Category: Poetry (page 1 of 2)

Jurgen Shpërdhea

Photo by Chris Mok || @cr.mok on Unsplash

Better off Without Me

I feel like the world is better
off without me,
Like my very birth was a
complete tragedy.

I feel like I live in a maze,
from which I cannot
escape,
And if they open my brain,
all they will find is pain.

And pity is a liquor that my
stomach cannot handle,
While I’m throwing up from
drinking one glass of
attention.

So have no mercy on my
soul, but roll my casket
open.
And let my corpse just fall
on the dirt, for every word
I’ve spoken.

Please laugh until you can’t
because this fool is finally
gone.
Father, the world deserves
better, than your second
son.
Mother should have
aborted me while I was still
in her stomach,
The very thought that I
made it this long, just
makes me want to vomit.

And sound the trumpets my
only love for your misery is
gone.
The one man that kept you
as a slave, just sung his
final song.

So smile on darling let me
see that beautiful face from
the hell where now I’m in.
You deserve only Heaven
and light, and not my dark
side that only fights like a
grinch.

No tears to swallow, inside
I’m hallow,
And numb the rope
I’m watching.
The old stole beneath my
feet,
while I feel my throat is
choking.

In my final moments I think
of this,
Can’t call it legacy.
Because the great men are
saving the world, and are
not losers like me.

Take this letter, as my last
will, and while I’m dead,
don’t shout me.
It doesn’t matter if I lived,
now I’m going out by
myself proudly.

And let the people know, if I
had more time maybe I
would’ve amounted
something.
But life is short, just like this
rope, and I think the world
is better off without me.

A Cry for Help

I feel a cry for help
gathering in my throat,
We die a second time,
when we tell ourselves no.

I’m finally numb in my mind,
and I’m blind,
My tears fall like the rain
from the sky, I am chained
inside.

The human is a tool in the
hands of this money
machinery,
We get replaced like wool,
when we hit seniority.

Suppress the revolution,
And kill the attributions.
Climb on our necks,
And steal all the cash.

Become kings of the world,
The revolution can wait.
Father’s deceiving their
votes,
Inquisition in religion’s
name.

The infants body for
breakfast,
The blood of soul for lunch,
Immortal and not ancient,
I’m not a poet, but I’m
harsh.

Sad but true,
People working for a wage,
The revolution can wait,
Sell yourself for a spoon.

Slaves building cities,
Jewels for the richest,
Power is a toy for lords,
But it’s hell for the poor.

I’m not talking to Albanians
only,
But to people made of flesh
and bone.
I’m talking about these
murderers,
On top of every town.

Seven continents, five
oceans,
In the hands of a few
hundreds.
Our planet, Earth the
poorest,
In the hands of these
Nazis.

Rise oh man kind,
Rise oh European,
Grab stones oh Asian,
And March oh African

America come together,
Australia burn the weather,
Antarctica melt and rise the
water levels,
To send to hell these rulers.

These rapist gentlemen,
And whore ladies wearing
silk,
That spend all day in vain,
And take more each.

This world has two kinds of
people,
A killer and a victim.
It’s survival of the fittest,
A millennium without
eating.

The revolution awaits no
strength,
And this is not a call for
war.
It is a cry for help,
Cause our power they
stole.

Its a sobbing,
A fall on my knees
for good.
Its a begging, humbling,
To have mercy
for ourselves like we should.

Cause we’re suffering to
every extent,
And we still keep working
for them.
Then we participate in
massacres,
Like we hate our damn
selves.

We must make a
revolution,
In order for them to work
with us.
And to share in distribution,
Every bite for every mouth.

And I hope with all my
heart,
The whole world gets the
message I send.
Before my name getting old
to start, The cry for help to come to
an end.

About the Poet

Jurgen Shperdhea is a 24 year old poet who claims to be a revolutionary sent to Earth to leave a legacy for future generations that will once and for all change the old systems on which our lives are based.

Instagram: @thatsjurgen

Deborah Akubudike

Ninja

Books//Textbooks//Notebooks//Scrapbooks…
Confusion…
I’m at judo class….. the bell rings.
Pages littered everywhere, at me they stare.
I stare back as I swing my sword back and forth, ready for battle.
I cut them…
Yes, I cut them in bits with my sword like pumpkin leaves
with a butcher’s knife in preparation for melon soup.
I lick my lips as the aroma of blood stings my nostrils.
My eyeballs fall into the pot, I stir it arrogantly,
onion water make my eyes water, I hiss.
……a ninja in the kitchen.
With a back flip and a spin,
I thrust my sword into the abdomen of my textbook
as I watch its content crawl down into the pot
like maple syrup on an almond cake.

