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Rissa Wallace Dec 2011
And then we are called *****’s
and feel like that is so much better.
As if it’s not the same derogatory word
now its just more “sophisticated.”
Used in lyric like it’s the only word that rhymes with everything.
Since its 2010 you think we are not like Emmett Till, but we are.
The only difference is we shoot our own guns and one by one we make our own selves obsolete.
The “N” word flowing out of the mouths of our newer generations as if it’s the government given name stamped on every black persons’ birth certificate.
Like there was never a revolution
Like there was never a fight to bring us up to what is seemingly equal to everyone else.
You are what brings us down again.
Hearing the yells of one black man to another in conversation “can a ***** get…”
(insert a stereotypical ending here)
No a ***** can’t get nothin’. That is what has been repeatedly told to the race as a whole.
Burned into our minds like the branding of a cow.
Each time the “N” word is uttered out of another’s mouth its like a gravitational pull that scientist have yet to discover.
More powerful than any black hole.
Like ***** in a barrel. We strive to keep the others at our level.
Ask Fredrick Douglas, it’s his expertise…
As he was one of the original ****** Breakers; we have multiplied the frequency and have unknowingly become professionals at something we never strived to be.
The “N” word flows out of our mouths and through the air like the historical dance it took to get us here.
The dance we have long forgotten but our bodies seem to react the same way whenever an Anglo-Saxon uses our coveted word.
Like it wasn’t the word they yelled as they made permanent welts on our backs that would last generations
Like it wasn’t what they yelled at us to strip away every individualistic quality
They referred to us as if we were herds
Like it wasn’t their term to begin with. We should let them have it.
We are like the modern generations of our ancestral princes and princesses of Africa.
As powerful as they once were, we have mastered fields that others wish they had a chance to accomplish in.
We were built to overcome any obstacle.Other than the obstacle of getting out of our own way.
It is no longer like the underground railroad.
There are no hounds chasing us through the waters.
****** should no longer be the tether that holds us down
We have the ability to soar like a majestic bird that shall always remain unnamed.
As “*****’s” we are nothing. As African American’s we are an impenetrable strength.
DJ Thomas Jul 2010
Love and conscience

self image and experience

shape our very being

guide our motivations

freedoms of expression

ability to give ourselves

love with the gift of fun*

so,

decisions made in the moment
leave embarrassment and guilt

ought we to learn and gain
not ponder them for ever

the flood of adolescence
its angst and experiences

cruelty, parenting, drugs
or our very survival

rob us, to shape us
separate - ourselves

so,

nailing reactions
into our days
blanketing some
behind closed
blind eyes
for awhile
or forever
to leave us
with *****
or *****
and needs
more selfish
arrogant and
dangerous

so,

each our foibles and poetry

.
copyright©[email protected] 2010
Tina Fish Jun 2013
Senseless living in Beirut. Disconnected from routine, from drama. Disconnected from passion and compassion in a stagnant, stagnant, stagnant place. No reassurance for tomorrow, and definitely no reassurance today.

And it all sounds so disheartening, even to yourself. So you put those thoughts on a dark shelf, resting in the cavities of your mind, only to find them oozing out again.

Making arms feel heavy. In a city that’s the perfect size for strolling every step feels like a chore. Like why’d I walk out here on the streets for? There’s no room for me. Too many holes in the street, and I wore these sandals coz they feel light on my feet, but they keep ripping. Dog ****, low-class spit, and high-class ****. It’s **** I tell ya. No room, nothing.

Unless you’re on a list. Then you’ll find endless place for you, and mix with commoners on the dance floors. Rub shoulders with those struggling artists and hidden talents, photographers and such. More images, much.

But still that’s not enough…. if you happen to make it, that is… still not enough. Because that kind of comfort is tough on the soul, and it hurts that you didn’t just go home and save it. You know, save your money, save your time, save your self. Not become someone else. Not finish the night rolled up in bed and thinking over those million things you said, was that the right thing? Perfecting social awkwardness by living it again, but alone. Just let it go, the past is dead.

