativity no more.
Paranoia kept Bewildered so confused,
the more mixed up she got the more he was amused.
Affection tried to help Obsession understand,
how her food addiction was getting out of hand.
Apathy was drinking wine coolers as a crutch,
all emotions were aware that she indulged too much.
Acceptance and Joy showed up late but seemed content,
they were welcome at every emotional event.
Depression was not over Joy, he saw her and felt blue,
Bewildered was sure that Paranoia hid her shoe.
Anxiety lost Acceptance and nervously confessed
he brought Assertiveness to help him mingle with the rest.
Affection accused Obsession of eating the buffet,
Paranoia tried to leave, Assertiveness stood in his way,
in the kitchen drinking by herself was Apathy,
Joy and Acceptance both enjoyed the hospitality.
Then Joy helped Bewildered put both of her shoes on,
Paranoia fell for Apathy, they both stayed till dawn.
Acceptance told Anxiety she 'd liked him as a friend,
Affection said “I’m sorry” to Obsession in the end.
Pleasure was quite happy only 10 guests were there,
if there had been more it might have been a wild affair,
each one settled, got along and as you can presume
all emotions set in motion made for a busy room.
Copyright © Liz Labadie-Reilly | Year Posted 2011
Antares' red glow bears firmly down
upon plush, chartreuse carpet
lying prone against the obsidian expanse,
blanketing sections of a remote
blue sphere, purling,
through distant time and space;
slave to routine and rotation,
never daring to break free;
to reach out.
Scorpius sprawls low
across the Autumn void;
a celestial corpse
inexplicably still breathing,
expelling the last
of her precious plexine light
in a final, desperate act
to awake inspiration, stir passion,
proffer wholeness and healing
to an infirmed, ungrateful planet,
for her end-of-reign recession.
Projecting dreams; visions
like swirling Akashic holograms
leaping forth from ancient pages
of ethereal records,
all but lost to time and apathy.
Twisting snakelike through the cosmos,
her broody gaze steeling
in every direction;
fierce energy bombarding;
burning across the universe.
Intense joules bursting forth;
reaching out to nurture
willing universal souls;
scorching those who reject her,
turning them to table fodder
at a divine banquet
for dark gods.
Sagittarius flickers jovially behind
as if breathless with laughter;
staying just out of reach
of her vengeful tail.
The rule of Scorpio wanes
upon Orion's horizontal breach
extinguishing the sting-ed cluster;
quelling her tumultuous surge
until late-spring pains
rebirth her fires,
igniting them, emerging again
from the icy chasm
of black oblivion.
Copyright © Thvia Shetley | Year Posted 2017
Have you not heard me?
Borne upon the air at dusk, dancing ... I have whispered to you in a million voices
Still, you descry not my utterance? Listen, yet ...
In the tremble of the plum blossoms - is the tender truth not there?
In the aching sigh of Springtide, longing for the touch of Life
Does my intent not appear ... clearly?
In the hollow goodbye of the passing, placed into cold soil
Or scattered, spinning, on the breeze ... in the belly laugh of a child
Finding untarnished joy for the first time ... in the bloom of creation
Come to realization on the tip of a slender branch .. hearken yet, close! There!
Feel it ... HEAR it! Within the keen and cold desperation of winter wind ...
Inside the scratchings of fear, black as coal ...
Deep, deep within the horror of oblivion, and the knowledge
That the ONLY thing that endears life to itself, is the LOSS of it ...
Here - here in the breath of silence ... brushed aside, oh so gently,
Like the strands of hair from a baby's forehead, in the midst of fever ...
Like a lover, painted in moonbeams - lost in moments,
Drowning in the hope that intimacy means something more ...
Like the glint in the eye of a pet, whose owner's caress is everything ...
Like the rusty tears of a madman,
Shed for the sake of life sacrificed for his reclamation ...
Like the warm pulse of lifeblood, coursing ...
Like the wash of phosphorescence on a beach,
Where countless souls were given - sacrificed needlessly
For the aims of men of import, half a world away ...
Like the frost on a window, left by the breath of a dying promise ...
Like the shudder of skin, touched by attentive fingertips in passion ...
Like the cold kiss of a friend, lost, set free by the failing of a respirator
A final farewell to an existence of pain ...
Like the face of a dear one, cradled in your palms in the wish for forgiveness ...