Death’s delicacy.

I am scribbling notes like a toddler,
tear my head open with the edge of my sword,
and pour in the delicacy down to my spine as it envelopes my cerebrum
it’s what I wished for though.
I stare blankly at my scribbled notes like a tasteless meal.
I had killed all the ingredients I knew, and turned the dead into a delicacy.

I spat. I spat out my eyeballs and realized I was fighting backwards.
The bell rang, judo class was over.

I’d still be a Ninja.

Let the Sleeping Dogs Lie

The whiskey eyes I drowned in, is where I died.
The feelings I masked so well resurrected, like a nightmare that felt so good;
that always kept me screaming your name till I couldn’t feel me.

There’s a shadow beside my bed and as I stare intently, passionately, I find myself
kissing pictures…. I’ve gone crazy.
And when I wipe the glass mirrors at work, I see you staring at my lips…. I look away.

This is just torture.

I take my hand so I can’t let go; I’m just craving champagne –
every red wine now looks like the blood you took from me.
And like a twig, you broke that connection.
That electricity that gave me life, you kissed it away.
Now I’m like a dead battery.

Walking dead.
With the memories that I fed on in my hand, I walk to the graveyard –
the place I found you, and I place the memories gently beside you.

It’s time to let the sleeping dogs lie.
So I let you lie – dead in my mind.

Quarantine

I’m isolated. Not thinking; not screaming…just lost in my own thoughts.

Am I a thorn amongst lilies? The “precious” thread I’ve held for so long
chokes me till I vanish.
A virus I caught while holding on; unto a thread I thought would save me…
…it just wanted a taste of my pain.
Leaving me isolated alongside other convicts.
For I’m imprisoned in space for the choice that I made. I’m hospitalized
and as I stare at the doctors, they shake their heads slowly and sadly,
whispering gently, “There’s no cure… I’m sorry”.
Their voices sound faint, or is it my thought that’s fading?
Was it wrong that I touched one infected with love but now
I’m completely insane?
Is it fair that I hungered for passion and now I’m fed with anxiety and
pain?

For the doctors have no cure, yet my thoughts remain impure; and I
use the thread I grasped so tightly, to hang myself till I’m free; till I’m
reassured…..till my pain is no more.

Is this me?
I know not really who is the next in line.
Who is willing to hold on to the thread…that thread – my dread.
Who is ready to be choked, till he can’t breathe, by love’s vines;
and be thrown down into hell’s busy quarantine.

I won’t consider it again……smirks.
T’is good to be finally free; t’is good to be me.
Sighs.

Untitled

Humid thoughts dripping down my skull, refurbish their way back to my mortal brain.
I question my tenaciousness.
I’m damp….
No!
I’m dripping wet from the sun’s thorns etching my heart –
my blood drips; or is it the winter
I so yearned for? I pulchrified my soul, yet I felt so grostesque.
I’ve been defiant these years; the winds were horrisonant.
I’m desperate…
No. I WAS desperate to show off my measly scars to phizogs
that turned their backs on me;
to eyes that refused to see;
to hearts that had no glee.
They say scars tell a story;
My scars had no one to portray its story to,
so I burned them long ago and buried them in lifeless heaps.
I’ve taught myself never to pule over temporal circumstances.
I had risen from the dust like a frail zombie twinging for revenge,
but I sought just one thing – murder.
I had masked myself as a serial killer, constantly killing emotions
that begged to tear me apart and I’ve been impeccable; I’ve been licentious. I’m not a robot that’s always getting damaged and requiring repair.
I’m an immortal trapped in a mortal cup.
Yes; I’m a slow driver, nevertheless a fast runner.
I’d kill 10 men within minutes and run without a backward glance.
Not running because I’m a coward, but running
because I’m really determined to be what I’m not – merciless.
Now I am just a voice like sunset, hiding in the darkness.
I bequeath my winter to summer,
I want no regrets but to illuminate my words.
To dig up my location, my address is 52 Poetry Road,
Writers Community, WWW;

a demigoddess.

