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Bobby Dodds Apr 2021
so this is for any of my followers who are confused about the name change from "Maegan Deme" too "Bobby Dodds"....
I made this account a few years ago and at the time I was still a bit scared at putting my real name out there too the world,
so I went undercover basically, and was a french antagonistic female named Maegan,
when in reality I am, actually, a boy. so uhhh, sorry about any confusion about any of this, I just figured that I should put my real name out there, as opposed to falsifying things justified by my past fears or worries.
but yeah, my names Bobby, I wrote all the "poems" on this account, and I hope that I'm not seen any differently now that I've stop masquerading.
Thank you all for any amount of support you've shown, this has been a great place for me, and I've read and met some astoundingly unique people here.  
Thank you again!
sorry again about any confusion regarding this..... hah!
Bobby Dodds Oct 2018
I'm just another cat,
with hopes of living in a house.
or ruling the dog,
but all I sadly can do.
is barely catch a mouse.
man animals aren't people but they sure seem better than them
Bobby Dodds Oct 2018
You made me happy,
now all I am is sad.
Bobby Dodds Sep 2018
Isolation within my mind,
Stuck in my kell, gasping at the heat
Working till death to finish my design,
Running late, borderlines to meet.
A hero of management,
An Hr call left at the tone.
Stuck in my cubicle fortress.
The place I'm forced to call home.
I don't wanna be stuck in the loop of the cubicle slaughterhouses.
Bobby Dodds Sep 2018
the hidden are not hidden,
only slightly departed,
buried beneath brick,
on top of brick,
on top of brick.
they lie there departed.
in silence of fear.
wondering when they'll be found,
found, find, and founded
the hidden among us.
Bobby Dodds Oct 2018
it's raining,
it's pouring,
the old man is sighing.
wondering why it's raining.
trying to remember how many times
he's sat on his porch and listened
to the rain trickle down in front of him.
after all, it was a rainy area.
he tried to look back on his wife.
he tried to picture the them back when the porch wasn't over grown.
"oy vey",
he thought wistfully to himself.
he sat content for now.
but he wondered when his rain drop might touch down.
been awhile since I've written a short story. but the rain has me inspired and it's been raining for almost a week non-stop with literally no break.
it's pretty awesome.
Bobby Dodds Sep 2018
Maybe it's to enjoy the downfall of what you knew was to fall anyways.
That is life, anyways.
Maybe its working long and hard. just to sit down in the end, and stare a thousand yards.
Maybe it's not about the finish line, the starting line, or the journey in between.
Maybe it's just knowing that it happened,
And that's what makes us gleam.
Maybe enjoying the fruits of our labor is what keeps us going till we actually to get to reap the benefits of the work, but by then you would of moved on. And enjoyed it in the past-tense
Bobby Dodds Apr 2021
All things ancient are once born young.
All things secret are shared by tongue.
All things hatred are worn with love.
All things whispered are sung by doves.
All things stone always come undone.
the inspiration for this poem primarily came from the thought i had, that all things like ancient or old or archaic were once young, smart words out of the mouths of the loud. brand new and original, and here we are, writing about them, like they're old news or yesterdays column.
Bobby Dodds Dec 2020
Steady, we go along, stable, we seek our comforts.
And beyond us, the rest of everything lives.
Surrounding our dinner tables a conflict festers,
As my father yells across at my uncle about
The hate of our current leaders.
(i leave my eyes at my plate)

Consistent, we see ourselves, ugly, we see another side.
Another side I frequent is a “shooting range”,
Where before the curriculum starts for the year,
We learn how to fight against a shooter inside.
As I learn the thoughts of shakespeare,
And recite the constitution.
(i fear for when the shooting begins again)

Lost in a known life, I cower beneath those who stood taller.
The fervent few who knew history and what cycles it spawned.
The powerful ‘leaders’ who promised a better tomorrow,
Corrupted by constitution, and empirical deduction.
We stand side by side as family in the face of terror-
Be it red, blue, donkey or elephant.
(i know the lies they spread and still follow synced)