I have spoken to you in earnest,
You have heard my voice in clarity and calm, yet you walk on, careless
You buzz about your life in apathy and ambiguity,
Searching for integral meaning, when the meaning was yours all the time ...
The preciousness of this existence, is ONLY of such value for two reasons:
It is BRIEF ... and you are mortal ...
Life is the only true gift you are EVER given
And death the unshakable assumption of its worth
Death is ultimate, inescapable ...
But in all its dark disguises, it is the one TRUE element that we require
The one true measure of importance,
And the salvation of all that is good and estimable
For life is worthless without it ...
Its precious spark doused with but a breath of limitless value.
I have whispered that to you in a million voices ...
Have you not heard me?
Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2017
The manipulation and control of the masses
Is a world government agenda and constitution
Newer technology and the information computer revolution
Are powerful weapons to spread evil deeds and even more pollution
The slave masters crack the whip the rich get richer
The poor poorer powerless aboard a sinking ship.
Out of manufactured chaos
Comes apathy and fear
Making nations easier to control
And sell their souls sometimes unwaveringly
Blind to the powers that be commands.
Propaganda to gain support for wars
Bank crashes like never before
To take our money
And make rhe rich richer
Government leaks and lies spread to cause hate
And justify what the powers that be create.
Puppets on strings controlled by the powerful who lurk in the shadows
The real rulers of the world never seen
Ruthless greedy evil and mean.
For those not blind with open mind
The jigsaw puzzle slowly fits together
Piece by piece and the bigger picture is released
The truth they'll never be peace
The snares are their so take care
Open your eyes free your mind so you can see
World manipulation and subliminal brainwashing in your own home
Through the media and TV.
So many good people in the spotlight have tried to warn us before
And tried to revile the truth and the secrets
But were silenced and found dead on the floor.
Peter Dome.copyright.2015. June.
Copyright © Peter Dome | Year Posted 2015
Wavy patriotic mathematician
do the math ...
Subtraction or addition,
what will the numbers be,
37 or 63?
Slavery took away my parents’ human rights,
and their children’s dignity
I got 59 stripes to show
what was done to me ...
every year on this earth,
I’ve seen my people mistreated wickedly
was the number 40
Forty acres and a mule
Reparation was a cheap trade-off
for my ancestors’s suffering and misery
But, that promissory note
still ain’t never been given to me
Subtraction ends with a negative number obviously
is deeper than a 6 feet hole
It’s so cold inside the modern slave quarters,
the project pipes are froze
Go bury the bones, now there’s less to feed —
politicians playing oppression dominoes
Moving over to the addition side
of the patriotic math equation
I got a lot of woe heaped on my poor poverty:
more income inequality,
more housing discrimination illegality
More police brutality,
and much, much more drugs pouring into
every ghetto community
Add it all up, this is what I see:
red, white and blue platitudes is suffocating me
Red is our labor paid with blood
White is our cotton weary purity
Blue is our ocean of perpetual grief
But there’s more to the patriotic math problem,
come take a look-see
We got multiplication and division
to intellectually wrestle with morally
Stripping away health care and welfare
has multiplied the cries of the poor
Mob rule, and his thug buddy, crime does too ...
gun violence got bodies piling up at the morgue
Multiply the pain of parents
whose kids go milk carton missing
Spreading fear cancer in the affected area,
The disease of apathy is multiplying faster
than campaign corruption smoke
Do the math you dope ...
Depression numbers are climbing astronomically,
higher than you can see
in a Hubble space telescope
Yet, it’s division that takes away
most of the social gains garnered over the years
Factor in the algorithms of hate,
separating forces of social valency
Divide the bond of racial harmony,
cancel out certain colors in the voting crayon box
Do the math ... and understand,
division is a common denominator pox
And last on the patriotic math problem list
is fractions and percentages
That’s how the Revolutionary colonies’ tax returns
were itemized in the beginning
Three fifths ...
Sixty percent human
Slaves were never counted to be worth much,
tax write-off humans who were sub
Back to the future with another tax cut
And after all this time, they still be
doing the same math with a king George touch,
using Orwellian integers
Strange, arcane math symbols and figures
Do the math ...