Till then, my details remain “Untitled.”

Blackmail

The clock ticks once backwards.
An hour ago….
Yonder across the sea laid the terror of the morning.
“Knock, knock”, cried the “freight” in the box, its motion paved way to agony.
Boxes of humans were mailed to destinations where death was a guest,
sealed in white envelopes where the sons of Adam found no rest.
One man arises and an arrow of despair is shot
as it gorges out his soul and spits it on the dust.
We were postcards. Blamed for ignominy.
Output of treachery.
Brotherhood discarded us, mailed us for gold stones
and our worth was divided among the worthless in disguise of white suits.
Our name was sold and we bore the name of another without opposition.
It wasn’t adultery, it was rape.
Darkness in light’s clothing.
Ruffians in priests’ apparel.
They caused sinusoidal pain, the scar yet did remain.

The clock yet ticking.
A minute later…
There arose saviours from slaves,
fighters from the feeble, warriors from wimps.
Our pain began to heal, our blinded eyes began to see,
our sealed hearts gained insight and our broken hearts, foresight.
We carried the snowballs and threw them where the snow falls.
The clock keeps ticking, we keep healing,
our eyes yet seeing, our hearts yet believing.
We put forth abjugators to lead us, and invincible we became.
Vanquishers yet we are.

The Sacrifice

With my forehead swallowed by my hands
My vision is blurry because what I see,
No ordinary man understands
what goes on in front of me.

I drink my blood daily,
The dust is my meal.
My wife becomes Holy Mary,
because she knows a bit of what I feel.

I’ve exchanged my life for patriotism.
Even though my soul may not suffice.
There’s no turning back now, I’m locked in a prism.
My time and life is my mortal sacrifice.

Red Sea

He can not define life.
The thunder claps and turns misery to strife.
He beheld little men at the border.
His eyes spoke once, his lips twice, they did shudder.

He creates warriors for his ecstasy.
He showed them the waves where the demons dost flee.
They took a step back and smiled, they dared not hide.
They dug into his soul and deep down they knew, he lied.
He cared not; they dared not look in his eye,
Where wrath blew like a whirlwind and summer colours did fly.

“I can but tell thee to leave”, he roared to their ears.
“Thy wrath be with thee, thy power with us”, they said with no fear.
With unprecedented fury, he rushed to his prey.
And with a cane, they waved at him, his elements parted two ways.
They marched on his nakedness with a grin.
And watched his pride slide off like sin.

A Letter to the Dust

Dear Dust,

A story I would share, the story in my mind;
for the agony I cannot bear, is that I always find.
Read it out, read it well; I’m a voiceless song, a fireless hell:

T’was raining.
Pregnant grey clouds buried hatred in their bosom and clapped with delight.
For me was twice younger when my hands touched the cold master in fright.
My fingers were frail, my lips were supple;
my brown hair curled its tail as the shadow greased my bubble.
Now all I do is mewl, for I have lost my words;
the thorns in my heart etched my bones.

It is not raining anymore.
But, I still see those pregnant grey storm clouds hanging in my heart;
unmoving stones keeping my soul bowed.
Now I am just an erstwhile glitter,
patched up with beauty, grinning sadly.
A drop of water kisses my breast, I look up.
This time it is not the rain, it is my tears.
It pours down to the dust.
Please Dust, accept my tears with kindness. Thanks.


Yours sincerely,

A Broken Voice.

THOUGHTS

SHE: You walked home alone. Without strength, you fought. I landed in darkness, stone cold; hands tied with drought. I was cut from you, not left with much. Your explanation for such?

HER: My pupils dilated 5mm; I fainted. Hell’s my babysitter, t’is bitter. Lights were around me, I couldn’t see. I thought I was blind, then I figured twas my mind playing tricks on me. You drove me to a ditch, and when I thought I could stitch myself, you said, “no”. I took three pills thrice, that’s how far I could go. You committed a sin.

SHE: Blame yourself, for your sin be upon you. I told you, “you fought without strength” yet you couldn’t fight me. When the shadow falls in a ditch, it does not suffer. It’s the corpse that is pictured in newspapers. I repeat, “Blame yourself”. For you have limps, I have but a voice. I tell you, you do. We are but the puppet and its puppeteer.

