Money is One Heck of a Stimulant

Your deceit has polluted the rivers near your villages.

The very rivers that its people rely on for drinking water.

A sip of that poison ignites a plague that turns friends into foes and kin into fugitives.

But where is the antidote? Why do your people continue to fall ill?

It is locked away along with the fortune you made from the production of your deceit.

Money is one heck of a stimulant.


I’ve been away for a long time to know why I’ve been wrong before.

I had beat a dead horse and gave CPR to two that had cancer.

I should have known that it was not worth it if the doctors were not going to help treat it.

I was an ignoramus. They have all the knowledge that the world had to offer.

So why not share it with the ambitious and give new life to these once noble steeds?

Money is one heck of a stimulant.


I long reminisced about a time when the doors were open to tons of villagers with potential.

It was a world that I wanted to be a part of since I was a guppy not yet exposed to mathematics.

A potato infected by a blight and stabbed me warned me that the chief doctors were monsters.

A poor surgeon who tried repeatedly to receive a raise vanished, was slandered, and never seen again.

A coordinator found a shady message in her contract that forbade arbitration and fled to another kingdom.

And I recently heard that the one coquettish nurse was expelled over scrutiny from her personal life.

Why, Dr. Kim? Why do you egg your personnel to choose sides when there are lives that need rescuing?

Can’t we all get along and lay down our weapons? It’s easier to negotiate than to wage war, but no.

Money is one heck of a stimulant.


People lose their minds when they fall in love. It’s not just me. It’s a fact of life.

I lost mine to a mongrel who shut me out after a few months and lied directly to my face.

A good friend that I had regretfully wronged had given the doctors the deceit that tainted the rivers.

A clever herbalist that craves drama knows how to brew tainted water to make it appear crystal clear.

Not everyone knows that making up stories to sweep malpractice under the rug is a gold mine.

Money is one heck of a stimulant.


The coachman that brought me to this place can call me a whiny little boy if his mood fits.

Just like the kid who offered sage advice to the chief doctors on how to break down barriers.

But that judges the coachman's character more than mine.

It’s an fyi that looks terrible just because he’s wearing it.

But hey, why bother listening to advice that’s more expensive than one’s pride?

The doctors’ salaries are too low for them to spare a dime to make that change.

That’s why there’s never room for improvement nor for sharing in their greedy hearts.

Money is one heck of a stimulant.


I am terribly sorry that your folks never taught you that what goes around comes around.

That your hidden crimes will come back to bite you when you too become penniless.

When you one day get a taste of your own poison when you drink the river you tainted.

What does your life have in store for you afterwards? Can you sleep at night again?

Will people still care when the doctors go their separate ways? What about the pollution in the river?

I will not return to the filth you created to clean it because in the end, the deceit would be even worse.

To change your practice for the better was my greatest wish until I found out how unethical you are.

Now it is to build a fortune of my own so the artist that my heart beats for can have a bite to eat.

That is the change that you will never see because you are too comfortable smoking the dough you baked.

Money is one heck of a stimulant.



It gets a little tiring

fighting back, fighting back

And you say the world owes you

there’s nothing that you lack

but this rhyme that reaches

through a sinking soul

is so far from your fingers

it’s in a whole other world


It gets a little lonely

up here staring into space

You’re too busy pretending

to ever show me your face

and you waltz down the aisle

your body tipped with gold

while I sit here and remember

dread December’s biting cold


But no, really, I love

I love winter’s every day

I’ll follow it into next year’s dawn

just to chase the pain away

because anything’s better than

watching your sparkling hands

and your ethereal beauty

pretend to be someone you’re not.


A rhyme, a rhyme, I wrote it

just for you, just for you

But when I speak in halfway rhymes

sometimes the story falls apart too

So instead of chasing daydreams

and singing everything’s all right

I’ll fall with you on hands and knees

down the same cliff every night


And I’ll tell it like it is,

life’s a tough and broken game

and when we speak about it

like it’s the glory and the fame

no one knows we’re pretending

except me, you, and the breeze

So it’s better we pretend

that famous is all we need to be.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 4/14/16

View tallsquirrelgirl's Full Portfolio

The writer that had nothing to write about.

The writer that had nothing to write about.



There is this guy who calls himself a writer. He had never write about anything specifically. He usually took his pen and wrote, wrote, wrote. He wrote sentences or paragraph, on the bad times he would just write nonsense words.


Once he came by to a newspaper editor to request a job as a reporter and he was accepted, not because this was a good writer but because it was a not good newspaper.  He was there no for money, no for fame, just because he liked “writing” as he called it.


He wrote senseless pieces, as the report on a seagull crash, or the note on some poker player at a bar. Papers were printed once a week, and week after week he looked for the column he had been writing. He read it; he read it again, and again. Once he told a friend about his job but in special the reading part of his note. His work was writing, not reading.


If he was asked why he liked more reading than writing he answer that because as much as he read more he learned about himself. While he was fine with that nobody bothered him.


As the time went, the writer was a happy reader of himself. Maybe some other person that maybe used to buy all the newspaper on town and read them had maybe come to read his columns. But if he had readers or not he continued to write.


He once told his friend that writing is not to reading, as if they had some kind of proportion. Writing is to make things happen, he continued telling his friend, and reading is to learn what happened.