Some stars are more equal than others,
some stripes are brighter than another
Math numbers don’t lie,
only Cain people who hate their brother
Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2017
walking on their trails
beaten down and broken
shiny as the rails
the rails of the train
over used and rusted
the system that you trusted
the silence of conformity
the quiet crying song
of people lost in apathy
monotony so long
the old man remembered
the booming days of old
and tried to warn the youngster
with stories he had told
the young man in the t shirt
can hear no warning cries
covering his eyes
with complacent misdemeanors
from mass media feeders
the heretics will scream
with no one to hear their call
the working slaves will perish
society will fall
in the pulpit yelling
sweating like a demon
with fire in his eyes
passing round a dish
to collect the workers' wage
saving souls ain't easy
so he sets a stage
profiting from fear
preparing them for death
comfort is a business
says his liquor breath
on the front row fanning
the woman says amen
waiting for the bell
so she can live in sin
forgiveness is a blessing
that god will give to few
surely she'll be one
when her life is through
the child in the classroom
with the curious mind
will be beaten and conditioned
until she too is blind
"trust in the system"
is the motto that they teach
so higher you can reach"
the land of the free
the home of the brave
only for those of us
content with being slaves
some will stand on street corners
holding big white signs
telling of injustice
held beneath our sights
but those who throw the bombs
which burn society down
those will be the shakers
for true freedom to be found
but the sheep still continue
to justify their life
ignoring others torment
blind to their strife
selling bankers souls
to keep on consuming
to get the best remote control
to build themselves a shield
what kind of life is this
numbness is a virtue
and ignorance is bliss
Copyright © JoAnna Mitchell | Year Posted 2013
She woke up everyday
to the beckoning of death's toll.
But decided to embrace life,
pulling herself from the darkened hole.
With a new brightness in her eyes,
she lived life as partially buried gold.
Never afraid of the darkness,
or what the future may hold.
Shimmering beneath the dirt,
her beauty shall now unfold.
True legacy lies hidden to reign,
for a prodigy has risen from bitter cold.
One example of grace goes far,
farther then any story ever told.
With strength that comes from deep within,
that's been held from days of old.
Among the majority she lived,
witnessing atrocities flare.
From her soul she would always give,
though no one seemed to care.
As the bells of sadness began to ring,
she would rise above the gloom.
Out of darkness and despair she would sing,
with a melody that filled the room.
The tears that had fallen proved as strength,
to her ever-impending light.
Onward traveling to any length,
for what she believed was right.
When darkened paths shimmer,
despite the pangs of apathy,
through life she will always glimmer,
no matter what the tragedy.
-Collab with Laura Breidenthal! No, you're the best, Laura!
Copyright © Dan Kearley | Year Posted 2013
An empty echo bellows from within the depths of a chasm. Endless and cold, it moans an apathy that desecrates the sanctity of love and alters the signal of all feeling and emotion. It reaches and bites the heart, concealing from vision its true mission of destruction. Tightly wrapping itself around the soul, it plunges its deadly sting through its victim, cutting off the gentle flowing mixture of happiness, sincerity, laughter and devotion. Mindless faces speak a meaningless language. The lips seem to move in an endless array of contours as a lone silhouette vanishes with the last beam of light. Alone it stands as it silently waits for time to pass. Alone in these vast depths of indifference, there is no hope, no salvation from the inward conflict that evaporates the soul. Bow your head little sparrow. Weep the tears that none else can. Reveal the pain that none else will. Lift your eyes to a destiny. Take the future up in your tiny wings and bring it back to me. Together we can cry over the past and fly away. Darkness is the absence of light, yet you and I see. Within the chasm flickers a small candle. To you and I little sparrow, no freedom is too distant, no change too great. We persist with love where blind hatred dwells. Lingering within us is a hope, a dream and purpose that lifts the wind beneath our wings. We've tasted the bottom of the chasm. Together we can cry over the past and fly away..........
Copyright © Walter Williams | Year Posted 2012
Give us the will
To overcome our heartless indifference for
Those who suffer
Able us to be,
In the ever-stretching desert of apathy, your
Seed of concern to sow!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
02 NOVEMBER 2014
Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2014
Every child is born into this world crying,
Little did this poor child know, tears would fall for the rest of her life.
Born into a world of abuse, heartache and pain,
With a drug addict, alcoholic abusive father and a heartless mother.
Every day was the same, left alone with only silence and darkness,
Dirty clothes, little to eat with every cry for help resulting in violence.
How could her eyes see any happiness when they had run dry?
How could she smile with cut lips and a bruised body?
At 7, her mother died from a lethal overdose of alcohol and drugs,
However, the abuse got worse as she became her father’s new toy.
Poor little girl, an object of carnal gratification and her innocence stolen,
By a man who was responsible for her protection and well being.
