Weekly Contest
Classic poem of the day
I am your son, white man!
Georgia dusk
And the turpentine woods.
One of the pillars of the temple fell.
You are my son!
Like hell!
The moon over the turpentine woods.
The Southern night
Full of stars,
Great big yellow stars.
What's a body but a toy?
Juicy bodies
Of nigger wenches
Blue black
Against black fences.
O, you little bastard boy,
What's a body but a toy?
The scent of pine wood stings the soft night air.
What's the body of your mother?
Silver moonlight everywhere.
What's the body of your mother?
Sharp pine scent in the evening air.
A nigger night,
A nigger joy,
A little yellow
Bastard boy.
Naw, you ain't my brother.
Niggers ain't my brother.
Not ever.
Niggers ain't my brother.
The Southern night is full of stars,
Great big yellow stars.
O, sweet as earth,
Dusk dark bodies
Give sweet birth
To little yellow bastard boys.
Git on back there in the night,
You ain't white.
The bright stars scatter everywhere.
Pine wood scent in the evening air.
A nigger night,
A nigger joy.
I am your son, white man!
A little yellow
Bastard boy.
member poem of the day
My body is battered, my brains a dis function. My soul is ran rugged, my thoughts a consumption. I'm driven to anger, I'm formed into rage. I'm mad at myself, I'm set to engage. I fight my own battles, I fail every time. I win over nothing, I live a fine line. These thoughts are my scape goat, these feelings don't change. These hopeless walk lonely, these people are strange. We have lost our own meaning, we no longer exist. We run astray from each other, we can never be missed. They poke and then prod, they try to upset. They have mistaken themselves, they live with regret. When your lost and your tired, when death is insight. When giving it your all, is when nothing seems right. WeI've fallen and rose, I've come close to my grave. I've chosen my own, I've become my own slave. Some never find peace, some climb to the top. Some are filled with much love, some are infested with rot. We've ended ourselves, we've ruined our homes. We've made this disaster, now we've got to condone. Is it hope that we're seeking? Is it even deserved? Is it the end when we pass? Or is a place set and reserved? By Cory M Lee
