GlitchYou can find hidden truths in simple lines,
Even in broken grammar or in faulty rhymes.
One just needs to tap into his soul,
That, among others, is the writer's goal.
Yet for some the ink on paper looks plain,
They belong to a world for the terminally sane.
Believing only what's in front of their eyes,
Imagination and dreams to them are merely lies.
Lucky are those who can see the fault in the system,
Lucky are those who can absorb flawed criticism.
But within the borders of this fragmented society,
Things aren't really what they always seem to be.
SEXThis poem is about sex.SEX8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
(yeah, that got your attention)
This poem is about sex.
This poem is about love.
This poem is about living in your sexuality
instead of being afraid of it.
This poem is about saying fuck you
to everyone who told you
This poem is about the sin so natural
it takes you to heaven on earth.
This poem is about turning the key,
finding your voice,
making your own choice.
This poem is about independence,
instead of buying into all their misery.
150 pages of health text book telling you
6 years of administration telling you
6 years of scaring you
out of whats instinctual.
6 years of alarmist tactics,
and no information
setting a social taboo
so they can control how we live our lives.
AnarchyAnarchy,Anarchy12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A life of individual responsibility
A system of Government
With but one law,
Bring no pain to others.
So why are anarchists viewed as villains?
Because of people who claim anarchy
To order to bring about the destruction of peace,
Causing a whirlpool of truth and lies,
Confusing the observer,
While observing the confused.
The Antichrist is pain.
InsaneInsane.Insane10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
People call me insane.
How do they know?
Can anyone truly say what is insane?
And what isn't?
Who can judge? Everyone.
Who has the right? No one.
They are not mind-readers.
They have no way of knowing
What is inside my head.
Even if I write it down,
It is changing all the time.
Points of view, opinions.
The next second they become old
And new ones take their place.
Constantly changing, evolving,
Inside my head.
Always questioning, thinking,
Reasoning, and imagining.
Insane? I don't think so.
Truth is a matter of opinion
Everyone is insane
At the exact time
That no one is.
Why must people call me insane?
Why must they fear me?
Is it me they fear
Or what will come out of their mouths
If I prod long enough?
Are they afraid of opinions
And actual thoughts,
Or is it just
Tiny, insignificant me?
Why must people fear
What they do not understand?
Worse of all,
They don't try to understand.
They just stick a label on me, POP!
I am crazy.
Sorrow of the WriterThe writer writes.Sorrow of the Writer9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The artist draws.
The writer reads.
The artist watches.
The writer depends on words.
The artist depends on shapes.
The writer uses letters.
The artist uses color.
I feel so much sorrow, my lack of artistic talents reflect upon my own life.
I wish I could express my thoughts and feelings into pictures.. into shapes and color.
But I cannot, I'm only a writer.
I'm a shapeshifter of words.
I'm an expression of letters.
I'm a shadow behind the page.
The artist hogs the spotlight, takes away the observants.
I lay in wait, looking for someone to comment, fav, or even take I liking into my poetry and stories.
I want to have the spotlight, to be the best... the best word shifter.. the best writer.
My sorrow continues on, for the artist is always on the light.
I'm forced to wait in shadow until my words become known.
For now.. I shall wait.. until someone dodges the artist... and comes to me...
AlimentacaoAlimentaçãoAlimentacao4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Quem come à R$ 29,90
de certo que a cabeça não esquenta
e no final quiç'ainda dá gorjeta.
Molho madeira, azeite extra virgem?
Na barraca da tia, só croquete, nem quibe.
Aspargos, couve-flor e maionese?
Mostarda Heinz, alcaparras e gergelim?
Come devagar e no final sorri?
Enquanto isso na calçada da rua
a salsicha esquenta
o purê de batata fervendo
cobre o pão de vinagrete e desejo.
Enche a pança do trabalhador
que lambe os beiços
que é pra não sentir dor.
Refresquinho de caju à R$ 1,50?
Quero ver se a madame se contenta.
Mas isso sempre foi assim
não tem jeito
quem tem come bem
quem não tem, come mal
mas come também.
Meio-dia e 53 minutos de 20 de dezembro de 2011.
