Tina Marie
2018-02-20 03:12 pm
As I looked into my mirror one day, I could see, that a sad little girl was looking at me. I said to this child where is your smile? Through tears she replied, "Can we talk for a while? Your mommy is dead. They took your daddy away. I don't know how you face your mirror everyday?" Besides the lump in my throat, I also felt, a tear trickled down as my heart begin to melt. Sweet Child you see, it is hard to explain, how people can hurt you and cause you such pain. but if you believe that God sent us Jesus his son, you can face everyday and you won't have to run. So smile little girl there is a whole new world of love and happiness and a brand new start, the moment you ask Jesus to come into your heart. Looking deeper yet, into my mirror I could see, that this sad little girl looked exactly like me.
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Gord
2017-12-27 10:00 am
Amateur poet, ultimate, Heroic, stoic, slowest, Everything rhymed about, Hopeful of inchoate. Chum of the lake, think, Who is the wake for? Dead men living pale, or those living, Mouth agape, ailing, Flailing their limbs, Scene akimbo, Fare unanswered, Meter fake. So they take what is mine, Question pondered, What is life plastered? Humanity mastered, Time honored, or is it a last laugh, before dying afterward? Poets lie yet find alms, Measured footsteps bald, Words lifelessly clever, Heart hard to hold palm; Old arms to old arms, Adages stolen loved upon; Bard holy, arch golden, To carve lonely, Barns beholden, Nothing nobel. Par normally, like poultry, To starve colts. Ark art, Swan gone, Dark garb, lark fawned, Opposite of his mind, He finds laughter, Chapter after chatter, Chancellor gone; He defines pattern, An afterthought.
Gord
2017-12-25 08:13 am
Amateur poet, ultimate, Heroic, stoic, slowest, Everything rhymed about, Hopeful of inchoate. Chum of the lake, think, Who is the wake for? Dead men living pale, or those living, Mouth agape, ailing, Flailing their limbs, Scene akimbo, Fare unanswered, Meter fake. So they take what is mine, Question pondered, What is life plastered? Humanity mastered, Time honored, or is it a last laugh, before dying afterward? Poets lie yet find alms, Measured footsteps bald, Words lifelessly clever, Heart hard to hold palm; Old arms to old arms, Adages stolen loved upon; Bard holy, arch golden, To carve lonely, Barns beholden, Nothing nobel. Par normally, like poultry, To starve colts, Farms wholesome.
The Sophist
2016-10-26 12:00 am
Waiting for a miracle to save us, And we have saviors, But they're controlled by secret agents, Waiting for a miracle to save them, And they have saviors, But they're controlled by secret agents. His father wrote his epitaph, I know. He captured the hearts of the young and the old. God given talent given highest awards. He was yesterday's child, So the day he got old... Like midnight's stars he disappeared. Fagments of influence rapidly spread, Directing the youth of the afteryears, But the man wasn't dead, I can prove it, 'cuz dead mean don't sweat.
