Green line in between
Trees, mountains reflect the same
Print in lake I see.
Don't kill yourself
I beat my chest
I decided I will not be nothing
Lesser than who I am
There is no other way of existence
I know
I cant be a photocopy when I am the original
I have been watching the world in silence
I see how troubles never end
I see how my people are used
I can't with hold my pen for humanity sake
I hate to be perfect
The life I live dont deserve it
Cos am not inline with vanity
So when I beat my chest
I was ready to wear the lenses of a chosen soul
This is difficult to kill
Don't kill yourself
The world will never end
But can only transform
We either can live or we die
So why dying too young for nothing
When you can be the author of your worth
I once said I hate to be perfect
Cos I don't play a game of perfection
I only involve
I only exist
I am only just a blood body and a soul
So if I must be far from your understanding
Don't forget the rain falls on everyone's roof
So don't kill yourself over
What is possible to live without
Amenica land of the brave land of the slave
Once proud once true
Amenica land of the sick land of large land of poison
Amenica beauty destroyed entombed with lies
Leading the sheep to slaughter
Amenica proud no more Hollywood in your head
Brain cells all dead eating yourself to extinction
AMENICA a photocopy of the capitalists disease big fat joke
A disgrace to the human race
I thought I would take a poke
And you can't make decent beer
BIDEN for president Amen.
IT HURTS AND HEALS
You can have eyes,
For love you'll always be blind,
There times you tried to scream ,
But no one could even hear your voice.
Don't force issues,
There's only one copy of you,
Never think of any photocopy,
So not everything is meant to handle,
It okay to release but don't be so fragile,
Not everyone is meant to settle,
Let everyone start a new chapter,
You just need to change the script.
Enough is enough,
I know you're tired of the same story,
You can't hold more dramas anymore,
Saying goodbye hurts and heals the soul.
By Vee Kessy
If your life is a story what will be your titled page?
Will it be just a kindle format or a hardback
I wonder what the pages would spell like
May be of mystery, misery, love, hate, shelter or war
Will there be children crying on the front headlines;
Riots .Or will there be flowers planted on the front
pages to tell how beautiful your emotion is, may be
berries .will it be a blue berry or red berry .Or a rose
flower. Will the pages speak for themselves.
If your life was a book what will you name it?
Will it be a novel or a novela, a play or poem
An essay or a memoir written
Will it be in rhymes, a sonnet, an epic or just free verses
I wonder if it will be a photocopy of another man's pages
Will the chapters spell love or hatred , well spent or regret
Who will be in your acknowledgement?, and
dedicated to who?
Will you be the hero or villain, the Jack or Rose ,
the Romeo or Juliet
Achilles, Hector, Paris, or Helen of Troy
If your life was a book what will you name it
What would the world read of it?
Please Tell!!!
By Gideon Idudje
Realistically, I should just photocopy last years resolutions-
exhausting is the list of things written in my eloquent handwriting, but
secret is my list- I cannot reveal a thing
obsessive- I am following each written requirement
labyrinth seems to be my path . . . and
unforeseen the detours I encounter-
Taoism helps (I think)
idyllic and blissful will be this journey, I will be
opening new doors to enlightenment and closing others
nature walks so important for my tranquility, or I am
seeking my zen . . .
___________________________
January 18, 2020
Poetry/Acrostic/Secret Resolutions
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1217-642-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Dressing without a book is nakedness
If so who is a Lecturer
A people cracker
A person who makes photocopy
Of other scholars work
One who eats and earn by
Academic deceit
A person who deprives
Smart pencils their grade
Who is a Lecturer
A ghost strike worker
With songs of incentives
He is blind to innovation
Maker of four years course
To eight years course
Because theirs is across
Border roofs
Who is a Lecturer
One who is thick and stick
To education like comb
On a woman's hair
One whom learners cherish
With honour
A crusader of merit
As an optimist
He is a scholar whose death
Brings national grieve but
With generational legacy
EVERYBODY SHOULD BE A LOVE POET
Yes! Everybody should be a love poet
Everybody should treat their pen like pet
And their jotters like bet9ja ticket
Everybody should write about her!
