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  • Avikshit Pratap (2/26/2014 5:42:00 PM) Post reply

    “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a keyboard and bleed.”
    - Ernest Hemingway (edited)


    The Honest hypocrite & the Bag with All the Food


    There is a strange calmness in the dark,
    I don't feel peace.
    I feel nothing.
    Groping for a path in this eerie nothingness,
    I reach out,
    Tumble all over and rise again.
    Actually, I was just staying still,
    I said it all to appear a stronger person.


    Ahead there is light,
    I don’t want to go there.
    I have become accustomed of the dark,
    Doing nothing, just staying still,
    Like dead bodies, less dead.
    Life is very taxing,
    You have to walk around to get somewhere,
    And, I was a careless person,
    I couldn't walk a yard without falling.
    So, I have a lot of cuts and stitches on me.
    Did you know, I have fought a lion and came out alive?


    In oblivion, there is serenity.
    That and the fact that I am a lazy person,
    Keep me in the cave.
    “But, you can’t spend your life in a cave?”
    The rational-me argues.
    “Well cave is a part of this earth with free oxygen,
    And I have got a bag with all the food.”
    That’s how you convince rationales.
    You say intelligent stuff that mustn't make sense.
    The rational me now wants a slice of pizza. (Huh)

    The only inconvenience I have is that,
    I can’t read “The fountainhead”
    (I really love this book,
    but I haven’t read it till now.)
    So, now I want light to read the book.
    No, I don’t want light around me,
    But I want light to read.
    I may have fought a lion,
    But, I am afraid of the bats,
    Are there any?
    Yes, even we hypocrites are afraid.


    There are no bats, but a group of fireflies.
    Fire flies?
    I remember being called one,
    and calling someone.
    Memories of home compel me to go out.
    “Atta boy. It’s tranquil here.”
    The rational-me tries to convince.
    The rational me really likes pizza.
    “You won’t have to give an exam,
    you won’t have to worry about ambitions,
    No society, no responsibility, no work.
    Here it will be me and you,
    Just two honest hypocrites.
    Outside there is a world of them,
    And they are not even honest.”
    I think accusing people of hypocrisy is hypocrisy itself.
    Ah well.
    The argument sticks with me.
    In fact, I’m just too lazy to move.


    But, arguments can’t stop memories,
    I remember faces midst the dark,
    I remember my promise,
    Of becoming a comet for everyone I love,
    Just to make them smile when it’s dark,
    Maybe that was just me being pretentious.
    But, isn't a promise a promise?
    The wounds which I show off like tattoos,
    Promise to bleed if I move out,
    Because, they are wounds,
    and, everybody loves the possibility of not having to move again.

    But, I seem to have overestimated my hypocrisy.
    I don’t know how,
    But that seems to be the case.


    People who aren't even there,
    Push me to move out.
    Their smiles are the master,
    And I am the genie,
    I have got no choice but to say,
    “Your wish is my command.”
    My personal big bag of ambitions,
    is also screaming at me,
    Inside of it, are my passions and dreams.
    They say “We hate being the calling of a hypocrite,
    But in the end, we are your calling.
    And, If we don’t get real,
    We will be fine.
    You, on the other hand...


    So, in the end, despite not liking it,
    I have to move out.
    I have got calls to answer,
    I have got wishes to fulfill,
    I have got to go back in the murky world,
    And work till I sweat, even if I’m lazy.
    Love sure makes you do terrible things.
    People make you go through terrible times.
    Mark my words; they’ll make you try when you want to give up.

    The wounds, true to their promise,
    Start to bleed,
    But I smile when I bleed
    and, I feel stronger,
    despite my wounds or maybe because of them.
    Or may be, I am just pretending to be stronger,
    But it feels the same.

    The wounds are happy for me,
    and they bleed even harder.
    Because sadly, that’s the only thing wounds can do.

