The homeless are not bums!

You do something that's really dumb.

Every day you call homeless people bums.

Like me and you, they're human beings.

But that's something you have trouble seeing.

What you say about the homeless really does suck.

You have no right to look down on people just because they're down on their luck.

When you see what they go through, you show no concern.

They need our help, maybe one day you'll finally learn.

Certain people won't help the homeless because it's not politically correct.

You and those people better start learning that homeless people deserve respect.

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English Class


Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

I hate this class.

I want to kill you.


Shut the fuck up!

Just let me be.

I don't give a shit

about what you're teaching me!


This class is bull-shit!

I hate every minute!

You bore me to death,

why don't you get it?


Every passing minute,

my anger flares!

Why can't you see

that nobody cares?!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

So... yeah, this piece was written when I was in english class and I was very fed up with the material and teacher. Thus brought about this rage enduced gem, so enjoy! I do apologize if you are offended by foul language, but I feel that I shouldn't censore how I'm feeling. Anyways, criticism of any kind is welcome and appreciated!

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Started With A Kiss


My vision starts to fade,

my heart starts to slow,

I sit on the street,

under the street-light glow.


I don't know what happened,

it went by so fast.

Started with a kiss,

ended with a blast.


How could I do this?

Let myself go?

Considering the circumstances,

I'm at an all time low.


Sitting in the cold,

a hole in my chest,

couple more seconds and,

I take my final rest.


No more pulse,

I see only black,

can't breathe anymore,

brain function I lack.


Blood on my hands,

the last sight I see.

I spoke the truth,

She was the death of me.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

And here we have the second piece of what im putting up today, a rather tragic break-up gone wrong. One more is on it's way, then I promise to post regularly until my work is all posted. And, of course, all criticism is welcome and appreciated.

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I slip, falling hopelessly.

I hold my breathe relentlessly.

I stumble, trying to get back up.

Only to be pushed back down.

They yell at me, throw things at me.

All these obstacles keep popping up.

I dodge, I fight, just trying to do what’s right.

I don’t give up, I won’t back down.

I barely make it through each day,

I’m oppressed by this world of pain.

Then I finally hit the cold hard ground;

I lay there and stare up at the cold dark sky.

I curse, I cry, I beg to die. 

I try holding my breath to stop my cries. 

This pain is endless,

my body is now a canvas to the scars that cover me.

I try hiding in the dark so they stay hidden,

then my inner demon breaks free.

Then all that anger that was built up inside of me,

is released I’ve been set free.

I glow red with anger,

It’s like an inner flame has taken over I now show no shame.

I will seek out revenge on this hateful life. 

No longer dying I feel alive.

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Party Pinata





Mexican Pinata

(image from





Hung low 

upon the strongest branch

of your oak tree,

I allowed my own slaughter,

our blindfolded children

you and that other woman

so kindly raised to master 

use of your verbal machetes, 

you spun them

'round and 'round with twisted truths,

cunningly directed them for many years,

by your pathetic, hopeless fears,

with skillful cowardice,

weilding their innocence

to carve the gashes just so,

slicing me open,

like a party pinata 

at a reunion,



and your sick family,

you always used to say

how much you hated being 

outnumbered by women 

growing up,

i hang lifeless now

in their eyes,

from the butchering,

the tree branches curved,

and the leaves withered,

and as my blood drips down 

to feed your roots,

 the only scintilla 

of honesty you seem to 

be able to muster from all those years,

 --that you have not changed at all,

and for myself, 

my once empty hand is full of

what is left,

--only compassion for you,

feeling what it must be like 

to be you,

and who i was 

long ago.


2:34 AM 8/13/2013 ©



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The Mission Beyond





(photo from



he feels dejected,

grim, down-in-the-mouth,

mirthless, mournful, 

moody and droopy,

dragged, trite,

and nothing is right, 

anguished, forlorn,

woeful in the depths of despair.


he tries to think 

of sweetest memories,

but as he casts his 

grappling hook to 

secure his ascent

over the walls he's built,

the rope becomes 

frayed and breaks.


the weight of his 

guilt has grown too 

ponderous, and his

spine too soft to

bear the rigors 

of the climb that he

now sees he must 

journey on his own.


sinking deeper into

his abyss he struggles 

to remember something 

other than this limbo

of darkness and dread,

the disbelief of this reality

he fails again and again

to overcome, and desperation sets in.


clinging to old feelings,

and the desire for a love 

long gone, he withers

in a sea of hopelessness,

and every good memory

takes him back to the 

bottom of this wallowing 

pit of sorrow and pain.


people pass by,

some with compassionate

flurries of empathy

that quickly ferment to feed 

the destruction of any 

aspirations for change,

and the nature of his misery

flourishes unto his bitter end.


he thought she was his world,

and now she's gone,

moved on to another dimension

on the wings of a dove,

to blaze new trails without him,

but his mind cannot accept

that was the whole purpose of 

their meeting in this life.


she came to prepare him

for this dark night of the soul,

and his task is to overcome it,

he listens for her voice

to soothe him as it did before,

and the scorching fires of 

truth that strip his soul naked

have left him angry and inflexible.


and when he sleeps, 

she watches 

through timeless portals,

the man she left behind, 

and wonders 

if he'll ever pass

the test 

of this lifetime.


he doesn't seem 

to understand her whispers in the dark,

he only understands the love they had so long ago,

he's trapped in something 

only he can bring unto an end,

or wander in his denial, his heart never to mend,

for unbeknownst to him this lifetime is his only chance

for them to ever have another lifetime in this dance.



11:41 PM 8/7/2013  ©



Fred Ferocious

The Drabble Ditch

Fred was an apothecary of sorts, 

Whisking wonders for aches and ailments,

A knack and a knowledge for it.

Sunshine for sadness, fun for fatigue,

Christmas for chronic depressing disease,

But what if Fred's shop closed up one day?

Black blankets cradling white sun,

Icy fog crystallizing lungs and freezing skin,

A clock ticking in an empty hallway,

What if he left us joyless days of grey, 

Seeping into nasty cuts to sting?

It can't happen. Fred's formidable:

omnipotent, omniscient and obvious,

Rubbing laughter into wounds for a happy remedy.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

© Lizzie Ayres, 2013

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A Claw From A Cloud

The Prompt Pit

A Claw From A Cloud


The sins of her father soak her clothes,

Freeze her blood and crack her bones.

Vapid she sings and evil she grows, 

Cruel to a limit that nobody knows.

A claw from the sky reaches down to her bed,

Snatches her body and turns her head.

The shadows that face her grow darker still,

Brooding and snarling but waiting until,

She loses the need to stare at the clouds,

Teasing ideas that they cannot allow.

They wait, but the girl still grabs at the sky,

So they order the Sun to dazzle her blind.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

© Lizzie Ayres, 2013

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most often a walking, 

talking agglomerate 

of bipedal constriction,

incessantly longing

of some scintilla of solitude,

lost were the days of joyous tutelage,

entombed in his most recent 

nightmarish truth,

meandering among a 

stoic and weeping world 

of isolate, but recognised faces,

detached, collapsed, mangled,

crippled and torn 

into bits and pieces of rath

left from the scourges 

of love's albatross still in situ,

every sunset, no rest, 

but amassed density 

within each slumber

and every sunrise 

the burden expounded 

on his withering reserves,

no inkling or cue of enlightenment

knocked upon the doors

of his tortured existence,

and he never meant to unleash

his fury and beat

a four year old 

recently bereft 

of a mother like that,

but somehow,

he allowed himself

to justify it.


10:11 PM 7/21/2013 ©



Author's Notes/Comments: 

the insidious nature of conditioned response.

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