HER: Wicked are you! You shall suffer….. no, I shall suffer. I shall forever regret thrice than you, for you shall surely escape.

SHE: You shall indeed suffer. Regret shall no more be your guest, but your roommate. For where you are, there he shall be also. I do not cry for me, I cry for you.

HER: I too. Let no man be like unto me, for there is no turning back.

The Sketch

Tears in paint boxes queued up at his feet; he’s faint as he held his ego like a pen with his teeth (his arms are weak), drawing lines on blank space in bleak tunnels. He begins with his face.

It was 12pm.

He took two buttons from his shirt and carved out his eyes because they were hollow, wallowing in mire, darkened with guilt; underneath, his nose is built like a bridge. Each line falls from his pen, he draws his arms without elbows. He is scared to stand so he crawls. He doesn’t shade because he is afraid of the dark; he lost his voice, so he’s dumb.

He sneezed out curved lines to form his abdomen – he called himself, “the wreck”. His only consolation were the straight lines of his legs, pointing to the dust and, his brave feet that kissed the earth – the only place he’ll find solace; the grave. He stared at his sketch like a starved wretch, he forgot to draw his lips because he had always forgotten what a smile looked like. He spat out a horizontal line blandly… that’s enough.

He sprang up to his feet to fold his neat truth, his pen splashed its ink on the eyes of his sketch, staining it red. He glared at it…… now it’s complete.

It’s 12am now.

He stood at the border of the river, dropping the sketch into the clear water with a shudder, as he watched the waves engulf his masterpiece – himself, it swam to the bottom of the river. He smiled and patted his chest; as the bubbles blew him a kiss, he whispered to himself with a still soft voice, “Rest in peace.”

12 O’Clock

When deep waters seem at peace,
my soul’s put to test.
When my eyes know no boundaries and
my fingers aren’t untied, my lips mutter in need –
a tasty meal is all it seeks.

12 o’clock
When my stomach rumbles like waters in large caverns desperate
for freedom.
My eyes becomes the butterfly seeking nectar,
sweetness dances in front of me.
It suddenly feels like death is calling, but deceit walks through
my nose like a passage to the pit where my patience builds.
I’m suddenly 5 years old in anatomy.

12 o’clock
The sun heats my eyes and I see darkness.
It is summer but everywhere seems cold and my body starts to freeze.
I run, like a gazelle, from hungry lions in my imaginations.
I jump into the ocean, it is afraid to swallow me.
I struggle to drown.

12 o’clock
I scream at the top of my lungs while
looking at the sky with utmost sincerity,
“If I perish, I perish!”

Scandal

Elegant beauty; princess becomes enslaved.
Her books – her wishes; the results – an irony.
She’s 16, with the curves of an 18 year old; her mind’s 25 already.
Her breasts are formed from the hypnotizing caresses from the ’50s.
A gentle knock, a charming smile, batting lashes –
and her books turn to the bed; and instead of silence, moaning –

two hearts beating, or more.
The agony of a student; the shame of a father.
She takes pills so an unfortunate human
isn’t brought into such an unfortunate world.

If human hands could make one’s skin glow,
then she’s an angel; the only bright light in hell.
Her tormentors – her conscience.
She tells herself, “there’s no turning back now”,
because she wants to tread the path many girls walk – the broad way,
and show her dad her grades with a smiling face;
a certificate from her incessant “hard work.”

Only she knows the secret, and the men who hold the key to her success.
She fights daily to balance and tidy herself in this outrageous scandal.

Little Guy

In filthiness you were my companion,
upon snowy hills and rainy clouds ’til
winter be gone. Spring kisses the snowflakes
goodbye – tis’ a good sign though. I walk through
mire but my feet does not taste nature’s meal;
as my eyes see what my toes cannot ’til
I find fresh pools where I drink with camels
and donkeys, for my journey is thus far.
Pitiful to think that this little guy
bears the pain of my feet: kisses I wish
to present to him, but a soul he lacks
and would not count my good deeds for pennies.
My shoulders slack but not as much as this
little guy as his head hits the dust with
the rage I carry. A little honour
should be bestowed on he who bears the yoke;
for if he costed nothing, his deeds may
have been more priceless if measured rightly.

My little guy bear thou a little longer,
I cherish thee more than a soul would hunger.

