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Poems On / About LIFE  5/29/2015 3:04:56 AM
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  77.     

Smoker

I billowed calmly as a cloud
Upon a course for acid rain,
When in the fog of smoking crowd,
My lungs collapsed in searing pain.

Full of soot and black with tar,
I coughed in vain for chest to clear;
At least my lungs had got this far
Despite my years of toxic air.

But Smokers' Lounge was home to me,
Where fellow addicts puff with joy:
Our pipes in hand, all friends are we,
‘Let's fine cigars now share, my boy! '

‘So gasp away! ' my motto cries,
‘And light another cigarette
Before a further smoker dies,
Which happens often - you can bet! '


Copyright © Mark Raymond Slaughter 2009






































































































life life life life life life life life life
life life life life life life life life life
life life life life life life life life life
life life life life
 
Mark R Slaughter

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  78.     

This Is Reality

My father was an alcoholic that tried to drink his sorrows away. My mom, a battered wife. I was the innocent child that had to live the life as a ghetto hood rat. Stereotypes started when I was young. I was never going to amount to nothing and be just like my mother and father. That was my reality. I couldn’t run away from my fears because at an early age I was taught that if I did decide to run I was going to be killed by the thugs that preyed on little children. A problem child is what they would call me. Although I would make straight A’s, keep our apartment clean, and never get in trouble with the law. I would walk down the streets at night trying to imagine my life differently. The police would stop me for the simple fact that I was black. They see me and they smell blood, they smell fear because they know just like I know that my rights no longer exist. You live in the neighborhood where you are afraid to go to sleep. My parents sleep on the couch that they found on the side of the road, left for the bums. We don’t have a trash man to come here because the last two were killed by gang members. I sleep on the floor having to make a pallet every night. That there isn’t love, that isn’t sacrifice. In the neighborhood where it is normal to hear gunshots. Where if you look a person wrong you should automatically fear for your life. The life where my father would come home with a bottle of liquor that costs 8 dollars but yet he has no food to put on the table. The fridge empty and my stomach growling. Hunger pains fills my stomach. No water because my father refused to pay the bill. No electricity, we use candles and I always hope that the fired wax would drop to the floor and burn. Burn my parents and burn me so I can release and let go. Not having to worry about anything and just relax. My father comes in the house leaning to the sides and knocking stuff over. He falls to the ground and his glass of liquor breaks. I stand there hoping that the glass went through his heart. Lord only knows how many times he stabbed me in mine. The life where I don’t hear “I love you”, but on tv. The life where my dad can’t afford to buy his daily dose of coke and beats me for it. Where I’m so use to it I no longer feel pain. The life of when my mom tries to help but he turns on her and then she turns on me for getting her beat. The life that when my school notices my bruises and asked me about it, it’s been beat into my head to say “it’s nothing”. It’s been beat in my head to say “I fell, I slipped, I tripped”. Instead of telling them the whole truth, my father is an alcoholic and he takes all his problems out on me with his fist, legs, and words. They ask me why I eat too much at school. Stealing my classmates lunch boxes and devouring their chips, sandwiches, and juices. The life where I know God doesn’t love me because if he did he wouldn’t put me in this predicament. The life I live is a human that doesn’t want this life anymore. The life where I cut myself to cope with my emotions. The life that whenever I close my eyes I see myself dangling from a sheet I tied myself, hanging from the ceiling fan. The life where suicidal thoughts are apart of my sickness. The life where the word “misunderstood” defines me.
 
Icsis Watson

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  79.     

The Formula Of Life

There are many formulas in life That make our pretty existence anytime Like life itself, Like love itself, Like honesty itself, and There are many things like these... We either stick to these formulas To be or not to be, but Some jump over things just to show themselves Different, but they fail even They manage things for some time... We have learned from life itself That we can not be outside our whole range of life Because there are pretty formulas That make the whole of our life anytime, so The more we stick to our life's pretty formulas, The more we succeed in our whole life anytime... Sticking to life's pretty formulas helps Us manage all pretty particles of all aspects of life... ______________________________________________________________________
 
MOHAMMAD SKATI

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  80.     

Close Caskets Chapter 2

Eternal sleep, rest the soul, as it passes through the after life not yet seen but by death itself.Silent as a soundless echo whispering across a dry desert sand burned from years of worn down ambitions.Release me, Release me, the soul screams out in a desperate measure to escape the sealed steel sleeping box, cut to embrace a physical form paused in a horizonal position no more breathe, no more pressure, no more rebuilding the heart aching pain of life.Graveyard dirt covers what's left of a body shut down and drained from life.Life comes and life goes, but death is everlasting, that vanishing point of breathless existent.So life had come through birth, so it should go by death.Fear not what lay in the after life of unsure, knowing not what comes, as fast as it's given, which means life stood still, again life disappear like a trick gone bad, a unselfish idea lost and like dust evaporating in the wind.
 
wallace eaton

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