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Daylight 4U2C May 2014
People diein' on the streets.
****** puddles at our feets.

But we could be a family.
We could be a whole.
We could be together.
But no one could be cold.

If we could live on an island,
no hate,
no guns,
no war.
We'd look back and wonder,
what was it all for?

People diein' on the streets.
****** puddles at our feets.

Gangs,
tempts,
nudes,
exempts.

We sit at desk,
eating or eaten.
we laughed at or laughing.
beating or bleedin'.

We know the truth, but call it cruel.
The cruel one is we, the blind fool.

People diein' on the streets
****** puddles at our feets.

Who shot the most guns?
Who then killed them all?
Who didn't mind a casualty?
Who could be responsible?

"Not me!" we cry,
"I'm a good soul."
But even if we declined,
can I be told where they go?
No one WANTS to die. For someone to do it, there will be an opponent. A THREAT.    That's what this poem is about.
The wind blows outside;
It sounds like the ocean waves
On a grey morning.
I tried to tell you that I was lost,
trapped in these drowning waves,
that dragged at my self esteem,
and brought down my courage-
sinking to the bottom
like a cast off piece of garbage
that no one remembered to pick up;
but the ocean captured my words,
bouncing them in refrain across the sparkling surface
that I  thought I might never see again.
I tried to reach above the water,
begging,
searching for a kind soul to aid me,
to save me from this dark despair
that threatened to claim me,
and keep me chained at the bottom of my soul.
But no hands came to pull me out,
to rescue me,
to put a warm blanket around me,
to give me hope when I had none.
I tried to shout,
to draw attention to my pain,
pleading with the eternal silence in the oceans
for my savior to find me;
but no one heard,
and my lonely gasps
against the despair filling my lungs
stopped.
Though I might drown in waters I poured myself,
I reject your help,
come too late-
I have waited too long to need you anymore;
I can swim;
I am strong.
You offer your hands to bear the easiest burdens now,
assured of your generous nature,
your seeming friendship;
But your hands are of no use to me,
for I became strong enough with out them-
to pull my own weight,
to staunch my own bleeding wounds;
to create a world where I didn't need to rely
on such frail limbs to catch me when I fell,
on such worthless promises of relief.
You think me cold,
but these waters are too,
still swirling around my ankles;
encroaching yet again.
Burning on my lips,
the thing I have pondered,
the one question I will never ask-
Where were you, friend,
when I needed you most?
Colette Williams Apr 2014
I don't care what you want.
I will take what I want.
I will get what I want.
You can't make me open up.
I won't leave myself weak
On an island that no one can reach.
You are testing my patience.
I never promised you trust.
I never said that I must.
Shut up, that's enough!
You don't like this, then tough.
You don't have to stick around.
There is no obligation here to which you are bound.
You can run away anytime, so go ahead.
You are not the first one;
You certainly won't be the last.
JL Harlow Apr 2014
I don't think tunnels can go this deep:
The way the oceans part--
Starfish foam, bubbling for air.

I saw the moon bleeding,
So many hidden cries.
She shouted:
"No fair, no fair...No fair..."
And now the polished skeleton
Bones glisten in the sun.

Taken from the dusty closet,
One by one by one.
Alongside a black journal,
No embellishments,
No lock to conceal shame.

Pages of her history,
Like collected pages of
The suffrage, and at the
Very last page, her dream's name.

Italicized like lies fresh oyster pearls shine.
Glistening in the frost of the night,
The soothing heat of her mind's height.
Tunnels can touch Earth's spine.
"Earth's Spine" from J.L. Harlow's book of poetry "Dragonfly Island".
R Saba Jan 2014
i find myself assuming the role
of quiet observer, looking around
discreetly, and with more interest
than i let on, i am transfixed
by the simplicity with which complications arise
between crooked pathways
and straight lines
of people, walking around
interacting on levels that confound me
and it makes me feel like an island
yet uncharted
sand untouched, bare of footprints
and most of the time, i like it
the feeling of being clean
unsullied by those complications
and i sit on my shore, watching the ragged ships
sail by
and the gulls circle, crying out
why?
why do we do these things to ourselves?
why do we hide the truth
and perform the lies?

sometimes, i assume the role
of confidant, of living journal
and i describe the weight of the words dropped on my pages
to nobody, because
it really isn't my place
to trivialize darknesses other than my own
and i understand, i do
but i feel lost, some days
among the black holes of people
who cannot escape their own space
their own star-flecked universes
and their planets crash into mine
Milky Way swerving out of the path of destruction
and getting lost in their dissolving sighs
and i feel heavy
with the ink of their confessions
heavy with the advice that they ignore
heavy with the simple ideas
that crowd my head, circling like those gulls
crying out
why?
why do we do these things to ourselves?
why do we confide in strangers
and never trust our own star systems
to find their way back into orbit?

i find myself assuming the role
of me, of my own name
displayed proudly on my sleeve
familiar letters that seem to betray
my transparent, flickering image
warm and true to friends' eyes, perhaps
but the spaces between the characters
are what appear to me in the mirror
not the black lines
but the grey areas
and i feel that transparency often
when i am surrounded by that sea once again
as i so often am
and the waves just seem to crash right over me
feeling invisible, and yet somehow
too visible
to ever be a part of the current, it seems
as each whisper, each ripple
each glance, each possible missed chance
each glimmering sail upon the horizon
appears to laugh at me
whether it's my sad, slow swimming
or my ragged inward appearance
that shines through the cracks in my face
it all becomes part of an image
that i see burned upon the surface of my soul
and some days it truly feels
like even the gulls are circling around me, crying out
why?
why do you do these things to yourself?
why do you even bother?
love the sea as a metaphor

— The End —