You think, ‘let me think.’ Let me sink into the things that stimulate my mind, that I find interesting, revealing, revolutionary. And re- re- the process. Reanalyze in a new frame of mind. This isn’t that time, it’s now. I’m all so much more grown up. I can deal with the higher material. My envelopes carry essays, and my mirrors reflect mantras. I use my blade to cut Mongolian chicken.  A unique recipe I found on Pinterest. I’ve got several blogs I read…I’m sure you don’t know them, they’re avant-garde…and I dedicate a hard process into selecting the right documentary, something that’ll illuminate me further. We apply this fervor into knowing more, only to realize how little we can move with that knowledge.

Killer of dreams, Beirut is. This murderer of hope. Like even if you got home, and plugged that DVD in to get your mind off with a laugh and a lay, the electricity finds its way to blast through and ruin a perfectly good evening for you. See it was feeding off your ****** energy and ran a little too highly, and now your wires shot. And somehow it burned through your generator heart. Could we somehow spark the cables with some electricity again? I don’t know…let’s check the trunk for monkeys.

Senseless. Not seeing, not feeling, not tasting, hearing, or smelling of sense. Honestly, just pushed beyond the limit of decent respect. Rather ******, crass, crude, no sense to reason, only nonsense, like gibberish, a terrible two tantrum, nothing to pacify, no milk of poppy or anything else. The alcohol is hit so we can’t rub teething gums. Instead plastic BB guns, manufactured with lead, which I’ve read shouldn’t be given to children under the age of two. But still, this is what we do in Beirut.

I want to root for a winning team. Something that’ll keep me on the edge of my seat so I can leap at the final score. Give me a winning team to root for. Instead divided, and individualistic, the secret to the American dream, that didn’t seem to work. Or collective, and fanatic, fundamentalist and bat-**** problematic, because of loss of self. Now, what’s the fun in that? If those are the teams, don’t put me up to bat. Let me stand in the back, and please pick me last.

Senseless and fast. Each day merges into next, and Lebanon is an eternal vacation. Cheap time chalets and happy time oil rubs. Under setting suns that morph into other ones, instagrammed and timeless on HD…not very revolutionary if we think within the context of things. But still, we never seem to, think.

Rather reignite the old patterns of thought. The ones that brought pearls and Switzerland’s, French nights and Brazilian beats. Ones that won’t have us marching on streets, but rather cater to the revolution of our hearts. It’s called the revolution of love. But I hope you don’t mind I’ve forgotten my glove in the other room… don’t worry baby…I’ll pull out if I feel that I’m cuming too soon… uh oh…(boom).

Was that a bomb? Or fireworks coz we were looking in each other’s eyes? Hide nonsense with senseless pastimes, de-synthesizing further. Falling deeper into this cataclysmic abyss, that leaves no space for sense.

Give me a tissue to wipe it. Clear it away. There’s another day starting and I want to forget that even happened. That I tapped into something and remembered to care. That would make no sense, it’s senseless back there.
Poetry is the altruistic apogee of the individualistic emotional egoist.

The lack of feeling, and the lack of empathy,
the petty attempt to hide them with creativity.

It’s truly astonishing how we can fool ourselves into thinking we’re kind
When we’re just wasting our time, pretending to see when we’re blind.

How could we ever emulate our chemical imbalances on one another?
The only way to do it is the kindly overrated feeling of love and affection.
And why would we need words, if we’re sure about our love for each other?
Oh, we’re puzzled to believe that our puny poetry represents felt perfection.

Yet we just walk through the valleys of lyricism,
Lost in our own wishes for joy or demise
And yet we become shadows of perfectionism
Filled with the detachment we criticize.