Justan Mitchell
2016-05-05 12:00 am
Is There One? One shall arise from the midst of these, yes these, these little ones who have watched their parents hung, strung as ornaments on trees, yes these even, in 2016. Then their are those without future hopes due to broken homes, these that have been led my mainstreams, instead of being led to mend broken bones, these that say "keep you voice in tone". But I say fear no the word alone. For when through the spiritual you roam, the heart, mind, body and soul will fill gaping holes, allowing pens to flow freely into places that pencils can't go. But then there are these who pose, posing in a still stance engulfed with frowns of hatred because they just don't understand and so their actions scream, "HEAL THIS BROKEN LAND!!!" And this has become their native tongue, crying out for the guidance of the ONE! Please is there one? Look into the eyes of those that have died before the age of five, those that wear hearts of black and blue art, with mental repetitious records rapidly playing the age old song why,why,why? Why do we experience sacrifice before we experience life? Like Christ? Why such a cost for these before they learn t be at ease? Maybe, maybe the world is impregnated by crazy and is on the verge of raising yet another baby? Maybe, maybe the man in the mirror reflects hatred because he hates himself? Maybe, maybe he can't accept kindness because he's been denied the knowledge of his own true weath, the knowledge his own true self. And then there are these who are lost without cares dragging along the heaviest wear and tear, with the deadliest raging flare, but tarry not along the road of destruction, because destruction is in the eye of the beholder, but the beholder beholding many self inflicted wounds and self inflicted wounds can easily spell doom! And then there are these who are serving high stations that need fine replacements! These that have been exposed by their blood drenched tongue, that on self unknowingly and knowingly told. Yes we know these. But sometimes and even one times these can be we. And now I see many spirits lost in the overwhelming shadows of IT'S beaming light, spirits claiming underdeveloped knowing as the source of their plight, and so it hurts me to SEE, Yet even still one shall arise from the midst of these yes these, these little ones who have watched the parents hung strung as ornaments on trees, One such as me. Is there one? Dangerous Soul Life Justan "Potential" Mitchell
Gord
2015-03-31 12:00 am
Belief being atheistic, Aesthetics being belief; Invention of already dead, Death of the intervention. Intention lost, deemed release; Life of ironically bloody guise, Procession of the mighty parapets. Discussion of the high architect, Feminism of the mind, body high.
Gord
2015-02-18 12:00 am
Voice 6: Voice 5: Impart not, depart impassioned. Skirt not around the main subject, Constrict yourself within contract, Remain slack, what remains lacks. Often gold is only plated brass. Voice 6: Massive injuries cost my crawl, A future gone, Even barring expectation, I could bawl tragic. Should Atlas drop the ball, Just expecting God catch it? I want no tricks nor magic. Voice 4: There shall be no magic, silly tricks or dancing, Only men upon a battlefield. Some dead, some laughing. For if you could take a life, I could take a life. Only without procrastinating. I will bring a squire only, No men will hold you down, Assuming no-one eviscerates me, only father shall go to town, my final wish being a canary.
Gord
2015-01-30 12:00 am
Voice 2: If I tax not the husband, I laugh not upon the sun. I task not the daughter. I ask not of nonsense, but honor. To ask men of skill-set stoic, Who is the one to dance prophetic? They say skill-wise I circle cone, Shall I play so remarkably alone? When shall I finally wax poetic? Voice 3: Do not fret in worry, I fight a fool, truly. If we fight horseback steel, His men will have no drink, All ship that be shall sink, If they think upon the sea, I foresee not a shot upon me. I foresee not a shot upon my men. However, I foresee dead men of opposing color. A sea of red for a coward humble. Two dawns we march upon him, Squalid condition disregarded. An offer of an ultimatum: Convoluted death or instant slaughter.
Gord
2014-11-27 12:00 am
Yesterdays yes-men yearning, Yet the world still turning, Why is it that the wood burns? The will of the dead be turned. Then thus they thrive thinly.
The Sophist
2014-09-08 12:00 am
Oh, I'm tired of secrets, While I'm fighting off wolves, I'm tired of insomia, While sleeping in the woods. Oh, I'm afraid; That this whole world may be depraved, And the only thing I lived for stabbed me in a prank. My life, My Brother, And my old friend; Slowly insert the dagger again. The life that I saw 'fore me is dead; So slowly insert the dagger again. Forever I'll die and you'll stay a mess.
The Sophist
2014-09-05 12:00 am
Smoke-filled and yearning childhood friend, Slowly insert the dagger again, He's dead, Never in my eyes, Ever in my head, A snake transforms to rope, Burning at both ends.