He never kept the paper, he would just read and dump it. He had no money, barely a bed, a piece of bread in his pocket. But he was a writer that was important enough to him.


The writer wrote about all he could, all he could imagine to happen. That was his magic and charm. He was crating a whole different view of things. The editor was happy to read his note, the light notes as he called them. Maybe is not worth telling that the newspaper was more like a scandal sheet.


There were other writers, real ones, writers that got a lot of money, had sport cars, went to Cancun for vacation and a lot of fancy things, he admired them but did not dare to be like them. He was happy with his situation.


The mystery about this man was how he made his living. As he said, by writing he made things happen. So in some incredible way he was able to live with that. He was a powerful writing magician.


I do not mean that he was an actual magician or that he workout magic, no way. But certain things did happen because he wrote about them.


Apparently a wealthy man read a news in which the writer was proposing an investment in some special bank account. The investor got 15% in profits out of that investment. The wealthy man was so happy to he decided to give the writer part of the money.


Another time he wrote a senseless article about ten reason why to buy a 1983 thunderbird, someone read it and buy the car. The seller asked the buyer who told him about the car, he told him he was convince by an article in the newspaper. The seller went to the writers office an offered him part of the revenue.


This was his way of leaving until newspaper was sold and the new owner just did not accept him. He told the writer that it was about time for him to go along to write somewhere else. So there he was, sitting next to me, pen on hand and thinking what to write about. He did not have something to write about.



 This story was written by Juan Pablo Estrada




View jpestrada's Full Portfolio


Fame is like an addiction,

It’s ever there like a stubborn apparition,

Once it becomes a part of your name,

You turn into a slave of fame.


Like a drug fame is,

The hunger of which does never cease,

Personal life dies soon,

Once you turn out to be a celebrity, an icon.


Nothing can be as great as becoming a part of history,

A dream most cherished, is touched by some eventually.

View kingofwords's Full Portfolio

Marilyn Monroe

People will always call you the blonde bombshell
with cherry red lips that smiled with so much passion
those pretty blue eyes still capture the hearts of so many
 the way you walked and moved will always be in fashion

Your  journey was filled with both happiness and tears
but the sunny memories of you outshine the sorrow
you left us with a legend that will always shine bright
just wish life could of gave you one more tomorrow
John Gabriel ©

View johngabriel's Full Portfolio


Emerging from the depths of darkness,
lurks a being, so cold and heartless.
It's vision is gone, for many years lost.
Other senses are strong, well worth the cost.

It preys upon weakness and tracks down the small.
It plays with uniqueness, attacking us all.
The movement is silent, not even a sound,
A definite improvement, for a tyrant renowned.

It deals, it feels, with selfish ideals.
It steals and reveals it likes you for its meals.
Don't write or recite or attempt to excite,
The height and the might of the parasite.

Seek not to maim, blame, or even defame.
For the same frame gave the monster its name.

When caught in the light you see its enormity
Afterthought, you're right, its name is conformity.

View tumpeace's Full Portfolio

A Cruel Reality

a cruel reality - money fame & lust
They claim to be victims in a system of society,
young men raised to have women in variety,
cash makes you dope
and fame gives you power,
this is the good life
we make it rain like a shower
Tantalized by roundness,
with infuriating competition,
distilled by failure,
and fulfilled by culminations
but enthralled by illuminations,
figures of a seductive silhouette
but can't see it's the body of Satan
derailing the minds complexity,
but enthralled by her tongue, Latin
strange woman,
she hangs on em
and preys on em,
with a kiss
she kills Adams' descendants
so they develop vixen disconnect,
and establish cash flow,
becoming constituted to their dinaros
as Esteem becomes routine,
confiscating under table hooks,
while praising adulterous tendencies
and accommodating diablo looks
Until your face becomes a painting in Picaso's book, disfigured
a snare straight through your liver
dysfunctions force reflection, go figure
the cruel reality,
lust made'em suspect
emerging like a rose from the concrete, Shakur,
and now scientology invested, for respect
took more shots than the wild wild west
they told her,
her only assets where her legs and her chest
so at night she couldn't rest unless a man was in the nest,
One day it finally led to an arrest
the cruel reality
the money fame & lust became dust, twin towers

By David Johnson & Jeremy Baker

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Jeremy and I play a game called word play and this is what we came up with. He does a line, then I do a line and we keep going till we feel we're done. Enjoy!

View dmjmotivation's Full Portfolio

My personal insanity

Insanity from pain,
Yeah, I know im so vain.
Its only for the fame.
If its not then its lame.
Not using my brain.
My life will never be the same

Author's Notes/Comments: 

listening to lady gaga

View briibeerainbowkid's Full Portfolio


Misc Poems

I am he as
you are he as
you are me and
we are all together.
I float along the river of green,
Pink and purple haze swirling above my head.

No cares. No worries.
Perfect. Beautiful. Charming. Famous.

Reality brings me back.
Gravity pulls me down.
Make-up picks me back up
And I’m up high again.

I put on my face and head out the door,
Blinded; attacked by the bright lights.

No one cares. No one worries.

No one suspects the girl with kaleidoscope eyes.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

From the perspective of a celebrity whose life was ruined by fame.
Once again, the spacing got all broke'd. Much more affective in its original form.

And yes, Beatles. Beatles and drug references.

View wtfoctopus's Full Portfolio