Our representation is our perdition
We've lost ourselves in our own mission.
Not particularly proud of the fourth quatrain.
SassyJ Feb 2016
Philosophical epistemology strumming adventures
Albeit, coherent mental decoding stratifications structured
Supposedly our world rests in our minds, revolving knowledge
An entwine of conceptual abstract flowing within oneself
The mind in the “I” the “I” a reality lived in my experiences
George of Leontini, a mine mind approving solipsism exploring innatism
Imaginative insights that nothing exists, the secrets secreting secrets
The knowledge behind the veils that remains un-communicated
A reverse of normality and known existences, moral disposition
Hypothesis of depersonalizations, adventures of self internalization
Justifications for what lies outside the Medulla Oblongata
Skepticism and just alternatives to western philosophy
Subjective unapproved experiences only robust in one’s mind
Descartes abstraction of inner experiences, reciprocated paradigm
Intuitively, perceived lived formulations of "Cogito Ergo Sum"
Psychological conscious undoubted individualistic thoughts
Berkley explored perspectives that physicality is an embodiment of the mind
The mind a decoding visualizer, that encompass the non-existent
An idealism marriage of ‘metaphysical’ and epistemological philosophy
The intense esoteric “dualism” verses the fiery “monism” reality
Mind boggling differentiated truths bleeding with blinking unresolvable hypothesis
The jiggered methodological, streamlining the un -logic sequential beats
g Jun 2014
They say that offspring resembles the breeders
both physically and mentally
but when I  speak their faces darken
and when they speak I get upset.

I resemble them physically
but you can not tell that I am their daughter
if you look at us mentally.
Every conversation is a battle.

My father is the textbook conservative.
Pro-life and pro-guns
Anti-gay and microagressive.
How am I his daughter?

My mother is a follower.
A doe to her deer.
A foe in my fears.
How am I her daughter?

Standing 5 foot 8 in a pair of slacks
instead of a dress there's me.
The feminist.
The human rights activist.

My father calls me a communist.
My mother thinks I'm crazy.
I'm not a communist but a libertarian.
Funny how that's confused.

I march on in my combat boots.
My mother disapproving.
My father asking me if I just came back
from a Pearl Jam concert.

I march on with my feminist ways.
Spreading the word of equality as often as I can.
Telling the micro-aggressors to stop.
Questioning the Christians and the anti-gays.

I march on with my sense of style.
I don't care if I don't look feminine today.
I don't feel feminine today.
My mother's shaming me in the distance.

I march on with my tattoos and choppy hair.
My mother crying and my father angry.
They are anti-tattoo and anti-individualistic.
I don't deserve their shame.

I march on with who I am.
Because although I am their offspring
they can not change who I am.
No matter how hard they try.
Carmelo Antone Jan 2013
I’ve been looking for the dark side of the son,
I’ve been trying to poke holes in what props you up,
I’ve been desperate to bring your generational growth,
To a stunted halt,

Founding Fathers to doubt,
Slave owners who colonized under god,
A place ripe for ideological blows,
And the collapse of what we believed before,
We had a chance to see,
How much isn’t known,

I’ve been creeping in your crib,
Under the bed with the boogie man,
The sadness you feel throughout your adulthood,
And the death you see after your midlife awakening,
Please fear me,

Growing amongst others that act like humans,
Grouped amongst an idealistic species,
Where they’ve preached individualistic babies,
When your genesis,
Exemplifies our resemblance,

Beacon of truth,
I will end you,
How dare you dismantle me,
Despite my invisibility,

We will end your corruptive ways,
The enemy in the corner,
An American insurgency,
The lack of the people’s ability,
To fight for the freedoms we perceive!

Erroneous burn in hell,
I’ll make sure I continue to swell,
Instead of letting you become the reason I fell,

Revelations will become your reality if you think I’ll be exiting,
You insignificant ****, how dare you think I will spatter like mud,
I didn’t come from violent thrusts, and a mother infected by another’s muck,

I rose because of your intolerance,
I am the after birth of a racist,
Founding Father’s with economics,
Not bothered by the ******* of another human,

Not to deny the atrocities of my ancestors time,
Yet we are the turning of the tide,
We are the generation that will correct the rhyme,
The ones that will begin the age of man’s prime,

We are the flow of a barbarian bloodline,
We are the evolutionary wonder that continues to surprise,

Learning to compromise is not a means to survive,
You fool humanity is a fire burning out,
And I am the evidence of Mother’s doubt in man,

A germ was your genesis
And I am your omega,
You insignificant residue,

I will end you,
We will defy you,
I will smother your existences,
We will overcome your dominance,