Gord
2014-09-02 12:00 am
I transform retribution, I collide with an enemy, Destined for fusion, Corroding my memory, Crashing the computer, That is me. I open on pretense false, In hopes to gain my loss, Yet no fate goes uncrossed, No face goes on unmarked, No bullet grazes, They self aim and kill marks. In honesty, I hope for their retribution, Not believing what you do, I find no institution for truth, Investigations reveal soot. To conceal boots under sock. Truth should be implied, Secrets shouldn't even be whispered, When no secret knock is employed. Among Imperials, two faces clash, Destroying the child middle, Purpose born was to protect class. Among the tyrants, A sleeping dog, His brother opposite, A sleeping god, Purpose forlorn and meaning lost. Shoot the gun across, regardless, Trees grow from the river, Implying a garden should exist. Yet at the bottom I find no solace. No mythical beast of which to conquer, Nor mythical flower of to tame beasts. So no feast among mythical followers. Sewn feet no longer bother to move. Brooms no longer even bother to sweep. I see Cost front by the citizen, Expected which are also to clean. Past participle's partisan cuts so cleanly, No partisan is left opposite to thee. Clearly, No god laughs, Sincerely, No god falters, And no human shots cast, Except into human carnage. No gain for loss, No pyrrhic victory, Due course. No force of sympathy, homeopathy, anthropology, from the horse. No, mostly poor choices. Voices ringing with phones dead. No voices in his head, Scream morality. of course. No soldier gains a victory. sans cost. None recognize the courage, of Hailey's comet. So the gunfire blazes onward. Amongst the slain, are the slain. Those who shoot have bullets same. My Deschamps is but modified Spinoza, Which I modify to fit in holster, As exactly as I imagined her, Far above a reasonable caliber. For a man who lacks resources, For as a woman he lacked chorus, Pestilence amongst the formal courtships. How do we create such a melody? Such harmony of utter melancholy. How do we classify such insanity? Such discourtesy on our society. Such, bullets access and exit quickly. Thus is the mark of beasts. Thus a heart no longer beats. Almost lack of mention was lack of faith. Remembered and forgotten to become same. All lost the castles of old days, Only sandcastles remain standing, Reminder of temporary management, Of how well that pays. I depart to vent, Find myself post-traumatic, I start to mention, Find myself post-dramatic, I mark myself bent, Find myself post dragging. Hoping to move forward, Forgetting that lost in battle. I sigh, I realize that's not possible. I stand purportedly screaming peace, Screaming bullets purportedly corpse. I stand in face of uproarious force, Screaming should-haves, Scoring for would-have, Who now will manage. Tired, I cast aside, Casting stones seems now juvenile. Especially in a world this finite, Who needs to choir for killing time? Button press' jest as being less vile, Truth as masked chide, Who now will bandage?
Gord
2014-08-21 12:00 am
No gain for loss, No pyrrhic victory, Due course. No force of sympathy, homeopathy, anthropology, from the horse. No, mostly poor choices. Voices ringing with phones dead. No voices in his head, Scream morality. of course. No soldier gains a victory. sans cost. None recognize the courage, of Hailey's comet. So the gunfire blazes onward. Amongst the slain, are the slain. Those who shoot have bullets same. My Deschamps is but modified Spinoza, Which I modify to fit in holster, As exactly as I imagined her, Far above a reasonable caliber. For a man who lacks resources, For as a woman he lacked chorus, Pestilence amongst the formal courtships.
The Sophist
2014-07-24 12:00 am
If only I had money to make bets, I'd bet some lunatics have somehow met, To plan silent auctions for dead men, If I won I would buy Casey Kasem's head.
The Sophist
2014-07-03 12:00 am
Another victory means I'm undone, Wars are lost where battles won, I can no longer fight with spirits dead, The bards asleep, the songs are done. Pyrrhus produced a record for fun, Ruined industry in one fell swoop, Breaking critics' thumbs, Sounds of cyanide group hit number one. Perhaps best to join the opposition, For fear that death becomes my own position, My army met attrition, Attrition proved a worthy foe. But if they come, I must not go, For I doth know, sky hide not sun, Nor drums, moon, cloud or snow. I'll shine bright 'til my gallows strung, I saved the Kingdom; Now I'm scum.
The Sophist
2014-06-17 12:00 am
Youth dreamed a smiling father, Age and wisdom despise it, Youth aimed at trying faltered, Where misfortune is a muse, Poor ol' fortune is abused. Handed off and thrown away, Opulence burnt dead thrones, Meaning in our days are found, Amongst marginalia on headstones.
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