I've been gypped.
You're a baker, ill-equipped.
You have no quality control -
this donut has a hole.
Why do I cast away this mind that constantly reminds me I'm worthless.
No charm, no clever catch phrases- I'm left feeling ill-equipped.
To face the pressure that I cannot measure.
Each reminder making me feel worthless.
I sometimes forget that every day comes with problems.
Yet every problem has a solution.
But it's my cross to bear.
But I just hating to have to sit and stare and ponder that I'm worthless.
But these solutions seem to much to care;
Perhaps I wasn't prepared for this heavy feeling.
I hold no ill will, but still, everyday reminds me I'm worthless.
Feeling dreary and drained, I've finally reached my limit.
It amazes me that I still exist but I guess ignorance is bliss.
But everytime I take aim at life I miss I guess I'm just worthless.
My only wish is to find a life worth living.
Worth breathing and fighting for.
A way to escape the judgement of others.
No matter who they are.
I feel the need to break free.
For this is no lie-everyday, I'm made to feel worthless.
I recall the dying moments of a burning quest
The search for truth among the broken rubble,
Had I for faith escaped the reality I’d confessed
Chosen to live in a fancy blown-glass bubble?
In childhood I’d thought to question the surreal
Astounded by the strange mix of fact and fiction
Was Santa another name for Jesus, should I feel,
How does one deny the oft-taught conviction
Of family and strait-laced Sunday school teachers
Ill-equipped with a maturity to reason through,
Reinforced by so-called God-infused preachers
Always reinforcing the proper moral thing to do.
In youth, judgment impaired by indoctrination,
Struggling through real experiential anomalies,
I probed the mind’s most oblivious contradiction
Faith and truth seemed not to coincide in ease.
The adult years insisted on what seemed true
Apart from the blinding faith of raw acceptance,
Avoiding going every which way the wind blew
I came to reconcile within my own assurance.
Written June 26, 2022
My eyes swim up from a tangled seaweed
of long forgotten data.
Now I remember that instead of going home
I stayed on at that topless bar.
I am unprepared for future-shock, ill-equipped
to decipher questions, that like shaggy owls
hoot in a darkening lecture hall.
I used to panic myself awake at such times
but this reoccurring dream has become a parody,
a Dahliesque floor show of every
melting pants-down moment.
I have been dreaming
of my post-graduate thesis
it rides still on a city bus,
where I carelessly left it.
Passengers sit on it as they come and go;
the unfinished manuscript
is deeply indented with butt cheeks.
Listless images swirl up from tangled seaweed.
Instead of going home to study
a youth stayed on at a topless bar.
This reoccurring nightmare is a parody,
a Dahliesque floor show of every
melting, pants down moment.
Unschooled for future-shock, ill-equipped
for long forgotten questions;
scruffy owls hoot in an empty lecture hall
as a mind reacts with a jittery dread.
A lost post-graduate thesis rides on a city bus,
passengers sit on it as they come and go;
the manuscript is deeply buckled
with butt cheeks.
No time to revise the unprepared.
Dimples of anxiety indent a head trip.
Despondency envelopes.
At any moment,
eyes will open above a pool of sweat,
then blink stupidly
as they have done - often and repeatedly
for the last 45 years.
Listless images swirl up from tangled seaweed.
Instead of going home to study
a youth stayed on at a topless bar.
This reoccurring nightmare is a parody,
a Dahliesque floor show of every
melting, pants down moment.
Unschooled for future-shock, ill-equipped
for long forgotten questions;
scruffy owls hoot in an empty lecture hall
as a mind reacts with a jittery dread.
A lost post-graduate thesis rides on a city bus,
passengers sit on it as they come and go;
the manuscript is deeply buckled
with butt cheeks.
No time to revise the unprepared.
Dimples of anxiety indent a head trip.
Despondency envelopes.
At any moment,
eyes will open above a pool of sweat,
then blink stupidly
as they have done - often and repeatedly
for the last 45 years.
granted it’s not your problem
kudos you’ve made efforts in the past
some people are ill equipped for loving
it’s a malfunction of their heart
now on his deathbed he asks
that you call ~ might it be to apologize?
there would be better ways but
if you don’t reach out you’ll never know
you’d be in your right to call and say
I was told you wanted to hear from me
here I am… and wait in blatant silence
when you mean here’s your chance to
apologize for your years of neglect
know that karma has a sting ~
you’ll never regret having
given him an opportunity and
if he blows it, that’s all on him
sperm donor
there one minute
gone the next
he’s much too late
for asking how you feel
now is time for his judgment day
and the real question is how if he feels
you hurt me bad
when you weren’t there for me
it felt to me much like
the cancer that grows within you
now do you understand
how much I needed you ~
how do you feel about that?
