The Crocked souls final Toll
In the veil of darkness,
There creeps the crooked ugly dark soul
Who opened Hell’s door
With a key stolen from the gate keeper
Hiding so nobody sees it
Looting anything worth coin and pure
With a dark plan within its soul
How to resurrect its self
As an innocent soul
As it envisions itself as dignitary
Throwing its sulphur glare
At folk who challenged it
It couldn’t hold its contempt to long
As Hell’s bells rang
Then folk’s sudden realisation
It was stealing from them
They took the key and prey tell
It got caught and thrown back into Hell.
Trees, cars and Elon Musk
The branches of trees on the avenue
Was stretching upward this morning
To be a decorative tree is not easy
Standing still looking leafy
Once they had been mere sampling
In a forest of other trees, feeling safe
Protected by tree too old or crocked
Stand under a tree and hear a murmur
They agree electric cars has no fumes
But older cars are better lookers
My car swell with pride she 28 to day
A self-driving AI long before Elon Musk
Said he had invented a driver-less car
Waste of heart
waste of life
waste of tears
waste of time
wasted of all
what was mine
crocked thoughts
wonky mind.
Jessica
Injustice, corrupted, barbaric laws
Created and put into place for coloured men
A policy that is crocked and bent from ancient times
Policies and Procedures in place to justify the wrongdoings of privileged men
Another form of captivity to eradicate and eliminate a human race
There’s no such justice for coloured men
Laws were created only for the privileged men
Their actions no matter how barbaric or cruel there are,
Are justified by ancient and new-age laws
There is no justice for the coloured man
Every law was written to aid, justify and support privileged men
Thank the Creator for Heavenly laws that outweigh all Earthly laws
Rules and regulations designed and put into place
For all earthly gods to abide by and follow
If Yah says, Yes no man can say, No
For his report and word accomplishes what it’s meant to do
Earthly laws were not created for the coloured man
But were put into place to justify and aid privileged men
The only justice that aids and supports
A coloured race is Godly laws that are fair and just
Thank you, Father, for interceding for all coloured people
In these violent and horrific times.
My cooler crocked, and my stove tragically burst.
My roof fan has become unhinged from the thread.
The dishwasher declined to start and had scent of burnt.
A breaker in one of my divider stoves is dead.
When I let one loose in the elevator
As we hear a significant break, an aged lady arises.
I advised her: not to be afraid crying isn't for senior.
"My primary care physician thinks I look 20," she replies.
Written: August 1st, 2021
When I Let One Loose In The Elevator Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: charles messina
You are not water anymore when you turn into a cloud,
You are not the same as water when you are frozen.
Be a dew drop on the top of grass.
Be a shy tiny pearl on the tip of a girl’s nose.
Be the sweat of the salt lake on the back of the farmer who cultivates with plow.
Then, you are no longer water anymore!
When you have smell, color and taste.
There is a book of the night and a page is allocated for each night.
And the night hides under flap of the page.
No one can see with their own naked eyes.
When all the lights in the house are turned off,
Except the moon in the sky, the stars in the far distance places
and the crocked dogs under the lampposts,
No one is then stay awake,
Someone turns her face on the pillow in the bedroom and cries in silence,
The firefly’s chest glows as a dew drop of light!
No! You are no longer water anymore.
As the raw gold, becomes expensive ornament by embellishment---
Something just like that has another name,
Water! Then you are no longer water anymore.
Olive trees
with warming
of the land
a plant appeared
to thrive
the olive plant.
where do they get water from
the morning dew
or the memory
for better days.
Near the house there
are a forest of them
look like an army
of ancient soldiers
who have stopped walking
gnarled and crocked
will not march no more.
Every year they are full of olives.
Hundred of years old
they have seen it all.
Love has been made
under their soft ground
but an olive tree
tells no tales.
it was a magnificent mile up from his tiny eyes. its fruit sprinkled on his makeshift diamond. he rested on the stone wall that settled between the races. the hispanic party was on the left. the silver side on the right. both homes chuckled at the meager one seeking to reach the choicest fruit. the reddish yellow one, not plump yet, is what he favored. the neighbor kids assembled to tidy the field.
he didn’t perceive how they developed. a home run was a fly ball into the pavement. he views the pastime now with a crocked smile. produce tables are where he chooses his refreshments. recalling the encounters of the meager boys and girls, and how nice the hispanic household next door was to him. he wishes they are fine.
rooted in reality
clearly defined
rudimentary information
bootids:Sangier sing me!