Will die an arabA lot of people will denyWill die an arab11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but I don't care and I will stand up high
for who am I,
and for what God chose me to be
I'll be the best I can be
Im proud to say I am an Arab with all its means
no matter what disrespect i might get
let them say savages barbarians or illiterates,
it doesn't matter to me
what matters the most is me
and how I treat thee
I treat people as individuals
Regardless their race color or religion
I am here for certain years
Then I'll disappear
To a world where only sins and deeds rule
The records are set ready for that day
You and I shall not prepare what to say
Who and what surrounds us shall speak
A moment when we are most terrified
An old good word we've said may come
Reminds us of what darkness we've lit
take my word and remember this
What makes a person special
Not the tongue that he talks by
Nor the religion he defends
It's the number of people he has helped
It's how many false he has regret
At the end with joy I would say
I was born an Arab
Men Who Rule The World.Men Who Rule The World.12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Fiddle the figures and find all the facts,
Just take a good look at how backwards you act.
You kept moving forwards and never looked back,
Your movement so scripted your timing exact.
Your bubblegum lies and your painted on smiles,
Who needs emotions when you've got that much style.
Your empty ideas, blow away in the wind,
Demons came knocking, you let them all in.
It's beautiful and pretty but it's all gone away,
I really do wish, that I had more to say.
Flowers on the RazorwireWe could never fashion flight from our broken boned epiphaniesFlowers on the Razorwire4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
(Or raise our shattered glasses to the red on her lips)
But anaemic as horses we parade them through these streets
Revolution is nothing but progress here
Perched on razorwire fences
Birds give names to ghosts and raise them as their own
Truth is a figment of your imagination
And the telephone is the wire around your neck
Hung up with wishes across the grand suburbia
Our zeitgeist is a harlot
She teaches us that duty justifies submission. It doesn't
There is salt in the street but the banks are empty
From weeping like the chorus torn from our lungs
We never quite grasped the idea of morality
When ethics were fed through hospital tubes
And sometimes they throw bricks through our open windows
Just to pick the shards of glass from our children's eyes
Bones are the most hollow of structures
And cortexial limbs can't swim these waters
Or write salvation on crumbling walls
Down at the harbour the air tastes of c
AnarchyScream the anthem of the anarchist!Anarchy12 years ago in Open More Like This
What is it? Exactly.
I won't tell you; make it up.
Go away. Blow it up.
Burn it down. Deface the town.
But don't give in,
Never -- no.
That's the song we all love so.
Freedom past extremity.
Far away, in my backyard
I own the world; I am a bard.
I wear a beard and shave my head;
All the normals want me dead.
I won't give up; I ramble rave.
You'll never make me behave.
My brother, loser, freak, meek geek
You know-- the beatnick, hippy, punk--
The rock bands my parents debunk--
We treasure what we cannot have:
No allegiance to any flag.
WE ARE CHARLIEnous sommes dessinateurs,WE ARE CHARLIE11 months ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
nous sommes animateurs,
nous sommes fursuiteurs,
nous sommes sculpteurs,
nous sommes photographes,
nous sommes poètes,
nous sommes écrivains,
nous sommes musiciens,
nous sommes celles et ceux qui pouvons jouir de la liberté d'expression obtenue au prix du sang de nos ancêtres,
nous sommes artistes,
nous sommes charlie.
We are designers,
we are animators,
we are fursuiteurs,
we are sculptors,
we are photographers,
we are poets,
we are writers,
we are musicians,
we are those who can enjoy the freedom of expression obtained with the blood of our ancestors,
We are artists,
we are charlie.
My First and Last War PoemWhen he came back from the war,My First and Last War Poem9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
all he saw was shrapnel.
Not like the sort on the battlefield,
at home there were no bodies,
there was no thick sticky blood on his hand,
She stood at the beach,
brushed back a strand of hair
a jellyfish washed onto shore.
She knew only the dead were that clear
and it reminded her of the poisonings:
dead cats and dogs curled in balls along the sidewalk
after some jerk littered the doorsteps
steaks marinated in cyanide.
instead, he watched his family,
watched himself at the dinner
table as if he weren't even eating
swallowed the potatoes and wondered
"where is the metallic flavor;"
"where is the gritty dirt?"
And there was that other time
she was walking in some forest,
and there was this stag
limp in the dirt,
coat the same color as the mud,
speckled in hovering flies,
an arrow wound under it's chest
and only the antlers taken for trophy.
He doesn't know how to go to the grocery
anymore, how to pick out a ripe pear.
He squints to read t
Too LateIt's too late, buddy. Your attempts at appeasementToo Late9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on this post-fuck armchair have long since lost their strength.
It's too late for sweet words and oh-so-fucking soft kisses -
too late for you to try to win this oh-so-dirty fight.
