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These Words Aren't Weapons

Robert Jepson, 25, UK. Unpretentious Poetry.

thesewordsarentweapons:

The venom seeped into my blood.
As I lay face down in mud.
My limbs locked.
My brain shocked.
The light came to find me.
My struggle defined me.

thesewordsarentweapons:

She sat her children down
and on a cold and grey
autumn day.
She had to explain that
Grandad had passed away.
What to say? What to say?
Grandad had gone away
to a better place
to heaven
but he’d always be
watching over them.
Maybe that’s not true
I don’t believe myself
but what I wonderful lie to tell.

thesewordsarentweapons:

They kept the haircut
but they traded in the spirit
for a full time job and a
5 door car that they can 
wash every weekend.
Like clockwork.
Yet they look down at me
because I don’t have the look
but I’ve got the spirit

thesewordsarentweapons:

Pens and papers
piled like skyscrapers.
Typewriters submerged
in a puddle of ink that
pours from a water cooler.
A forest of office chairs
swivel in the wind.
A bureaucratic landscape.
Filed forms.
Duplicated.
Triplicated.

thesewordsarentweapons:

The fountain of youth
is found under
the florescent lights
of a surgeons office.
Iðunn apples have
become botox needles.
Our pick of the poisons
to put in our face.
To be a perfect member 
of an imperfect race.

thesewordsarentweapons:

What little I have to give
except my heart.
I wonder what it’s worth
it’s bruised and battered.
It’s been stuck together with
sellotape and superglue.
I’ve seen hearts 
both in better condition
and burnt out
but just like
beauty is in the eye
of the beholder
so is the value of 
your heart.

thesewordsarentweapons:

The dashing knight died.
The Princess she is crying.
No happy ending.

His Personal Storm

16. April 2014

thesewordsarentweapons:

He had wrote poetry for them all.
The ones that had walked
out of the door.
The ones that had slipped through
his fingers without him having a
chance to grasp their hand
and feel their soft skin.

Each elective collection of words
held memories of more words
some said in anger
some never said, just thought.
On his best days
when he felt at his bravest
he wish he had the chance
to recite them.

On the other days, the bad days
he held them to his chest
the still fresh feelings of
disappointment and anger
kept him warm .
That warmth kept him going
as he walked through his
on personal storm.
Knowing that he could still feel.

thesewordsarentweapons:

dried up
washed up
dying
done

I love
I love
I live
I laugh
heartbreak
is
my 
aftermath

I’m not worried
about being
dead or alive.
I just survive.
I walk face on,
into the wind
and the rain.
I know love
I know pain.
Heartbreak
and strife.
All together
this is life

We feel grotesque,
alone and ashamed
this is us
this is us
at our worst
this is the beast
that we birthed.

dried up
washed up
dying
done

Having a cock doesn’t me a rapist
and it doesn’t make me a real man.
I’ve protested on the picket lines
but you’ve posted and re-blogged
so somehow that makes your opinion 
a little more important, more pertinent.

My opinion is my opinion, it is one that
I crafted from my own experiences.
It’s not the recited doctrine of someone else.
So before you post, ask yourself this.

Have I petitioned my school or college?
Have I ask the leaders what they are doing?
Have I told them to do more?
because there’s fighting for a cause
and there’s supporting a cause.

I put my old self
on the top shelf
I let it gather dust.

I found my new self
was bad for my health.
So change is a must.

I take it from the shelf
I remember my self
that “new” me is dust.