Miscalculated Actions

He is but a boy in adult clothing masked with a baby’s tears.
His grief are his memories, the actions that shattered him like a puzzle.
If his life were an algebra, he couldn’t find “x.”
Shackles in grey-stained paints dangle loosely on the creature
in vertical position, his body inclined 75° to the horizontal,
his mind filled with rage as the root of his burden
is the square of his problems.
In addition to his pain, his groin is dry as it loses its taste of liquor
that he so yearned for, from hotels’ heavenly gates, in his dim lit cage.
Now all he does is fantasize about love, peace, happiness.
And freedom.
He solved his life like a simultaneous equation –
eliminating his good friends and substituting his lungs for pleasure –
and ended up arriving at the wrong answer.
Subtracting his thoughts from his mind,
he is weak and like a wimp he staggers helplessly,
clutching the loose flesh swaying on his bones.
He blames his character, I blame his mind. It said, he did;
its words, his deeds.
He stares distastefully at his answer and realizes he used a wrong formula.
If only he solved it better, his life wouldn’t be incorrect.
Now he waits for the internal and external examiners to decide his fate.

Before Sunrise….

He has unseen visions coated in black and white, frozen in time.
He has colours in his eyes because the rainbow stains
his iris after his tears fall as rain.
It is storm in his heart that causes shipwrecks but his soul remains afloat.
His body drowns in sin;
He struggles at first, but then he lets its deceitful savoury overwhelm him,
and he says to himself, “Happy am I.”
He prepares for battle, but the war is within his mind.
He is, but a street dog, fighting for dirt because he can not see,
it is yet still dark.

Pride is a ghost rider.

It took him, yea took him thither.
Now he canst not go on his knees and tell the Unseen Master, “Have mercy.”

Guilt is not a slave, but a master.
He rides on the poor man’s conscience like a horse to battle
and makes him fight with himself.
He takes him to the middle of the Red Sea.
He drowns.
But, it is not the end.
When the sun rises upon him he shall, without doubt, be cleansed.
But, cleansing…is a choice. Freedom…is a decision.
To be saved…is a volition.

He chooses life, he lives.
He chooses death, he dies.
Foolishness is not a sin, but a curse.
And it is…but a choice.

About the Poet

Deborah Akubudike is a passionate poetess from Imo, Nigeria who prefers to write from other people’s points of view. Her aim is to create awareness, encourage, and enlighten.

Facebook: adpoet
Instagram: @ad_poet

Trevor D. Marshall

The Market

Oh blessed totality
Oh holiest economy
Seems our branding is in symmetry
Sailing on the diamondish sea
Of empty black tranquility

Those postcards in the newspaper are always divination.
Dead end show flyer in a paperless nation.
Investors scream and shout in the ovation
Wrecked out in an ocean of meaningless stations.

There’s no you and there’s no me.
Seems our brand is in symmetry
Lowest gaze to a modern astrology
Drawing down the drowning in and on empty.

Stable ground was we guess not ours to have
Stolen from under us while you gnaw and lash
and at our treading tired ankle and calve.

Oh blessed commodity
Oh holiest economy
our magic brand slow sunk
Right into
the ever owned land

Operatic Rapture

Is this could be going on
Or could it be not
Trapped in the earthquake
No breaking out
But I Doubt I’ll get caught

Wake up
Get fucked
Go Get
your gun
and pee

I got nothing, and get then done
Cause it’s like Kum and Go, 10w40, getting slow
Whatever happens is ok in gene-real
In general.

I committed it
a person at midnight
Knife crossed throat
Squirted till they (were) blood broke
I’ve just started but they’re always out to get me
On my way to work and to hand out the D
Oh well ‘cause you were never we
Didn’t mean to make you feel
This is all too real

Running while I wipe at sweat
Tried to take a pet when we first met
On the way to the pound hands holding a big net
Our main characters not dead yet
I’ll bet

Where’d ya go?
Ooooohhhhhhhhhhh
My I tested intent
May I pass the salt
While you waltz with Walt
Woooooaaahchooooooo

Sometimes I wish nothing upon myself
Woaaaggggatthhggrrrgggghlll

I make out shadows
They’re carpentering
But can they make a deck
“No we can’t”
Can you build this deck?
“No won’t”

Natural disasters befell onto me and
Disturbed my soul greatly

Astronomy dude! Help me!
This was never my intent!
Surely I’m not rude!