You thought you'd won -
I thought you'd won.
We both saw predator and prey and knew which we were,
and I was falling for your flights of fancy, succumbing
to your every sensual desire, seeing situations
where I was yours completely; I saw myself fading.
I was your possession, not even a person, a plaything.
My cunt was a cup from which you supped at will
and hid in a cupboard when you had visitors, ashamed.
You were not expecting my ascension. I spent so long
trying to please you here -
Atencao senhores passageirosAtenção senhores passageirosAtencao senhores passageiros4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
O avião sobe a subida sórdida
Paulos, Plínios e Pedros Paulo
Guinchos guiados pela guia gonorréica
Galhos troncudos e enraizados no ar
Papagaios discutindo sobre política
E sementes que brotam no escuro
Guitarras distorcidas pela usinagem
Fezes podres fedendo a fome
Água suja desencanada
Trombas e trombas de porretes no solo
Motores maléficos e malfeitores
Escravos com sotaque solto
E pedras quebrando nos olhos vermelhos
Suor escorrido e descida sem fim
Furo grosso e profundamente mal furado
Ao inferno chegaremos, senhores passageiros
Abaixe as guilhotinas antes que o fogo nos queime
Quando a alma cuspir a matéria
Abrace o papai chifrudo
Pai da terra, pai dos homens
Luciférica será tua consciência.
14 horas e 31 minutos de 1° de dezembro de 2011.
freezer space 226freezer space 22613 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Across my thigh today,
I scrawled a word.
In pink marker,
A four-letter word.
Early today was found,
An unidentified victim,
A brunette teenage female,
A suspected case of suicide.
No cause of death apparent,
No exit wounds or bullet holes,
No slash\'n\'dash or hit and run,
Requires further examination.
They pulled away her clothes,
And off white undergarments.
They opened up her stomach,
And examined what lay within.
They weighed and measured .
They drew blood and tested.
Trying to unravel the mysteries of,
Their brown haired green-eyed Jane Doe.
\"Victim Jane Doe 226,
Recent scars visible on,
Arms breasts and abdomen.
The stomach contains,
Large amounts of an alcohol,
And several undigested pills.
The bladder is ruptured,
Suggesting excessive drinking.
The liver was bleeding internally,
Most likely from the consumption,
Of too many assorted pharmaceuticals.
Most probable cause of death-
Suicide. By means of overdose...\"
A tired pathology technician ,
Bent down to take a close
Our AmericaOur America12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Raped on the hood of a car.
The only thing left is an unborn child.
She's walking to the clinic to the kill the memory.
10 advocates ruin the plan.
Not only killing her but the cause too.
Waiting in a smoky bar.
Will you get lucky tonight?
9 wrapped in your pocket
Bet you cant believe she's underage.
Standing on the street corner.
Patient for a trick.
Trying to make what you're doing okay.
8 year old son at home.
But you're getting paid.
Lying in the street.
Lay-offs got real bad.
Sleeping with your family under the 540 bridge.
7 lives lost in a budget cut.
Work is hard to find.
In jail for life on a false crime.
Admitted a murder you didn't commit.
The FBI convinced you that you did something wrong.
6 more fights in a prison cell.
The government are the heroes.
Bombing in a city street.
Blame it on the Muslims.
Have to find a scapegoat one way or another.
5 more sivilians dead.
Media lies about Islam once again.
Let us rejoice.
We handled everything.
But why are people sti
CENSOR THIS 08880CENSOR THIS 0888013 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I remember when I know why the cage bird sings
was challenged for the "encouragement to take action
in premarital sex, homosexuality, and the use of
I remember when the Bible was banned and/or
challenged for being "pornography and obscene"
in Alaska and Pennsylvania in 1993.
I remember when the The Autobiography of
Malcolm-X was challenged in Flordia in 1994--
because it was "racist against white people"
I remember when Jambo Means Hello: The Swahili
Alphabet was charged with "degrading white
children" although it was a book for white children to
understand the African-American culture much better.
I remember when Daddy's Roomate was removed
by most libraries by most of the United States---for
RealizationRealization13 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Radiant static drifts from the radioactive aura of the television.
Diminishing my pupils to pinholes of perception.
Bleeding the captions of the ten o'clock news with the dreams of death i see forthcoming.
Blah blah Blah...
Buy your American flags and your "Fuck Muslim" Bumper Stickers...