The effects of a dark and destructive childhood destroyed her confidence,
With low self esteem and no social skills, they mocked her in school.
Little did they know about the struggles in her life and the pain she was going through,
Bruised and abused, having to make her own lunch with no help from a pathetic father,
This was her daily routine- even hell would have been a more peaceful place for her.
But, little did the world know the girl had a hidden talent,
The voice of an angel and the mind of a creative poet.
At night when she sang, the stars glowed to her beautiful lullaby,
The ink of her pen was like blood rushing from her veins to create magical lyrics.
Music and poetry was her escape from a life of cruelty and rejection,
Her talent was hidden, so no one could help her reach her potential.
As the girl grew, her abuse never stopped, there seemed no end,
With constant memories of painful yesterdays and a childhood lost.
She used her incessant pains and struggles to enhance her music,
Writing hours upon hours of poetry and songs, self-teaching brilliance…
Deep inside she yearned for someone to understand her, to see her…
If not, but one, she would she be wholly satisfied
Many nights she would find herself crying uncontrollably,
The darkness of the room enveloping her every being
She could see the past in her mind’s eye and be reminded of the sick present
She began to hate her father, and every brat at her school
She cursed death and life alike, and envied her mother’s eternal sleep
Everyone who spit their insult, everyone who remained silent and apathetic,
She hated them with a passion so self-destructive, it burned her raw scars...
Teaching herself to hold it in, so that on paper she could create masterpieces
And prove all of the monsters around her wrong…
In silence, she recalled the worst memories to shame further her reality.
A part of her knew that she was incredibly talented,
Though the darkness often blinded her with guilt
She felt that she did not deserve even a voice,
Her writings were but a sick reminder of demons she could never conquer
Shivering in the cold, her skin dirty and dry,
Ugly…ugly…was the only word she could live by
One night, she contemplated taking her life…
She vowed all of her suffering would meet a greater purpose,
Beyond the grave…beyond fear of hell beneath
She was dirt after all, like the kids always told her
How much worse could it be, facing the flames she was born in?
She threw the kitchen knife down and looked up at the stars above
Even Death would reject her, she knew…
In acceptance, she acknowledged her ugliness and became a stunning underdog
Rebellion sifted through her veins and her strength brought fear to her father
Bullies looked at her as if she was the devil himself
No one could tell her what to do anymore,
And nobody would ever understand her
Though that was okay…
Because that is all she ever knew
Ten years later, the rotten roller coaster continued
Though a fateful night of circumstance had led her right on the stage
Men were mesmerized by her fierceness and apathy
Not being able to grasp each significant line layered in truth
She showed none mercy as she slayed ruthless chords of wonder
Her voice rang angelically, mixed with the fires and tears of her life
Echoing beyond the grave of cold Death… beyond what was wrong or right
It was her silence that stunned the audience the most
Those eyes, having seen so much…felt so much…hid so much…
That cut mouth, with the eternal dry trickle of a bitter tear
The world was not prepared for her intolerable genius,
Just as she was not prepared for their astonished applaud…
-A collaboration by The Silent One and I : )
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2015
Today fades into yesterday
upon tomorrow's arrival.
And apathy claims denial
as endangered animals die.
Wherever concrete cities rise
collateral damage occurs.
For as jets traverse the skies
wild birds are annihilated.
We dedicate our existence
to a utopia of steel.
And survive in asphalt jungles
shadowed by our own achievements.
Reality is a mirage
projected upon collapsing hopes.
Yet safe within our cubicles
we love our plastic paradise.
Our planet’s irrevocably
changing into a barren sphere.
For greed’s the legacy of fools
touted by prophets of progress.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015
WHEN JUSTICE TOOK A HOLIDAY
Justice took a holiday today;
Peace fought back the tears.
The mourners came to knell and pray:
Guilt having choked the apathy of the years.
No eulogy can change the present or the past;
No commentary can ease the lingering pain.
What a mockery is made of “free at last”;
Only God has escaped the pointing blame.
Tomorrow will bring new tales to be told.
There’ll be no victory upon this cloudy scene;
Only memories of shades of gray of days of old:
Once again, humanity blinded to what was seen.
Yes, the more things change, the more they stay the same;
God forbid, we’re heirs to lives immune to festering shame.
So keep your eyes watching God while waiting for freedom to come;
The pursuit of happiness, life, liberty and justice, is still only for some.