I’m a person
They’re just a person
Don’t kill ‘em

Oh well, I’m leaving
You may not
I think I may
You may not
I’d like to leave now

(A scuffle ensues)
I have another place I know!

Who thinks they can do all this stuff to me? Who thinks they can screw
like this on me?
I need escape always.

You now see
A complete
“Osophy”
Gotta go

Photo by Lily Farr on Unsplash

Titleist

wanna go to a Ritual
wanna get some residuals
Gimme gimme something physical
the cynical clinical pinnacle
Is oh so Cylindrical

Starting to stop policing
You’ve lost that coven feelin
Premium scoffers maybe let
Someone else lick the coffers

Arguing over a job offer

Photo by timJ on Unsplash

Sonnet

Allegory was in vogue at the time
Ghosting general gauntlet with blame
Computer alluded to morrow slime
We mount elusive for money and fame

Passivity possessed passion the most
Can we really control through attitude
Keep the trust in those who always spoke boast
The marches trawl to drudge apart mood

The advantage stood to the watchers view
Looks like the new wont fulfill my account
Seems as if the future just wont make do
Couldn’t stop the wanting endless amount

Blandness is causing listless aggression
Doubt anyone will learn any kind lesson

All of the toys in a row

Its a display she gazed into her own shop window
and thought all the toys are in a row 
They’re for a purpose, not just for show

Dead nap whispers off of fallen trails 
The objects and fetishes whimper clatter 
Its the tectonic plates acting as the servants of the earth on its scale

The lord has resigned and been reassigned.
We all ruses shout at the nurse. She elaborated all well and fine.  
There have been layoffs.
The crust is stretching. 

The entity had a skin disorder,  lava infection. Trees agreed and evaporated. Nature is itself and we as opaque
opulent ornaments saving ourselves for seance. 

The distance that held nothing besides the flowing forth and reflections of waves and particles and even that eventually goes. The camisole is tight on Bedelia, she struggles in the secure monitored room. 

The doctors treat her on television as a special series on the anatomy of the emotionally defective at a for profit wellness institute on a for profit vision station. The doctors have no dial on the sitch. The camera crew is remote. The editing as memory is fleeting. 

Bedelia now attempts defining the path to partake in as to prove her defects weren’t all that bad:

“Take one: Here and  there as you can see, these objects represent my sanity, all the soldiers in a row, with guns and knife and cannon in tow. All the globe they over run and risk a game that ain’t no fun. All the dolls so pretty, quiet on the window sill, they look blank and just sit still, The action men of toon and sport seemed to game and cavort”

One of the doctors sauntered in and sucked the oxygen from the room. Bedelia’s bedeviled face bedazzled out blank. The rows of dolls choir their song of not. The armies laying in wait, for a time of action that never came.

Night cheese you taste so good

to have the world in my mouth I would
Teeth gnawing melty savory sensation
Pleasure from knife, ain’t too sharp
The cuts soft pale clean slip with fuzzed friction  

