Culture/Society

Commodity of Soul

Wake up

Time to live

Time to blind yourself with daily costumes

Time to walk the plank of existence



Take the ride through the unearthed roadway paved with the souls of past times

As you arrive at your personal hellground, your time-card is stamped, and humanity is left at the door where hope lies decapitated



After that

You are you no longer

And worst yet

There's an audience leisurely observing your soul withering away with unsympathetic eyes

Or perhaps

Not even a look at all

Not even a single word of gratitude would mutter from their piggish, ill-passionate lips

Only to return to the Cycle of Indignity over and over again



...



You're hungry

But no time to feed



You're tired

But no time to rest



No time to laugh

NO TIME to live

NO TIME TO PRAY



For prayer is the assassin



And when the era of winter arrives

And if this torturous cycle never ends day after day

What happens if your reservoir is then drained of its contents

What if there's nothing to enjoy



Could it mean that your life's conclusion is becoming nothing but an empty husk sitting in a shadowed corner, twitching helplessly due to life's pointless hard labor



Only at the expense of

The Extortion of You

The Commodity of Soul

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I was inspired to write this one after my year's long labor at a supermarket. Sunflower Foods, ugh, I still shutter at the name...

View techpoet's Full Portfolio

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

Snow White choked on poisoned apples,

Hansel and Gretel were never found.

Cinderella lost her slipper,

And the Little Mermaid drowned.



Now,Heaven is just a six-letter word,

And God is just a dream,

But dreams mean nothing anymore,

And men are just machines.



But what ever happened to the Philosophers

And Poets

Who searched their souls for the meaning of life?

Or Wisemen and Prophets who tried to find

The answers written in the sky?



And what ever happened to the Hippies of the 60's

Who sang their songs of love and peace;

And raised their hands and chained them together,

To stand up for something that they believed?



But my oblivion has been shattered

Because I know I can never see this,

So I'll vie and die for a perfect world,

As the Sleeping Beauty awaits her kiss.  

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is my personal favorite.

View rosebudblooming's Full Portfolio

White VS.

I am white.

Clean and pure.

(though sometimes dusty from lack of use)

My mistakes and flaws

are promintently displayed

from a smooth skin canvas.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Thoughts on color....

View choirgrrl's Full Portfolio

Maybe

Folder: 
useless

Maybe this poetry is not me.

Maybe I can feel,

But I can't commit.

I can't pretend.

The waters run deep,

But I just get lost.

Swimming in my soul,

And finding a world that does not exist.

Where did I come up with this?

The "man upstairs" must have it in for me,

Nothing seems to fit.

Did you forget me?

Did my father put you up to this?

My happy memories

Are just acts in a play.

The critics, they say

That it's the best performance yet.

But I can't agree,

I just did what I could to get by.

Ode to my father,

My family, the lies,

The day I told him "I love you"

and he said it was so typical.

The time I gave myself up,

Over and over and over again.

The time I passed you by,

And you never even looked.

The fact that the ones that matter,

Never tell you the truth,

Until you are too far away to care.

And I am such a bother,

An intruder,

A piece of meat, that you just won't take.

Maybe it's just me.

Maybe it's all a lie,

And I'm just lying to myself.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Where is the anger?  Where is the hatred?  Where is the poetry that isn't afraid to speak?

View andshedied's Full Portfolio

The Deer Hunters Elegy

After a rain, after a branch soaked journey,

I sit near a clear cut watching silt filled

water lazily run off the open yard.

I stare at the torn floor,

my thinking fractured by the damage

and I imagine a small deer

watching from the trees in the distance

a lonely spikehorn

safely from me.

The ground is overchurned brown mixed with green, trampled

remains; beyond all repair.

Wind scrapes the earth with a shrill voice, tempest

over the desolate barren waste,

and I pull out my clip held bullets.



Inside, my heart stopped the hunt.

I think trying to get it straight, that once

there was shelter here to house and feed

kindred souls, gypsy hearts, while heaven's cool rains

would fully quench all yearning thirsts, and tenants

felt the moisture washing their blood.



It's because of this

that I sit here in this torture

with my thoughts clinging to life -

and feel disconsolate.

The commercialized death of this once existing growth

generates a dark and looming doom

that lurks near this pervading to destruction.

In my head, I see a squirming ghost of sheer complacency,

while bold free enterprisers with wheels and knives

drive onward through forests with persistence,

processing mechanical money beds.



But I sit here still alive,

no escape from the eyesore.

I try to imagine the confusion of the roar

the woodlands so dispersed, turning

into such ravished striplands as their space

shrinks, and their home, is lost.



But the truth remains unchanged.

The truth hides only as long as it takes to hurt

and the deer hides only as long

as the forest still stands

until his hiding places start turning

into man's cold spaces

into a final solutions

behind fences so ghastly unreal. Nowhere

left to run: species forced from their shelter -

and with this vision across this bare moonscape

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A very controversial subject. This is a true story created from actual observance of this rape!

View eltrue's Full Portfolio

Yes, Oblivion

Folder: 
2001

A dried leaf weaken by season breaks off from an

even weaker branch.

Wavering left to right in the intangible sky

as it descends to the far ground below on an

oddly humid autumn afternoon.



A grandfather, a veteran of a brutal world war and

a veteran of an even more treacherous battle with

stroke, dependency, and age. Savoring his few

precious moments while resting on his trusty plush

recliner as his last breath is stealthfully stolen

away, without struggle, as he gradually ascends

from his cramped favorite section of the room to his

long-awaited Avalon above.



John B. Smith irons, buttons, tucks his gray

dress shirt in his tailored pants with his brown

polished loafers. Issues x's and o's to his wife and

family of 3 and heads to work taking I-35 north.

His day is brimmed with quotas to meet, neckties to

straighten, and debts to file, then coming home

with dinner waiting and later climbs in his lumbar

supported bed for his long night's rest.

Cut, copy, and repeat loop.



So yes oblivion

I too welcome your unseen presence into my hollow structure

Just as how you have graced over my listed comrades.



The well of substance has run dry far too many times

and the drought of this loneliness has battered my

supposed pride long enough.



Because



There's no excuse for living in this state if you

never go anywhere worth while...

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just a collection of thoughts of everyday mundane life...

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