Oblivious we march in protest to ourselves.
Not knowing the start or how our story began.
Impervious to outside influence we are herded into ideologie,
And fed the grass and grains of knowledge warped into ‘morality’
Undead beliefs cycle themselves to those of the generational heir,
And respawns in the minds of those too cowardly to accept something else.
Fact and fiction morph into each other-
And grey becomes all we can see.
(blinded by a light gray scaled, i see myself as no one and everyone as the same)
Culture is often confused with ethnicity.
political agenda is often confused with morality.
We make this easy distinction-
Those who don't are those who think in absolutes.
Bobby Dodds Jan 2021
Sooner or later it was bound to happen.
I fell for you,
                     Again.
In a way I’m quite tired of this dance,
                Waltzing around,
         Spinning,             dipping,
   A two step.                     a  salsa.
         Rhythmic              sadness-
                   Tiptoeing love.
In a way I wish this love had never happened,
I know the impossibility for what I hope for.
Yet everyday I just wait for another song
In our ballroom of text messages and google docs,
The band plays a taunting song-
In the key of heartbreak,
And timed out to the tempo of our thoughts.
Even within our gala the other dancers snicker,
For I have no partner,
And your love is dancing with another.
I have to start learning about the eastern orthodox church
Bobby Dodds Mar 2020
He sat next to her on the train
And everyday they would sit there.
He had earbuds in,
And she had a book in her lap.
Sometimes his music would go to loud,
And she would poke him to turn it down.
He would pull out his phone
And she would peek over the book
To stare at his nose.
She was falling in love.
Everyday at 6 am they would dance
With a poke or a glance,
Waltzing around to make the first step.
Her heart would drop when he stepped off the train.
And his would stop when she would never show up again.
She was ***** and murdered
The night before.
4 boys nothing more.
He didn't find out till he noticed the ad
Across from their seat.
On televised slicked glass.
"Local is murdered"
"***** and killed, friged and cast"
He blinked and it was gone,
Replaced with coke propaganda,
The same way her seat was replaced with silence.
He got off the train and went home that night.
Wondering what to do,
Maybe who to fight.
He got a few ropes and stool to sit down.
Pondered what he was doing.
Shook his head and frowned.
He pulled out his phone to check the next train.
And Booked his final ride,
to heaven or hell.
new style how y'all liking it??
Bobby Dodds Oct 2018
poets are the greatest treasure hunters,
or maybe, they might be the happiest.
most likely the most fulfilled.

poets are the richest in nature.
or maybe, just the most aware.
most likely just the most sleep deprived.

poems are our greatest treasure,
like chests full of gold.
instead of gold it's words.
that we crave to hold.

poets are the hungriest.
for emotion, life, and fear.
or maybe,
just the calmest.
sitting quietly.
amongst their peers.
people often ask what poets are, or what classify's as a true poet.
but sometimes the greatest poets are the ones that don't write at all.
just the common folk that inspire us to write, to imagine, to create.
so thank you all you common folk who live out there living the poetic life without even trying.
Bobby Dodds Mar 2020
A blinking cursor,
Is waterboarding to a poet.
Lines underlined in red,
Blooded rivers,
Among our heads.
Blank paper.
Lined and-
College ruled.
72 sheets,
And still,
blank.
Still,
Blinking.
Still,
Nothing.
kinda tired with blank pages, on google docs, and all my empty journals
Bobby Dodds Jan 2021
“My friend was cremated today”
“Being a mom is so ******* hard”
“Not everyone follows american culture”
“I JUST ORDERED PIZZA FOR THE FIRST TIME”
“Its hard looking at people around you progressing with life and being happy while you’re stuck battling mental health”
“I’m going to collapse this week. My bunny is going to die”
“I have deleted my Facebook of 6 years for the bettering of my health and to focus on myself”
“After 1 year and 6 months I finally gave my girlfriend her first ****** ever last night!”
“I love my girlfriend”
“I’m so happy right now”
“Nursing is not an honorable profession”
“Happy Birthday Bro…”
“Let me sleep”
“I’m heavily considering not fighting for parental rights”
“Just shaved my ****** hair off.. And **** do I look good”
“This is What a Lifetime of Abuse Looks Like”
“I feel like I’m not going to amount to anything”
“I feel lost”
“I haven’t shaved or trimmed my yoo hoo since the pandemic started”
“I just want some ******* tortillas”
“I miss you”
“People cannot handle it if you don’t drink with them. Why???”
“Let’s Pray for peace and comfort this year”
“I’m just not made for this world”
“I could’ve been killed today, but some how I am still here...”
“I am a bad person”
“I’m going to graduate college without having one friend or relationship”
“Missing my best friend...”
“Is it just me dealing with constant unhappiness and frustration”
“I messed up my grades”
“Stop Dwelling.”
“My Father is Dying, And I Wish I Was Upset About it”
“People who abused others emotionally deserve everlasting mental aches!”
“Have you ever felt special to someone and realize you weren’t that special after all?”
“I wish I was a cup or 2 bigger.”
“I wish I had a do-over for high school and college”
“I feel like everyone these days is lonely”
This is a short poem comprised of reddit titles in the R/offmychest community. I was scrolling through them after just finding out about it and I was thinking about how scary, how sad, how different each of these titles and posts were.
I thought about it a bit more and it hit me that these were only scary because of the humanity in them, they only shocked me, took my affront because I realized each one of these was a different person. Each one was a different life, a story.
Each one represents the *****, the irrational, the disgusting and beautiful ways that life forms itself into, whether its somones suicide,
Someone complaining about a diet,
Someone's regrets and thoughts,
Or just someone excited about ordering pizza,
It's all uniquely human.
It's all uniquely us.
Bobby Dodds Sep 2018
Who are we?
what,
are we.
we are the creators.
the illustrators.
not of words,
but creation itself.
this is who we are, this is are community and no one outside can understand.
Bobby Dodds Oct 2018
it's hard to write when you don't feel.
because then you just throw around words with meaningless weight .
i try to embrace my trace amounts of hate,
but even then.
nothing comes, weird how that most seem.
I'm happy...I think,
well i'm not sad at the least.
so, then, what am I?
or,
what should I feel?
should i be happy because i'm not sad,
or sad because i have to be sad in order to be happy.
or do i need either to feel either?
I just don't know.
or,
i just don't feel
well, i think i became emotionally detached. bets me this is a poetry website not a blog i can complain somewhere else.
Bobby Dodds Apr 2021
people always describe it as an "empty pit"
but that's just not true.
in essence, what it is,
is hunger.
the starvation of meaning,
and the force fed nature of depression.
it's bulimic in urge.
binge on cutting myself,
to purge myself of feeling.
it's always described as suppressing.
when,
in actuality it's just hopeless.
it's despair.
in the same way my dirt hued eyes won't make up
for the cracks formed from
the nights spent crying-
and
too many hailstorms.
it.
is.
awfulllllllll.
primarily because you get so bored of it, not even that you wanna be happy lol, just something new or interesting, honestly, I oughta go work in a cancer ward at this point
Bobby Dodds Sep 2018
give it to me straight,
I already write in stanza's and metaphors.
so give it to me plain.
you expect me to be who I am.
but push me to be someone i'm not.
what do you want?
what do,
I want.
i'm not sure.
the only thing I wanted,
was for you to stop wanting.
me,
to  not be.
me.
maybe I also,
want me,
to not
be.
i'm here and i'm here to get something done, I ain't looking for pity.
I know I don't belong. I just want to know if you want me to tag along
Bobby Dodds Sep 2018
what to do what to do,
in this cluttered mind of mine.
should I do my work,
or stay in bed,
oh what to do what to do.