Separation splitting splinter it

Sexual slick sarcasm post chasm flotsam
Sickened self from wasting labor 
Wasted on where, the points didn’t exchange worth effort well enough 
The effort was a learned family habit
combined with advanced forms of self harm 
The other efforts weren’t as pressing it seemed,
as they were unmonetized side gigs
Wrestling invisible non entities less than alone 
Muscles tear in promotion 
Extraction of spirit approaches 
Tight tongues no touch no 
Aglow standing alone in un-triumph 
Expressionless special features 
You will meet me at this time
You will meet me on this path because its the only one
Please have no meaningful conversations 
Please leave yourself somewhere else
Please cast your pre fab character in bronze 
Please do what we say 
I’m not asking I’m telling 
In case I am not being clear 
Distractions are provided occasionally here,
or this path is made of them,
never the less it has a familiar shape
Never say we didn’t do everything for you
Please speak in polite terms 
Please make ones self presentable for all
Your success is mine, your failure is you
Do not rub others the wrong way
while they’re caving your spirit in with a dull blunt object
Please leave all memories on the floor
Please leave negative emotions somewhere where they won’t pile up
Wipe after 
Stray thoughts and realities will be promptly executed 
A list of the forbidden negatives will be provided possibly never 
React positively now
Give us a smile, a real one please, ok yes that but more realer 
This is empowerment 
Please feel that feeling now
Please be sober when we say to in ways we imply
Sign this contract
We can terminate at any time 
Thank me 
I gave you so much 
Listen when I’m talking
You always have a choice
No interruptions
Are you listening 
Who are you as far as we go
We’d take you in parts
We love parts 
I’m helping you
We allow you to peer into peers windows here,
that’s the freedom of looking and second hand emotion having 
Please limit the answer to make it acceptable in this circumstance. 
Why did you leave them? 
What trope are you right now?
What stock character?
We only like some kinds you see, we don’t like other kinds.
The other kinds are rendered null or molded through violence.
Please we ask that you annunciate words in a manner of the times when making official verbal communicates on behalf of us, you have pasted the first hurdle by even being here, I assure you its an honor. We allow you to express the feeling of being proud now.
We find you acceptable as long as you act that way, we would say we wouldn’t care what’s going on in the old wrinkle computer, but studies have shown the unacceptable sometimes starts there and moves negativity through the body in shock waves and out through the actions 
Please limit your responses, we do this all the time and bore easily. We are now bored. You are not allowed to comment at this time. I’m avoiding looking at you as to not gauge your reaction about this.
Tell us of a time where you made someone not bored. Please fall within the previous guidelines. Make eye contact please. Don’t react to any of this, it may or may not be a test, we might let you know how you did. 
What causes you to fall into depressive episodes,
we need to keep an eye on this. 
How much do you value health? We don’t mean health in the traditional sense only in an appearance sense. Gaze manipulations are made easier when a healthy one is presented to most of the experiencers of us, but we care and as a matter of fact strongly enforce the love of self here. We like a self controlled individual, makes the management very much smoother. Some things are more palatable, some things are more fuckable, some things are more sellable to more others, some things are just more juicy, we need that. Some people just have it, and some people are it. You see we are in the business of you. Flow but if we put you in the freezer we expect that to stop. We expect our expectations to be met, people can and will outburst at you, but don’t you dare do it back. This is a positivity based company, this is a god based company, this is a dream based company, this is a land based company. You will need to provide your own food, personal protective equipment, attitude, tools, lodging, adornments, objects, community, companions, and character design. By being here your consent is implied. Previous points are fair game. This is not unreasonable. You might be by thinking that this is unreasonable and your outburst doesn’t reflect well on your personality assessment. People like predictability from you, please don’t ask the same from us, that’s impossible. 
You’re insane 
We’ve dissolved the contract 
Now go
You always have a choice

Fetid fanatical found objects

Crowd gargles unrecycled plastics
“I think I have to leave the party” 
Someone yelled quietly

The mass urged them to please reconsider 

Broke. Risky. Shifty.  

Scattered out. Never ever nifty 
Squinting is give headache.
This person shows signs of crumble

Ones snipe sight spots 
Some body twitch sometime
There are gods in the sky

They’re flying in floatation 
A light unnoticed spits in 
Concrete growls out scrawl  

The ground consistent shiftin
A bulky banshee vore victim 
Liquid sanctuary Atheneum 

Infiltrated penetrated traitors
C grade celeb deaths sure
Are some fleeting headlines cure

My family is a dream strangler 
If you do this bad things will happen 
Well bad things happened either ways 

Dressed up in formulaic formation 
Sell out Sally and the emotions police 

Are coming for us with religion of body peace
And a rather expensive pandering piece 

Keep your head up but at a specified angle stop
tryin to wrangle keep skin smooth and gussied up
Or you’ll get hauled off quickly and briskly shushed

Seems People only fret because of your use
Labor looms and longing for a new pair of shoes,
looming half destroyed outlook seems obtuse 

Set vapid control on negotiated negations, humanity mathematic station Contracts all implied, nationalist ethereal snide
feeling like there’s nothing left to hide

About the Author

Trevor Marshall is a resident of Queens, NY and resided mostly in the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul until now. They currently work at a retail job in Manhattan, and other things they did for money include but are not limited to: carrying wood to wood chipper, wiping off cars for the denizens of a suburb, librarian at a bed and breakfast, measuring men for rental clothing in a mall, and throwing shoes into bins in alphabetical order. They live with one dog. They on occasion write and live in a shroud of… something.