But let us not whine and wallow in debilitating despair;
Let us not be like those who say they just don’t care;
With our audacious faith, there’s nothing we can’t bear.
So let us keep on keeping on with the last sweet breath that is left;
Let our cry be: “America! Give us liberty! We have given you our death!”
Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015
Please tell my heart to love a little less
It’s strength of love not quickly to confess
Please tell me heart to measure the amount
Of love allowed to flow out from its fount
Safeguard my love; on heart’s door cast a spell
To make it strong and quick the gush to quell
The wave of passion, teach it to subdue
So as to match what other lovers do
My heart is heavy with the weight it bears
So sick of caring when none other cares
Command my wanton heart to be demure
Inject a dose of apathy….it’s cure
For if my heart in loving knows no bound
It’s bound to break and put me underground
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2014
Am I not an empty shell?
A crystal egg if you will, as I slowly swell...
In my excrement's of love,
Am I not a fetus freak?
Abandoned by the love I seek, void full tears...
Am I not a decaying embryo?
If not your love be my foe, a sacrificial lamb...
Forgive me for I not ponder at your empty words
For they are daggers that indiscriminately wander, toward my heart...
Oh such treachery, such calamity...I am defecating in my shell
So full of apathy my love, as you chain up my soul...
Be not thy name of thy bride be sorrow,
For I not see such tomorrows in the skies above...
Am I not a speck of dust?
Floating aimlessly in the cyclone of love,
For I land on the crust, of wasted years...
Am I not a contorted thought?
A tasty morsel left to rot for the vultures...
Am I not buried in a shallow grave?
Where corpses crave love again...
Is not my heart a waking wound?
For it be marooned on the island of Lost Souls
Such tidal waves of Destruction...
Soon my heart shall cease to function, for I be not in love, no more.
March.08.2016 For Contest Lament Of My Life
Copyright © Winged Warrior | Year Posted 2016
Faint heart once overflown empties alone
sinking beneath shell's hardened clay.
Saving face, only to trace ring line shown
conspicuous on finger yesterday.
Blue veins weave below fair skin, weakening.
Disturb the routine, no one cares;
frown lines curve lower still deepening.
Save what's left - dig through hidden layers.
Cast out the hatred, the past's mistakes,
rise above, be spared future burdened.
In spaces unoccupied, heartache's
existence spurs apathy to mend.
Whoever refuses to sift from the earth
promise of gold buried underground
and an unsure hand has forgotten the worth
of that most precious which can be found.
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015
Gifting dreams of hope to my eyes, he vanished in a flash
Carting away the treasure of sorrows, leaving mirage a trash
Thorns of grief were, in all, the earning on whose part
Left a delightful rose in the derelict mansion of my heart
He wasn’t the Socrates, yet he drank the poison of apathy
And with wine of love, he filled my heart’s vessel so empty
The bride of night ascended the horizon unfurling her hairs
Hands of that Azar have given my thought’s idol such glares
Love, sympathy and loyalty are qualities profound
Anguish is what they reward you with, soothing although they sound
Walked he himself, to the hangman, carrying his cross of soul
To show me how my courage faltered in playing its role
Wisdom was rendered, Yamin, by vainglory inept
The book of vision he flung into the worthy hands of zest.
Azar, the father of Prophet Abraham was an sculpturist of fame for carving beautiful idols worshiped by infidels as deity
Copyright © Mohammad Yamin | Year Posted 2008
The glamour of their squalor is found
in specular highlights of crisp brown eyes
peering through mud-matted hair, crying.
Weeks of eating an abundance of whatever,
which consisted of scarcely more than bugs
fished from non-potable cesspools.
A decade seems a long time, until singularly
it accounts for one’s whole life…and yet
we won’t home them, because they are a plague.
Self-righteousness cannot bear the reminder
that “refugees” might be people…children even;
running from nightmares that persist in daylight.
Ignorance is bliss, after all…
and who chooses to come down from a high?
We have full tables, full inns, and empty hearts.
Opportunistic politicians see a platform,
borne on the backs of the starving and desperate,
they manifest feigned outrage and farcical hand-wringing.
Droves follow droves out from the gloomy dread
greeted by cool apathy or worse; outright derision…
what more is to be expected of humanity?
The squalor of our glamour is found
in hopeless disconnection to what matters, or
to the reality that we could have been them.
Copyright © The Grahamburglar | Year Posted 2015