The damsel with no photocopy
The queen with no equal
The amazing personality that is rare to find
Yes! Everybody should be a love poet
And daily write about her beauty that needs no make up to be pretty
And of course about the fact that she is gloriously witty
Everyone should write about her portability
And the comfort that comes with her company
In short! Everybody should write about my Awéléwà Òrenté
That damsel is just the best
ABSOL
A oozing interference causes doubt
that everything I care about
is truly not just in my head
where dense dreams are bred
and ignorant sanctuary from what I think I know
about depression, myself, where my thoughts will go
at night, I'm losing the light
brought to me by photocopy hands
proving I'm as malleable as my fears demand
My concept of love is underlined
with overdependent selfish cries
and despite being self aware
i can't bring myself to care
enough to change
not even for us
not for God
hope is not within range
I do not have the proper mod
I have come to believe my eyes are blue
windows to the soul they tell me and you
I guess that's the reason why
I can't bring myself to look into your eyes
By Mark Miller © 12/09/2014
Divergent views across vile crest waves smile high the creeping crawl
Vacant recall behind will's fate corners awaits prodigy built city sprawls
Fearing furious memory's cradle under moons momentary falls
Departing sun drain dendrites dying beside pleasure land hotel
Pharmaceutical particles undermines wasted potential decay
Habitual filled dread remedy sealed bottle supply spent photocopy
Demented frozen posture detached paragons future parallax
Denatured entropy of unstable battlefront beacons fights happenstance
Enraged estrange movement frowns condition mingled disturbance,
Hassled hates impatient repression debased frames acquaintance-
Paranoia begins within kept crypt entombed from friends lovers bones
Supernatural surprise wakes the panic front tantrum born alone
Breaths cold howl vexed of thought behind fury times disorder
Subliminal sequence reveals foggy haze guilt by nights no quarter
Adorn the love less feeling conceals feeble rabble blood loss stealth
Movements uncertain impel stellar selves
LIFE STYLE
Don't lie
He who thinks to lie for honorary
Will only be honoured embarrassment
Says the truth
But he who eats "dodo" banana
Will cease to say the truth
Apply equality but
He who want to uphold equity
Must come with clean hands
Show justice but
He who want to formulate just
Must not be bias
Be a preacher but
He who want to preaches
Must cultivate the message
Be friendly but
He who want to be friendly
Must not be aggressive
Be clean and neat
He who want to that
Must purify his and intention
Be yourself he who want to be that
Must not photocopy because
He who photocopy has duplicate..
©®25/9/17. Abdul-Wakeel Abdur-Rasheed Junaid.
I have a small secret love in my life,
A marriage I love to do,
It’s when I use the stapler,
Making one grouped sheet from two.
The heavy duty mechanical,
The straight, to big, to small,
I love the crunch of bending steel,
The papered wedding, I love it all.
And at special times there’s 5 sheets or more,
A bunch to join as one.
Then, when the pile of paper’s so big,
I use the electric staple gun.
My small secret I keep so quiet,
I never want to create a scene.
I just quietly work my job, 9 to 5,
With the photocopy machine.
Written 15th March 2017 on a whim for John Lawless' contest
I'm nursing a headache the size of Corfu
my stomach is tied up in knots,
it's the seventeenth time that I've been to the loo
feeling sick with a dose of the trots.
My memory's blank as to how I behaved
but from texts on my phone I can see
that Doreen who I met said 'yes' when I proposed
(she's retired now, and seventy three).
I lie on the bed still in suit and loud tie
no effort to climb in the bedding,
my backache tells me as the evening went by
I danced like Grandads at a wedding.
A bad move to mix all those drinks, that's for sure,
I think I may have crossed the line,
there's a photocopy on the floor by the door
and I'd swear that those buttocks are mine.
Home:-
Home is a place where you can relax,
Print photocopy, and fax,
I love it because it is a place where you can be,
Staying up, not going to sleep, because, you had too much tea.
Sitting on the squishy sofa playing on the computer,
Placing yourself next to your brother, who is, a right tooter!
It is a place where you have breakfast, tea, and dinner,
But is also a place where you exercise ,and, get thinner.
Its rooms list full of living rooms, kitchens and studies,
Also a place where you bring your favourite buddies,
They come in all sizes big, or, very small,
Very short ,or sometimes, extremely tall.
It can range from small caravans to huge brick houses,
It may have a few pests such as a nasty rat, or, a few cheeky mouses,
Although it may be quite annoying and cramped ,
It is much better than last year when you camped,
Maybe not very much, but it is something,
It is home.
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