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
A foul odor seeps into the nostrils
bypassing the standard sensory process
And darting straight for the brain
It elicits the memories
that once thought to be extinguished
Bringing former passions to the forefront of a hesitant mind
A mind that is weary, ravaged by time
and ill-equipped to absorb such recollection
Unable to suppress the torment
that accompanies excruciating reminders
The tortured mind bleeds out
and the body falls to the ground
My eyes swim up from a tangled seaweed
of long forgotten data.
Now I remember that instead of going home
I stayed on at that topless bar.
I am unprepared for future-shock, ill-equipped
to decipher questions, that like shaggy owls
hoot in a darkening lecture hall.
I used to panic myself awake at such times
but this reoccurring dream has become a parody,
a Dahliesque floor show of every
melting pants down moment.
I have been dreaming
of my post-graduate thesis
it rides still on a city bus,
passengers sit on it as they come and go;
the manuscript is deeply indented
with butt cheeks.
Barren sullen devoid of all color
Blank canvas plastered
But Ill equipped inequities
Of casual sexual diversity
Allow my first stroke
Male model well equipped
Brush pales in size to the
Instrument God equipped
Him with Ahh. Mmmm
Sun setting behind
City’s skyline stars peeking
Wind plots path confronts tree micro-mass mole,
Legions of leaves, twigs, armored branches whole,
Ill-equipped convictions were extensive,
Stamina, held, losses were intensive.
Sun floats freely above and takes delight,
Wielding its rays, every way, all its might,
Shines through numerous limbs abandoned truth,
Dries foundation, steep its fingers, soiled root.
Rain downpours, floods, futile and unyielding,
Guilty stands accused, exposed, unfeeling,
Its decay, branch, leaves fall, full exposure,
Typical tree, being plain, disclosure.
Commonality as being a tree,
Frail, hail, fail, sail, parts of my history.
2019 October 06
Change
By: Tom Wright
2000
Ever-present,
always on the Horizon,
often disrupting lives, causing choices to be made.
It invades our comfort zone and many feel threatened.
Often embraced, but sometimes fought, as a Child would It's nap.
Some are meaningful, many unnecessary--
Coming at lightening speeds.
Many are initiated by entrepreneurial desires,
to fill some niche, and of course, make a buck.
We deal with one and another is upon us
for it is a perpetual thing.
As the ill equipped contemplate, how shall we keep up,
others adamantly declare, we'll have no part of these things,
only to find themselves being swept along as dust before a broom,
kicking and screaming, into the new millennium,
by Change.
Brexit Sonnet No.5
‘To Clothe The Wreck’
A game of chance, the climb to rule this land,
As much a slip of others as trip of yours.
Oft’ ruled by chance events, not thoughts well planned,
Same for freshers new, as time-served bores.
And now we see the cards in shuffled deck,
Prepared again to face the green baize cloth.
Plans anew prepared to clothe the wreck
That’s Brexit, now sad without its champagne froth.
But cards are dog-eared, faded, worn and ripped
With two faced jokers squirming in the pack.
The dealer haggard, drawn and ill-equipped,
Can’t stabilise for strength they plainly lack.
Quantitatively ease this wretched, worn out pile;
Print more talent and from Brexit, please resile.
©Keith Murphy
We Are All Somebody’s Child
There’s no difference between you and me,
Accept the color of our skin, or origin of birth.
Our lives conceived, through passion and procreation,
Veins full of blood, with many DNA affiliations.
Just innocent young beings ill-equipped at first,
Unaware of our plight, not knowing our worth!
It is said that Life has stages,
Let’s widen our horizons, by reading all the pages.
Time and events have a way of confusing the mind,
Wake up, smell the coffee, it’s all by design.
Our lives hang in the balance, time to recognize our place.
Take responsibility for our action, no more hiding your faces!
This world is what we make it and the stage is set,
We Are All Somebody’s Child, parts of Societies outlet!
Let us not de-value life!
Written By: Sarita A. Milliner © 7/8/16
From far North Vikings came in ships,
to plunder the church's gold
and monks in fear were ill-equipped
only peace since days of old
These Vikings came to English soil
brought death and shattered bone
with horns to blow that cause turmoil
as misery was at home
To the forest dark twelve monks had ran
to flee the Viking pain
A lonely Knight would make a stand
no question of monk's shame
Firm and fierce as death comes toward
he stood on sacred ground
with prayer's wish and sharpened sword
he drew his blade around
An axe in Viking hands convey
a fear within the church
The evil came without delay
to vanquish peasants from the earth
With blood, they rid the church of gold
left dead across the ground
and body of a Knight so bold
before they cut him down
With a sword upon his chest, he died
to save the monks who'd run
The honor did his anguished cries
attends the setting sun
Within the burning English walls
did lay a virgin bride
In her last breath, she grasps the hand
of her Knight, who bravely died
contest Form B
12/18/16
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