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Literature Text
The world is a room*
with the walls bedaubed
with the green paint.
A mite is running in it**
she doesn't know her purpose
or does she like it.
Two bigger moppets***
have some claims.
Their voices are raised
like the hill growing
in the suburbia.
In the end one of them****
becomes a crumb.
She lifts her hand up
and spanks the mite,
not knowing her trespass.
At evening it's time for going to sleep***** -
the fingerling goes to her bed with rails,
being very sad and sure of a given lesson:
there's no point in enjoying yourself,
cause the sadness will always come later.
*nobody knows its magnitude,
unless it is a person
described in this poem,
trying to figure it out.
**like an old hamster
in its spinning wheel,
with the same knowledge
about her destiny.
***because they're also wee
in the front of God's face.
****probably the one in a skirt,
although you can't be certain.
*****you'll have a dream about
a child with a vile face
with the walls bedaubed
with the green paint.
A mite is running in it**
she doesn't know her purpose
or does she like it.
Two bigger moppets***
have some claims.
Their voices are raised
like the hill growing
in the suburbia.
In the end one of them****
becomes a crumb.
She lifts her hand up
and spanks the mite,
not knowing her trespass.
At evening it's time for going to sleep***** -
the fingerling goes to her bed with rails,
being very sad and sure of a given lesson:
there's no point in enjoying yourself,
cause the sadness will always come later.
*nobody knows its magnitude,
unless it is a person
described in this poem,
trying to figure it out.
**like an old hamster
in its spinning wheel,
with the same knowledge
about her destiny.
***because they're also wee
in the front of God's face.
****probably the one in a skirt,
although you can't be certain.
*****you'll have a dream about
a child with a vile face
Literature
Spinning the World
What are we living for?
The world keeps spinning out
of our fingertips…
Why are we fighting more?
The world keeps bleeding out
of our cursing lips…
Who are we waiting for?
The world keeps fading out
of our old filmstrips…
When are we giving more?
The world keeps falling out
of our iron grips…
Where are we searching for?
The world keeps running out
of our sinking ships…
Full circles of a war-
Spinning into a blackout
and solar eclipse…
Please stop spinning, world!
Stop spinning wicked webs;
stop spinning histories;
stop spinning news stories;
stop spinning our dazed heads.
How are we
Literature
for she is a sinner
Angels eat her alive,
the way she deserves:
molting downy feathers
in a hermetic esophagus—
like her lungs,
pooled with words
untouched
in stillness.
She is choked by halos,
and expecting expansions
spanning clouds and Niles
of rosemary tears;
( yet no ocean cried,
and no tsunami felt,
will rid the torture justified
in each holy touch upon
soiled cheeks: wet Liar’s runoff.
It falls so easily down her throat,
to drown more words. )
and she almost warns them
to stay away: She is filth.
but they lovingly caress
and they carefully sink
their glittering pearls into her
calling husk…
just the way she deserves.
Literature
Composed Upon an Abandoned Sofa
We refuse to wake; trapped in pharma-sleep.
This place is as worn as the clothes we wear -
Look at the beauty of it all laid bare.
Our flesh and limbs lay still, knotted in heaps
Of spit and blood. Our narco-coma lies -
We have nothing but red eyes, skin ice-fair,
Our thoughts are stifled by the blackened air.
We are helpless - scarred at the mouth and eyes.
Here we crash, together. In smog we steep
Our secret, buried away from the sky
Amongst the ash, the phlegm and comrade flies
We'll sleep 'til one of us, from the gloom, cries
That these beautiful things, their scent and glare,
Are too scarce to sate our thirst for the deep.
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Written for a contest in 
[link] . I had to write about my earliest childhood memory, so here you have the memory of me being spanked by my parents ==' The dream described in the last lines isn't connected with this memory, but it's one of my earliest remembered nightmares.
[link] . I had to write about my earliest childhood memory, so here you have the memory of me being spanked by my parents ==' The dream described in the last lines isn't connected with this memory, but it's one of my earliest remembered nightmares. © 2013 - 2024 Ewa-a-nie-chce-spac
Comments9
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Just read this for the first time.
It is so disturbing. Children face so much injustice. But they don't realise it. They think it is their fault. It makes me angry.
Good job, good poem.
When I was a child, I had an old fashion heater in my room. It was cylindrical with a little red light. The room was very dark. All I could see was this heater with the light. I thought it was God watching me. I was scared of it.
It is so disturbing. Children face so much injustice. But they don't realise it. They think it is their fault. It makes me angry.
Good job, good poem.
When I was a child, I had an old fashion heater in my room. It was cylindrical with a little red light. The room was very dark. All I could see was this heater with the light. I thought it was God watching me. I was scared of it.