Writer: write me!
Composer: Compose me!
I am a song, when sung
might I erect the ruins of this world.
When sung might I make straight those crocked places!
When sung might I inspire a world of doubters.
That they might believe and love me.
That rehearsed might I endure forever,
the staple of classicism.
Instrumented thru out the fabrics of our lives.
The sheer beauty to reveal the beauty beneath it's sheer newness.
sung to strings and horns, that woodwinds might blow to honor
the words of it's songstress.
might the song host the singer instead of the singer hosting the song!
when the song stress the love, might all love the songstress,
only to hear her tales of love, and admiration.
than might she stand to the world and say...
I AM THE SONG!
If I could ever count the cost
If ever I was at a Croc loss
Oh the inhumanity
If there were no Crocs upon my feet
No comfort for them to saddle in
No soft rubber sponge in which to grin
Whether Chinese made or Mexican
If you have not Crocked you have not lived
At the sight of Crocs it brings to mind
Who is the king of the foot line
When the rubber hits the hardened road
It is the Croc that's in the know
So take a ride and slip and slide
Inside the Croc you'll feel you died
And landed straight at heaven's gate
Where angels have Crocs on their feet
Do you still feel the need to ask
If Crocs are just a passing fad
You can ask my feet and my ten toes
They're the ones that are in the know
But their reply will be a muffled sound
As they're both inside my Crocs right now
They have command on me
my posture has been so
since birth and even now
a grown up, no change
The back has followed
the legs are going there
why can’t a guinea fowl
produce penguins, swans?
Why is choice in nature
so elusive, so limited?
Why can’t I become really
what I admire in nature?
I want to be free to be happy
but I’m condemned to be
a bent bow without arrows!
Rise high you tumbling bricks!
Consider exchanging
your scared squawks
for a few more plummeting
security stocks
City beware
of stealthy schemes
while chasing virtual creatures
in your local county park
for free
You never know
in "reality"
when truth might pierce
chilly hearts
once crocked eyes clear
Seeking top credit card scores...
dreading next month's
bank notices
Why not use them
to cleanse your
glossy green
Caddy coupe?
Swallow some pills for those annual chills
Dismiss being still as you strain in vain
while attempting to claim
faux success
Common sense...
Where has it flown?
Will it soar North again?
Who are you?
You who are:
Half Baked
Half Crocked
and
Half Cracked
Unscrewed
Unzipped
and
Unleashed
Who are you?
You who are:
Baked
Crocked
and
Cracked
Screwed
Zipped
and
Leashed
Or are you?
You who are:
Just
Plain Old
Screwy
To
Me
The ghost it has him looking back but it shows him only shadows.
Disguising all that may exist there within the confines of its illusions.
And the ghost he asks of him is there really anything at all.
And if so where are the tangibles.
So the rider sits behind the wheel grinding out the miles hour after hour
Listening to tunes on the radio that remind him of a t time that once was.
And he—he may never know because the ghost;
It lives in his mind forever asking are you so sure you yourself are even real?
Who can say anymore with any true conviction?
In spite of all the raw memorized emotions caused by love or despair back then.
There seem only repeaters and story tellers left everything else;
Seems to have simply slipped into the dark of night that always comes falling
And while death with his crocked finger points a demanding hand;
Claiming neither need for explanation appropriate nor point of pleas given.
With its wicked withering it sways to augmented lyrics that repeat the words;
“And it’s strange, so very- very strange”
Disgusted by this artificial feelings
I want to speak from my heart
I listen to it all I hear is a hollow beat
The rhythm out of control
I try to calm myself
Still my heart beat faster
Like its about to burst form chest
Is death upon me
Is my life over
Do I deserve to die
All thoughts running throught my head
Then I fell a touch
It relives me
My heart starts to slow down
Time freezes
O’god is this heaven
Or is this hell
But no its worse this cruel crocked creature
That never leaves me alone
It strikes when I less expect it
Making me believe is it real ……..love
God please say it is but no
Its just one of cupids tricks
To fool me by her bright smile and her beautiful voice
WHY GOD WHY DO YOU HATE ME SO !!!!!
WHY DO YOU MAKE SO GUILABLE WHY
IS IT MY PUNISHEMENT FOR MY SINS
I HAVE YET COMMIT JUST ANSWER ME
PLEASE …..why T_T
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