Layers of reality melt away as the hours count away like minutes.
Infomercials cloud the path of perception.
Breaking concentration into small fragments of space and time.
Spilling the contents of human comprehention all over the surrounding landscape.
Blood streaming through my veins relaying communication across the "Central Nervous System"</b>
Dial-up mindload disconnection.
Virus found // infected file ..... scaning...scaning....... Corrupt file found:: [Soul.dll] //
Reformat drive /H:/eart.
All feelings will be deleted Press cntl + Alt + $ .
Feelings wash away with the checkings of e-mails from unknown person[s].
Fiber-optic suicide televised for th
Wrong of MeIt's wrong of meWrong of Me4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
To want to be equal.
It's wrong of me
To not feel like a woman.
It's wrong of me
To not be sexually attracted to anyone.
It's wrong of me
To consider everyone for a spouse.
It's wrong of me
To not be Christian.
Because it's wrong of me
To think equality means
'Even though I'm not straight, I can secure a job'
To think Freedom of Religion means
'I dont have to be Christian'
To think that Separation of Church and State means
'No church can decide what is best for me'
Because it's wrong of me
To think being an American means 'I can be me'.
I pledge allegiance to the flag of the
United States of America
And to the republic for which it stands
One nation, under God, indivisible
With liberty and justice
Hispanos por la Paz IYa no me acuerdoHispanos por la Paz I8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
No recuerdo oír ya
a mi padre tocando la guitarra
afinando los acordes
con la familia amontonada
a su alrededor
esperando a la primera estrofa
y no queriendo terminar la canción.
Ya no recuerdo el olor
de las flores en el cabello de mi madre,
tampoco la he visto usar sus faldas
ni sus listones, ni sus arracadas;
ya se me olvidó el sabor
de aquel guiso con mucho picante
ni los juegos en el patio constantes.
Ya no recuerdo oír decir
a mis primos Pégale a la piñata
mi piñata se ha ido
mis listones rojos se han perdido
mis amigos han crecido
nuestras tradiciones, desvanecido,
como si nunca lo hubiésemos vivido.
No recuerdo la última vez
que bailé al ritmo del acordeón
que el piso se movía al ritmo del tacón
ni aquellos abrazos y risas,
ni mis trenzas largas
cayendo por mi espalda,
ni cuando a las escondidas yo jugaba.
Ni siquiera me acuerdo de
el deleitante sabor del pan de muerto
anarchyAnarchyanarchy9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
absence of government
denial of authority
of established order.
this minds definition
mind withheld by nothing,
in front, through the brain
and believe anything possible.
orderless, no law, no rule, only in the mind
anarchy of the soul.
HISPANOS POR LA PAZBandera blancaHISPANOS POR LA PAZ8 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
El hombre miró a la niña.
La habían encontrado en medio de un tiroteo. No sabían que hacía ahí.
Los superiores le ordenaron cuidarla mientras decidían qué hacer con ella; si era una espía del ejército enemigo tendrían que asesinarla.
Asesinarla. Un acto demasiado cruel para seres de una naturaleza despiadada. Era una macabra, sádica y horrible redundancia.
La niña yacía en medio de la habitación, sentada en la única silla que daba al lugar un aspecto civilizado. Aferraba con fuerza una muñeca de trapo, manchada de tantos colores que no se sabía cual era el original. Sus ojos oscuros mostraban inquietud, pero su actitud no lo demostraba.
Estaba descalza, vestida con harapos y completamente despeinada. No tendría más de 10 años.
El hombre sostenía el rifle, tembloroso.
Un soldado entró con paso firme, golpeando la puerta de la minúscula habitaci
I Want New ClichesI Want New ClichésI Want New Cliches6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I want to see clichés
I want to see the muscle-bound
on his knees holding his bloody lover
the home they've built burning in the background
as he swears revenge and screams at the sky
and I want that dying, handsome lover
to be muscle-bound as well
I want to see a father and son
crying on the checkerboard tablecloth
holding each other fiercely, trying not to try
to listen to what's beyond the white picket fence
where Mama took Old Fido and the shotgun
I want her to be the only one brave enough
I want to see the small-town, southern sheriff
fat, white, kind
hustle through the door, smelling welcome-home cookies
find happy children, not needing platitudes
or sad ones, too smart to believe them
I want him to give his almost-as-fat wife a kiss
that lingers too long for modesty, as his hands
gently brush the flour from her black skin
I want to see fictional families, for once,
like real ones