  • Isaac Banda (2/24/2014 1:40:00 AM) Post reply

    Uncompleted Chemistry

    It was real here
    Of that am triple sure
    It’s still in me
    Vindicated with a warm heart
    Maybe it’s wearproof

    I wonder if it was the same on the other side
    Was it real too
    Or it was just to make me feel good
    Was it love or just lies, or even worse, lust
    Was there real chemistry between us

    Currently, its love in motion
    Pending romance
    It will never get finished
    I won’t be able 2 sing it
    Like the unsung song
    Its uncompleted chemistry

    By Isaac Banda

  • John Roth (2/23/2014 6:59:00 PM) Post reply

    Shaken to the core

    Just now, up there, along the ridge
    where the sylvan way is worn.
    I wrestled with a stranger.
    You can see my clothes are torn.

    He did not let me pass nor
    to my mannered bow accede.
    We wrestled for my very life,
    this other man and me.

    Exhausted in the physical
    we stood apart awhile.
    Tell me who you are, I said.
    He only looked to me and smiled.

    Alone again I found myself.
    my pain was not for naught,
    for in my head I heard this said
    “Today with God you fought.”

  • Okeme James Jerome (2/22/2014 11:29:00 AM) Post reply

    Poem: RESPONSIBILITY
    WHO IS RESPONSIBLE?

    The dishes piled up unwashed,
    Kitchen floor messy,
    Napkins stinky
    And cobwebs decorating the ceiling.
    Who is responsible?

    Taps left running
    Water racing to the soakaway
    Bath tub soapy and slippery.
    The mirrors displaying blur images
    Not leaving out the stained sink with paste.
    Who is responsible?

    Beds have become boutiques
    Pillows turned foot stools
    Dirty clothes pleading for the
    Coming of the laundry man.
    Rodents dwell in the caves people call shoes.
    Who is responsible?

    Nowhere to sit in the sitting room
    The chairs are asleep
    The couch dusty,
    Rugs and carpets sandy
    Flowers and grasses gone wild
    Who is responsible?

    Not me! No! Not me!
    Everyone cry, not me!
    Then who?
    “It is not my duty to do that”
    Some will lament
    So, who is responsible?

    “I’ve got no time for such obligations”
    Others will say
    Let no one wait for anyone
    Because everyone is responsible.

    © Okeme Jerome

  • Lyndsay Thomas (2/19/2014 11:36:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    The Small Things in Life


    It's the little things in life that matter the most
    Those things stay with your heart very close

    It can brighten a frown to a smile
    And make someone's day worth whiled

    It doesn't matter if you're receiving or giving 
    It makes your life worth a living

    These small acts of kindness keeps the world go round
    Gods in the sky and were all on the ground

    He can't do it all 
    So we need to step up, even if it's something small

    So the next time you see a chance to help out
    Don't forget, this is what life is all about

    Helping each other find the way
    In this life we live every day 

    It can be hard 
    But we all need a good card

    So when our days are slowly coming to a stop
    We can make it to that mountaintop

    Replies for this message:
    • Cleveland Gibson (2/20/2014 2:55:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      I think your poem has plenty of ideas and good content. So applause there. Where it mght improve, in my opinion, is in the words you've used to rhyme. A lot of them don't quite make it. Decide how lon ... more

  • Byju V (2/15/2014 9:55:00 PM) Post reply

    Safe for now….
    The writer finished the book;
    Now comes the hard part;
    First the scrutiny by the experts –
    the priest, the bishop and the mulla.
    Then the special reading before
    the CPB (committee for prevention of blasphemy) .
    Before going to the ultimate test by
    the CPO (committee for prevention of obscenity) .
    After that would be submission before local magistrate,
    To be certified that it would not hurt
    anyone’s sentiments.
    She was fortunate.
    Her publisher would handle all that for her, but
    the hard part was signing of the agreement
    obliging her to withdraw and the pulp the book,
    the work of a lifetime,
    if anyone at any time complained of
    wounded religious sentiment.
    Just thinking of it made her sweat.
    With a start, she opened her eyes,
    Realizing with relief;
    All of it was just a dream!
    At least for now….