Justifying my social anxieties,
We need to fixate this desire,
To set foot on the land for the free,
To cultivate minds of humanity,
Jack Touchet Mar 2012
Such sweet songs
Fall from faces full
Of open
Hearts holding hands.
Generally great groups gather
Quixotic questions,
Ponder personal perceptions,
Emulating ever entranced emotions.
Love loses leaps, leaves
Broad bruises bypassing
Catastrophically closed creations.
What wonder, what wildly whimsical
Rejoice remains?
In individualistic idioms.
As all allowed anatomical
Differences deal dictations,
Juxtaposed jesters join
Monstrous masterminds
Trivially tinkering, tryingly,
Near non-subjective nothingness
Under unusual
Vectors. Vivisecting voracious,
Zeppelin-esque, zygotes,
Xenophobic
Yodels yell,
"****! **** kindheartedness!"
PN Parent Aug 2014
Humans are animals.
We believe we are the superior species,
But we are equal, equally animals
Both crave companionship.
Both need to procreate.
Even human specific characteristics
Are that of all animals.
Love is not related to only our species.
It resides in all living creatures
Even if we deny it scientifically.
And that is why it is beautiful.
It is not rare, like we want it to be.
It is not defining, like we hope it to be.
It is not individualistic; it is normal.
And that is why it is beautiful.
So often we believe that beauty comes from
The different, the exotic, the rare.
But it resides in  our most basic human make-up,
Our genetics.
And that is why it is beautiful - it is everywhere.
So why, as humans, do we crave to be unique
from other animals?
We are the same.
We are all beautiful.
We all love.
We are animals.
Embrace it.
Nevermore Aug 2014
To be alone
Is to be complete

They say
No man is an island,
But isn't everyone?

We're all stranded on islands of self-interest
Connected to others
Through flimsy bridges of temporary alliances
Mutual interests and gain

The more connected we are
The more isolated we become
Pictures and blog posts
Nothing more than facades

Anomie is the word of the decade

The individualistic
The self-sufficient
Is reviled
For refusing to play the game
To participate
In the masquerade
To jump through the hoops
Of social niceties

Somehow
To sit and squirm
Through ******* contests and gossip
To flap and flutter
In the howling gales of hysteria and contrived laughter
Is preferred over
Sitting alone
Revelations and epiphanies
Splayed out before oneself
Playing solitaire with one's reflections
In peace

Baby showers and mixers
Celebrated
The impenetrable silence
Of one's hermitage
Eschewed

The people-pleaser
Preferred
Over the lone wolf
The team player
Over the independent agent

I suppose
In an age of open doors
A locked one
Raises a few eyebrows
They'd knock and rattle
Then bang and kick and shout
Before leaving in a huff

Authenticity is now the rarest commodity
Valued over saffron and platinum
So people settle instead
For knockoffs

Alcohol-plied sincerity is better than nothing
A China-made Rolex still looks better --
Flashier, if nothing else --
Than a Timex

No man is an island,
They say,
Smirking
Frowning
Clucking with disapproval
Peering behind perfectly schooled masks
Nary a hair out of place
Looking at me
In all my artless imperfection
Paper, pen, and cigarettes for company

