Scant scribbles writ on disused pages

Long lost memories of ages

Holding sadnesses and rages:

But who now understands them?

And who now reads or scans them?

They lie there, wasting, writing, dying,

Emptied of meaning, outside of time,

Filling a vestigial storehouse and lying

There cold and unfeeling and unfelt by life.

All through the Earth’s long building

Its empires and their rescindings

There have been lost arts living:

And who now searches for them?

Who now listens?  Who cares?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I was thinking along the same lines as Shelley's "Ozymandias" when I wrote this one... I tried to put my own spin on it so it wasn't a pointless redundant poem though.

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To A Phoenix

Arcadian bird that soars above us on its varicolored wings,

How does the world below look to your aquiline eyes?

Can you still see the people who live life that brightly sings

Amongst the many paupers whose lives overflow with sighs?

Does the world still hold its grandeur and distinct hue to you

When you see the blood red clouds of hate and bitter wrath?

Can you discern what makes the world hold the cruel course true

On through the troubles and no answers waiting on the path?

You fly but for a short time and burn fast into black cinders,

Hold forth and then are born again to see the world once more;

Are you still happy with your lot of flame and needless tinders

As all the world is further hurled along the trail of gore?

Were I but innocent as you I would find happiness

In soaring high above the world and not living within it;

I’d live my life without regrets at my deep loneliness

And be a happy bird whose life no sadnesses would permit.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I was thinking about a phoenix one day (yeah, it sounds pretty weird... probly cuz it is) and I ended up composing this thing :/

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Made By Our Own Hands

closet boxes 2002

Waking up to chaos

and falling into hell

walking through it everyday

we can no longer tell.

Dancing on the very edge

and facing all the flames

justifying homicide

then passing all the blame.

Bitching at the righteous

and casting bloody stones

stopping in our glory

of the God we have dethroned.

Screwing up our chances

at any small salvation

finding made by our own hands

our own type of damnation.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I don't know where this came from

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Financial Politics


The writing's on the wall, but no one wants to see it;

Shouts are coming from the rooftops, but no one wants to hear them.

There's already a No.1, but everyone wants to be it;

The No.1's are millionaires, so everyone wants to be near them.

Everyone wants to be a millionaire, to have wealth and power;

Everyone wants the power to live above and outside the law,

But no one can have that on $5.15 an hour,

Save those who are in the courtroom or playing football.

People say that we live in a democratic society,

One where the people choose the leaders and laws that govern them;

Critcs say we live in a bureaucratic society,

One where the chosen leaders steal from those who have chosen them;

Politicians say they come from a secret society,

One where its members are above the laws, and make their own;

But financiers say we all live in a capitalist society,

One where money is all it takes to make someone else's life your own.

Power-hungry people are consumed by political aspirations,

But not many of them are truly worthy to lead;

Money-hungry people are consumed by financial liberations,

But most of them are not immune to greed.

Everyone wants something, that much is always true;

It's those that want everything that need to be worried about.

But what it all comes down to really is is how it affects YOU,

And that's all that really matters without a shadow of a doubt...

Patrick Hopkins

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This poem was written as an intelligent interpretation of our present political and financial climate. In the wake of various financial and political turmoil across the nation, I find it to be quite accurate.

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I used to think

Was a code word

For socialism

Where hard workers

And loafers

Are treated alike

A European concept

Hard to swallow

For red-blooded

American capitalists

Like myself

But now I know

What it really means

Joining hands against

A common foe

A chance to call

A perfect stranger

My brother

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Subliminal Messages

Oh fox news!




What are you doing to me?

I can see, oh I can see

The subliminal messages you send through my TV

Fill me with hate and make me angry

I must kill all that stand against me!

I must kill all those bastards for the sake of my country!

I must protect the US, sweet home of the free!

Oh you can count on me dear country!

At any cost i sha'll protect thee!

Sign me up, suit me up, i'm joining the US military!

All thanks to those subliminal messages on my TV!

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Just an Expression

Just an expression, not meant for words,

Too vague for interpretation,

No message lying beneath,

A step out of place,

A voice overheard,

A glance in a misplaced direction,

An unusual gesture,

A laugh aimed solely at my own misdoing…

Our minds fall prey to our own selfish sense:

We all must turn when a voice is raised,

When a door is slammed,

An odd phrase suggested,

We all must feel we are part of…

In on the whole thing,

As if we had been there all along,

And had some emotional attachment to the situation…

“The whisper of a couple passing,

They surely speak of us

My god, we’re glass- they surely know all of my faults,

A person like one of us…so absurd as to gain everyone’s attention,

To become the sole topic of conversation…”

We’re too preoccupied with our petty problems, insecurities.

What was just an expression, has taken my mind hostage.

And spent the day dislodging common sense.

For the sake of our own selfishness.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This grew out of lots of different events's pretty self-explanatory.

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Old Eyes

Children are the only ones who know the truth

Wisdom is in youth

Adults just don’t realize

Through their old eyes

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What Could It Be?

As I sit here and stare into the darkness of life,

I wonder what it is that bothers me.

Could it be the greed and hate of all the others,

or could it be the confusion and pain that I feel?

As I sit here and stare into the darkness of life,

I wonder what it is that bothers me.

Could it be you that is making me feel this way,

or could it just be me and my imagination?

As I sit here and stare into the darkness of life,

I wonder what it is that bothers me.

Could it be the fact that things will always be the same,

Or could be the fact that we as a whole are afraid of


As I sit here and stare into the darkness of life,

I wonder what it is that bothers me.

Could it be that people will never understand me,

or could it be that I will never understand people?

As I sit here and stare into the darkness of life,

I wonder what it is that bothers me.

Could be that I can’t figure out what it is,

or could be that you will never be able to tell me?

As I sit here and stare into the darkness of life,

I wonder what it is that bothers me.

Michael C. Lucas

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