Popular Nonfiction Poems

Let me help you
Pain is all you have to endure
Let me cut you
Before the poison makes you turn

Your skin and flesh your blood and bone
Your heart your mind your soul will be torn
Rotten and forgotten before buried in the soil
When the torment stops you‘ll return to home

Those black stains you see
Are formed from the soul of thee
You are rotten to the core
I could try and help once more
But my doubt is too great
And I don't fear nor hate

Do not lie to me
Unlike you I can see
Do not beg of me ...

Jesus had a huge supper, with large amounts of uppers
Cocaine, amphetamines & methamphetamine
The aliens from our future planet came to visit him on this special day
They offered him food, drink & loads of drugs
Most disciples were upset with this and walked out
A few stayed for the debauchery
There were also punks, metal heads, hip artists and free thinkers at this gathering
Such unity, democracy, in one social gathering
The image I included here is the original Leonardo da Vinci painting that showcased what was really happening during the last...

How do you handle sunsets
with the pink underbellies of birds
in flight and cotton candy skies
turning blue to gray to pink to purple
while you're laying in bed saying yes & no to the one you love
while his eyes;
you can't look at them

At the height of the colonial crisis
there are broken lands under lethal tension.
Political instability, endless conflicts.
Nations in turmoil, seek what is to come.

Organizations rise up as a voice of reason...
Fragile hope in a divided world.
While openness germinates on the streets,
promises of change in an era that is ending.

Cinemas project stories, realities flow,
dictators build worlds that set us on fire.
Films delve into their dark shadows,
in logical expressionism the aesthetics nestle.

Soft focus on...

I never quite know how to start these things.
For all the hours I've spent alone with notebooks and loose scraps of thought, non-fiction—if that’s even what this counts as—has never been my strength.
This isn’t a memoir. It’s not an autobiography. And it sure as hell isn’t a diary. But I digress.
 
I’m just some punk in my late twenties, born and raised in Georgia, right by the seaside banks of Batumi.
Living in what I often call a post-Soviet dystopia, something I’ve repeated many times to my comrade Marsy—more about them soon.
Like any proper Anarchist,...