  • A Michaelle Yarbrough (2/13/2014 9:21:00 PM) Post reply

    A Level Of Misconception

    Does a man turn away from right and good
    Brought to the fact of humility not being able to provide
    Children crying day and night denied everyday necessities
    A lack of pride in being a man among men
    Perceived lazy by a society that never has been hungry

    Does man lack character, ethics, and moral stability
    On dark cold chilling nights with no shelter or stillness
    Caught up in a fight for mere wake in the morning survival
    Things never perceived when childhood dreams were dreamed

    When does enough become enough for you and I
    How many go postal events or deaths in the streets
    For the norm not to be normal in the sight of us all
    Suffered long enough to bring suffering to an end
    The level of misconception considered deeply

  • Daniel Donohue (2/13/2014 9:19:00 AM) Post reply

    River Dance

    We find ourselves in tubes
    Hallways, roads, walkways
    Rivers, flowing into tributaries
    Classrooms, workplaces, homes (with more hallways still)

    We move until we are found by stillness
    An inlet, where motion becomes just another option
    Then, motivated by the unseen
    We detach

    Releasing the firm grasp of safety we float down stream
    Lead by the infallible power of the current
    Held tightly, we waltz
    To the music of our choosing

    We flow to the river’s mouth
    Daniel Donohue

  • No One (2/11/2014 2:17:00 AM) Post reply

    Sunken eyes, inlaid in black:
    A tired guise is drawn.
    He sits there waiting for the crack
    of inevitable dawn.

    Destitution?
    Death?
    Destruction is done.
    He's wished himself
    a thousand times
    to leave what he's become

    His youth it felt so long ago
    despite his lack of years
    memories that should've faded slow,
    washed dull by all the tears

    Can he pretend it matters?
    one more time?
    He knows that since
    he's lost all hope
    the punishment
    fits the crime

  • Terrance Tracy (2/10/2014 12:05:00 AM) Post reply

    THE ROOSTERS CROWS

    Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string.
    Accept the place the divine providence has found for you, the society
    of your contemporaries, the connection of events. Great men have
    always done so, and confided themselves childlike to the genius
    of their age, betraying their perception that the absolute trustworthy
    was seated at their heart, working through their hands, predominating
    in all their being. And we are now men, and must accept in the highest
    mind the same transcendent destiny; and not minors and invalids
    in a protected corner, not cowards fleeing before a revolution,
    but guides, redeemers and benefactors, obeying the Almighty effort
    and advancing on Chaos and the Dark.
    Ralph Waldo Emerson. Essay on Self-Reliance;

    Early one morning I heard the crowing of a young rooster announcing
    his vibrato for all to hear. It mattered not that there were no hens
    in sight, the redundancy of his crow was to let everyone know that he
    had arrived to claim this was his territory, but was it of no avail, for his crow
    was flatulence for all to hear because there were no chickens in the yard
    to appreciate his pompous boast.

    O that men would have the faith to not give in, but to accept that his
    divine destiny does not belong to him. For he feeds from the trough
    of divine providence as the plate from which he must agree.
    The dish of divine providence is not easy for men to digest.
    It is full of twists and turns that are aimed to distract with illusions
    of self-importance and pompous greed. But to the man who stays his course
    and does not look back is a man who will succeed for his masters rejoice.

    The decades take their toll of hearing, seeing, and the ability to perform
    a simple task. Do we give in to these afflictions or do we keep going
    with the conviction that the divine providence has been served because
    we have faith that can move mountains regardless of the situation.

    Like the rooster we seek our highest elevation and cry out for salvation
    no matter if we not see nor hear, there is one who cares that no man shall perish
    we are given a choice; to run like cowards or persevere in circumstance
    and stay the course.
    Terrance Tracy

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