november child

the curse of a sentimental heart & a skeptical mind



Corridors Of Power

My battalion of strategists
have polled the crap out of you;
and now I know
exactly what you want to see.

I will play hardball,
campaign down and dirty,
and wear the facade that works best,
crowd manipulation is my thing.
I wouldn’t call it acting,
just showing you what you expect.

My team of speech writers
has internalised every survey;
and now I know
exactly what you want to hear.

Every phrase I use,
every word I say, every promise I make
is planned meticulously and
weighed for highest impact.
I wouldn’t call it lying,
just telling you what you hope for.

I gave you what you want
now you give me what I deserve.
Trust me, it’s not much, just your vote
so I can walk the corridors of power
and join the ranks of the big players.

In return you get nothing of course,
this is not some hippie fair trade thing, dude,
this is high level politics.
It was never about the people, silly,
it‘s about me and my own personal fiefdom.

©  november child
photo credit: Billy Wilson via flickr


Is it?

You say it is just a game,
no harm done,
no one gets hurt.

Let me ask you though…

How severely
have twinkling temptations
blinded you?

How many times
do your thoughts linger
on what you can not have?

How often
do you long
for what is not yours?

And how far
have you wandered down
forbidden roads?

You think it is just a game,
but is it?


© november child

photo credit: 8 Kome via flickr



Lies have eight arms
like a monstrous cuttlefish
attaching to the deceived
with a smothering grip,
dragging them  deeply
into the vacuum
of anger and betrayal.

They have tentacles
that reach into the fabric
of everything sacred,
tearing the delicate tapestry
of faith and respect
whose intricate weave
took years to build.

They have stingers like bees
and with uncanny precision
they aim for what is unprotected,
gorging on lightness and purity,
a threat to innocent bystanders
by leaving overall distrust
in a festering swelling.

They have sparkling veils
of shiny, insincere promises
which flake off in a heartbeat,
their devious whispers
no longer mutable,
once the desperate wish
for ignorance has been released.


© november child
lies index
in response to: The Sunday Whirl Wordle #264


photo credit: Shannon Tompkins via flickr

The Things We Keep

I store this chest
in the depths of
the attic of my mind.

It is filled with
hundreds of  pretty notes
in all sizes and colours.

As colourful and pretty
as big or as small
as the lies you told.

Kept as a reminder
right next to the
dark cloud of my anger.

Inadvertently I wonder
about the things we keep
and those we share.

© november child
in response to: Random_Michelle Photo-Fiction #49

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