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dead poet Dec 2024
it terrifies me sometimes…
the ugliness that smears the world -
with shades of despair, and evils unheard.

there’re things you hear, and learn, and know,
and wonder how mankind could stoop so low.
your fury knows what must be done, yet -
powerless you watch the madness grow.

the night is no longer the custodian of evil;
we see it day in, and day out.
the morning news, the afternoon bites;
come evening, you’d rather gouge your eyes out.

the screams of anguish of a woman bent over -
on the tasteless floor, her innocence devoured.
the wrath of a community, on the back of one man,
who dared speak his mind - his life is over!  

the game of politics,
the lies, the trecheries;
men without jobs - or homes -
living on the streets.
an animal slain to please a God,
as a child watches,
only to repeat.

yet it all goes on,
as though a **** in the wind.
the world tells you,
‘grow up, man! grow a thick skin.’
i wish i could tell you otherwise -
a story not so bleak.
but there…
they probably beheaded a son before his mother,
as we speak.
dead poet Dec 2024
it takes courage to step out the door;
to pick your battles,
when there’s nothing left fighting for.
dead poet Nov 2024
write a verse,
write a song,
write it with the chillum, on a ****.
write slow, write fast -
write with an ******* while it lasts.
write for the right reasons, and the wrong ones too:
write because it matters to you.
write like a man, write like a woman -
write despite their contempt, unforgiven.
write on the walls,
of the times you recall -
when you felt small,
or when you’d fall.
write your heart out!
write your ***** out! -
and don’t you ever doubt -    
wheather it’ll work out,
or choke your bank account.
write, if not for anything -
for the hope that still lies within;
just write, do not ask why!
if you must know -
write because you’d rather die.

write, my friend -
write.
dead poet Nov 2024
if i were to find my place in this world -
i’d rather it be on a mountain top,
or the bottom of the sea;
somewhere - where my silence is not a bother to me,
where the voices cannot travel to tell me i don’t belong -
or that i need a voice.
i’m not sure what i’ll do there, though.
but i think i know -
i’d bring a laptop with me;
a broken one.
and i would punch away at its keys with my fingers -  
my poems, all my poems…
again,
and again,
and again…
for years, for ages
until the rhythms girdle into a symphony;
something only i could sing,
something only my heart would know,
something familiar.

and then i would cast it out into the darkness -  
where it belongs.
dead poet Nov 2024
don’t think you’ll get away with this!
you pushed an innocent soul into the abyss.
‘sacrilege’, i say -
what a terrible way…
to enslave a wounded angel;
pluck away at its shrewd feathers;
torture it for wits;
and for what?
some cheeky wordplay?  

how could you!
how dare you watch it bleed -  
through the trappings of your greed.
have you no pity?
have you no mercy?
are you so bereft of compassion,
that you’d go so far as to maim a messenger of God,
just to have what you need?

let it out, i say!
let it free.
none of this is fair,
i know… i agree!
but you never had the right -
to steal the light:
from a spirit so bright,
in the stillness of the night.  

it’ll all be forgotten,
should you accept the blame.
perhaps, find a piece of rock to maim.
not a soul so benign,
even in such misery it prays -  
‘forgive him for his sins, my Lord,
for i have done the same.’
dead poet Nov 2024
i liked a girl from school, she was,
for me, a little too cool; she was -
on top of her game:  
something to aim for, she was -
hardly concerned if I had a last name.

i remember those roll calls…
my head leaning against the wall
just to sneak a momentary gaze,
as she'd stand up to answer the teacher's call.

“present, sir.." or "..ma’am”,
that’s all she’d say.
and I knew I’d make it through the day.
i believed someday,
with a voice so sweet,
she’d give me a call,
ask me to meet.

and though that day never came to pass
i remember looking through the broken glass -
of the bus window with a muddy tint.
i could still see her like fine print.

i remember her doe-brown eyes,
her fleshy lips -
the belt clutching her beckoning hips
i’d go to sleep,
drooling like a creep.  
in my slumber,
we’d meet in our secret keep.

she spoke in riddles, it would seem:  
but i could trace the general theme -
she’d throw me on the bed, and i’d fall -
right out of my wishful dream.

it’s absurd, i know -
i’m not a fool.
yet sometimes,
i wish i were the ‘cool kid’ in school.
and though her memories are all a blur,
i’ve yet to meet a girl like her.
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