Well
Which of us here
Is truly alone?
Yes, I am aware that I just compared myself to North Korea.
Leara Juarnoct Apr 2013
It's true, what E.E. Cummings said. "Unless you love someone, nothing else makes sense." And that is just it really. And I do not mean a friendly love; I am talking about when my heart is beating so fast that my whole being is shooting off some vibration, some frequency because of another human's effect on me. That feeling of complete willingness growing deep in the pit of my stomach to let this person crush me into dust. It is the electric shock through my body when they brush up against my skin for the first time and I savor that moment. The moment I get to touch the most precious surface my fingertips have ever come across. It is the seconds spent wondering if the other person feels the same and this mixture of anxiety and ecstasy swimming up and down and pulsing in spirals through my limbs into my soul. It is the moment that person clasps my hand for the first time and they look straight into my eyes and that person knows that I have died. The me that once existed has gone and now I have been released by this omnipotent touch, as if every small movement of their fingers create an ethereal melody that only gods could hear. It is that moment I no longer exist because the love for that other person has filled up my entire being; every atom, every pore, every cell, full of this apocalyptic passion. It is in that moment that I cannot take holding all of that love in, so my body begins to rip and tear at the seams, releasing an everlasting frenzy of fireworks that is my spirit. And it is in that moment when I feel nothing but adoration and gratitude for this other being. This other being that managed to slide right past me, existing all of this time without me knowing. It is in the realization of not knowing how I was even considered a human being before I met them and knowing I will never be the same because of them. It is in the realization that this person could go away at any moment leaving me crushed and still I find myself clinging to every second with them as if time was going extinct.
Loving someone is the sole reason we are alive. Most people think of love as just a single emotion, but it is so much more; it truly is. Love is a magnetic pull, so ancient and so instinctual and so deep in our subconscious that we cannot even recognize its true gleam. Love is time and every moment spent cherishing another being for exactly who they are, what they were and who they hope to be. Love is the disintegration of all individualistic, egotistical or selfish thoughts that have ever preoccupied my mind and the birth of compassion, respect, bliss, unity and the true beauty of imperfection. Love is the meeting of two individual souls to watch each and every proton, neutron and electron merge and form a whole new entity. The perfect whole; the golden ratio of two spirits combined, spiraling into infinity. Love transcends the eminent departure that awaits it because it unites the part of human beings that is eternal. It is the only thing that can bond what is immortal. Love pulls me in like a spinning funnel cloud only to project me above into the cosmos, where I can fully experience the true effects of love. I get the chance to actually feel another person's soul twirling its way up, around and through myself exposing who I truly am and the being I become once met with the one I love. It murders the fear that love could perhaps be mortal and sends light to our worlds revealing a hidden Utopia. Love is. How can you expect one single part of the universe to make sense without it?
RAJ NANDY Mar 2016
Friends, Part Two will get posted after a break. I have added short notes at the end, for appreciation of all Jazz lovers. To know how the word 'Jass' became 'Jazz', - kindly read the Foot Notes below. Best wishes, - Raj, New Delhi.

    THE STORY OF JAZZ MUSIC IN VERSE:
                         PART- ONE

                      INTRODUCTION
Before writing about this true Jazz Story,
I had delved into its long checkered history!
I had plowed through many articles and
books,
Making personal notes to make Jazz better
understood.
My love for this music flows in my veins,
From writing this true story myself I could
hardly restrain !

THE ATLANTIC SLAVE TRADE
The story begins some four hundred years
ago in History,
Drenched in the blood and sweat of the black
slaves which was no mystery,
Painting a sorrowful background to our Jazz
Story !
It was a time when the English , Spanish , French ,
Portuguese and the Dutch became frantic , -
To gain control of the slave trade across the vast
Atlantic !
Slave trade those days was a very profitable
business proposition;
The funds generated had also financed Britain’s
Industrial Revolution!

In 1619  a Dutch sailing ship had carried the first
lot of fifty slaves from West Africa, -
To work in the cotton, tobacco, and sugarcane
plantations of English Colony of Virginia !
Only twenty slaves had survived that hazardous
Atlantic journey;
And here my friends lies the roots of my Jazz
Story !
While it is true that in New Orleans Jazz got
cradled and also nourished;
But it had taken birth in the regions of Western
Africa where slave traders had once flourished!
Later, many more slaves were transported across
to work in the plantations of the Southern States
of America,*  (see notes below)
And in their hearts one could hear the tom–tom
and drum beats of native Africa ! * (notes below)

HOLLERS AND WORK SONGS
Those slaves took no musical instruments with
them,
And worked under the whip lash of their white
Overseers bound in chains !
But they had cherished their ancient music which
fed their hope and the will to survive;
And from the depth of their sorrow and suffering, -
sprung the rhythm and beat of their life !
While at work they were forbidden to talk to each
other,
So they sang in a rich sing-song voice and called
out to one another;
Which was not understood by their whip-wielding
Overseers.
They also called out and communicated to other
working gangs in the distant fields,
Who also replied back in a similar fashion to
make their communication network complete.
The ‘hollers’ and ‘work songs’ also did help,
To lighten the burden of their treacherous fate.
This ‘call and response’ later formed one of Jazz
Music’s basic elements,
As ‘improvised music’ got composed with Jazz
providing a proper vent.
From their tormented soul they sang to wipe away
their blues,
Giving birth to ‘blue notes’ later , for WC Handy
to pay his many handsome tributes !
The slaves longed for freedom and emancipation,
Singing their ‘spirituals’ with faith and devotion !
While singing they often got into a trance,
And felt like the Israelites in ******* in Egypt,
ordained by fate and chance !
The Mississippi was like the River Jordan across
which they hoped to see, -
A band of Angels coming in their chariots to set
them free,  @
From their suffering, drudgery, and captivity !
Thus ‘improvisation’ becomes a vital ingredient of
Jazz Music;  $
For ‘freedom of expression’ is its distinguishing  
feature, which Jazz music forever seeks.

CONCLUDING  MY PART ONE
‘Jazz’ had come to America in chains, buried
deep inside the black man’s soul.
With a longing for freedom from torture and pain,
Which was then beyond their control!
The tom-tom beats, work songs, Spirituals and the
Blues, -
Were all precursor to Jazz, and here I pause to
pay my homage and heart-felt dues,
To those valiant predecessors who had come in
chains ,
Giving a painful birth to ‘jass’, - from which Jazz
gets its name ! # (notes below)

FOOT NOTES:-
Slaves were sold at 15 dollars per head. Early 1700s saw 75,000 slaves auctioned! By1800s there were one million slaves in US alone! Slaves came from Senegal, Ashantis, Gold Coast, Niger Delta, Dahomey, & the Congo; with a variety of beats and music buried in their minds and hearts !
** The Drums were an essential form of communication in Africa. They believed their Gods communicated through their beats . Those drums provided the basic beats of Jazz Music.
+ 'Blue Music' = became a part of cultural landscape of Southern US by early 1900s, but had remained unnoticed till W.C.Handy published his song –‘Memphis Blues’ in1914.
@ I refer here to the famous ***** Spiritual song -‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ ! I use to sing this song in my Missionary School in Calcutta in the 50s !  Slaves had sung them in plantation ‘Praise Houses’ during their weekly prayer meetings.
# "JASS" = originally an Africa-American slang meaning ‘***’! Born in the brothels of Storyville (New Orleans)  & the Jasmine perfumes used by the girls there; one visiting them was  said to be 'jassed-up' ! Mischievous boys rubbed out the letter ‘J’ from posters outside announcing -"Live Jass Shows'', making it to read as ‘'Live *** Shows'’! So finally ‘ss’ of ‘jass’ got replaced by 'zz' of JAZZ !
$ “Improvisation” = is the process of spontaneously creation of fresh melodies over the continuously repeating cycle of chord changes of a tune, which distinguishes Jazz from all other musical forms - raising it to its own great Individualistic Heights !
….ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY RAJ NANDY OF NEW DELHI---
E-Mail : [email protected]
Being a lover of Classical & Smooth Jazz, I had composed the True Story of Jazz Music in Two Parts. Will be posting Part Two after a break for appreciation of true Jazz Lovers on this Site! - Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
HB Feb 2011
When I read, I speak,
And when I speak, I read
Words rolling off my eyes,
Filling my tongue full of free--
Style rhyming and rhythm.

The canons of thought rolling out with a boom.
Pachelbel changing your direction of flow
Through some Perverse, Obscure, Rehearsal

Suddenly Reversed.

Back where you started,
Starting over again,
With a pen in your hand
The words crowding your head.

Gotta jump and tumble
To the jiggle and flow
Of the individualistic,
Unrealistic,
Even cannibalistic

Creations that grow.
From your stylus,
Rife.

Words.

They're the stuff of life.
Jessica Woodward Dec 2010
Individualistic intensity
Of perfect heart.
Aggravateed and silenced
By a tormented start.

Pure passion for knowledge
Of future and past
Yet the thirst is often drained
A little too fast.

Confusion of adulthood
Tainted by childhood remains
Excelles the mind's questioing
Of innocent pains.
- May 2014
all i want is to live in the skins universe
where everything is in a hazy summer filter
with every glance charged with meaning and energy
and getting ****** on drugs is a legitimate pastime
and everyone's wardrobe is so individualistic
who would give a **** about society?
we're too busy having *** and getting trashed and laughing
we're too busy living the life we wished we could live
Patrick W Taylor Sep 2014
An empty bar,
there's something magical
about the concept.

No drunkards
spilling cheap beer
on themselves,
no ***** barflies
leaning against
bathroom stalls.

No rough necks
or the doomed
preaching their
individualistic sermons.

One can find peace
in an empty bar.
A zen like state,
drinking beers
to achieve
the aim of
tantric Buddhism.
Anya Oct 2018
The poems
That mean the most
To me
Are my most personal
Individualistic
Ones

But the ones
That are the most popular
Happen to be the
Most general ones
Writtin in a whim
Easy,
To empathize with
...
It makes sense if you think about it
Latiaaa Sep 2016
I have taken dozens and dozens of souls before.
Drunks, sinners, convicts, killers, ******.
As soon as they pass on, in your arms they fall.
And to your mistress you carry them every time I call.
Your sensei.

My thigh high boots withstanding my weaponry
I am Kanye’s Devil in a new dress,
Personified.
I’m pure lust,
Unholy desire.
The underground *******.

I see the evil in your eyes.

But hey, I miss the bleachfumes.

I’ve been up all morning just writing and ****.
“ONLY DEATH IS PROMISED”
“CHEAP ***=CHEAP PISTOLS”
“ALL I NEED IS CIGARETTES, ****, AND COFFEE”

Scamming is truly a habit.
Its pleasure after pain.

****, you’re the ****.
I’ll rip my heart out and just hand you the ****…
Like I said, it’s pleasure after pain.

You are not worthy enough to see the face of your tormentor,
You don’t want war with me, *****.
We’re all mad here,
An idea that is not dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all.

Stay ***** and individualistic as ****.
DM Pierce Dec 2012
(She cries)
Sobs in hands while kneeling,
Painted face streaking though
She's familiar with feeling shattered
And as if she's floating,
In a subjective spatial sea
That surrounds her in this ,
Eyes-to-the-ground, individualistic city.
But she's willing to suffer if it means,
Eventual healing,
And not waking up every night screaming
With blind eyes wide, grey face, fist balled tight.
There's not a dawn to come for her
'Cause it's been dark her whole life.

(She wades)
In water
Ripples flutter with each dip and kick,
Her neck sparkles from splashes and sweat.
Her underlined eyes are tired and red from having wept
Instead of slept.
Guns on shelves
Asking if she needs help.
High balconies shout down to her
On the streets and inquire
Why she hasn't climbed them,
Looked down at the tiny specks winding,
Gears whirling, patterns and plans unfurling,
Observed she was of no use, and
Suffered a last shuddering breath
And leapt
To a mercifully abrupt death.

(She wonders)*
On this daily as
She comes to grips with failing,
At life and her goals.
Having squandered any hope that was shown,
Choosing instead a life of
Closed glass doors and burned out rooms,
Quietly never forgiving herself for who,
The world tells her she is
And who she is in her heart-
That hollow rock that stores
What remains of her wishes
Stacked in columns from floor to ceiling
Silent borders of her buried tomb of mass killing.
She roams among it like a library,
It almost feels like home, to
Browse steep piles of dreams dead
From a thousand and one styles
Of homicide, alphabetically stored and stacked.    

(She stares)
Into her oxidized mirror and
Studies the divisions of face along the cracks,    
Wondering when and where she went wrong,
How far lost she is and if she'll ever again see home.          
Most days,
   She doubts it.
Whispers what do i do?
   But wants to shout it.
The fissures on her face break wide,
Plunging her into vicious waters high
   Above her,
She shouts a final something,
But produces only finite bubbles.



*Critiques are very much appreciated.

— The End —