it seems I'm writing poetry,
trying to make people.
get to start knowing me.
oh lord,
what should I do.

I guess I want to go somewhere.
I think it might be fun,
if I could go,
and play in the snow,
all I ever get is sun.

maybe I want some rain,
thunder in my mind.
confusing wild and weird.
I really wonder why.
Bobby Dodds Sep 2018
sometimes I wonder,
sometimes way to late at night.
I think about my plunder,
and my life before I had any real sight.
I ponder the actual point,
of life, god, and love.
I think about the way that life always blunders along,
a never ending train, and a never ending song.
when we fade away from time, from minds across the worlds.
I wonder if the earth remembers all our crimes,
from breaking hearts to stealing pearls,
we're all guilty from budding till we curl.
In many ways we're a flower,
in many ways we're not.
I wonder what they're seeing
and I wonder what their not.
i guess they wonder too, about life. probably a lot
because what's the point of living.
if your wondering is always naught .
Bobby Dodds Nov 2020
Who knew life would last so long.
so tedious and constant in aging.
( birth - one - two - … - dead )
And if someone knew how long it would last,
Why would they sign that contract,
on the dotted line on an oak desk with
all too important looking business men greedily grinning.
(the devils favorite disguise)

Who knew of the beating of the heart-
so exciting and focused on one lovely face.
(or set of lips)
Like a party with a spinning bottle,
Soon to be the pulse of the first date.
And first night cashed in bed,
rolled over from exhaustion- excitement.
(a steady rhythm takes on different meanings here)

Who knew that words would be so tough.
so damnable and lackluster
(until they line up just right.)
And poems a love-hate-multi-night-stand.
where we always bicker and fight,
but always come back for one more line.
or in my case,
nothing at all.
writing seems to be increasingly hard and unbearable- although just as excitable and confounding as always.
I guess somethings never change, although even that fact I doubt.

also, found a new poet whos style I'm currently in love and awe of-
next poem will be about them.
Bobby Dodds Jan 2021
my life is a soup of choices,
a broth of consequence and
steaming of effect.
poached like my ideas of right.
burnt crisp like my thoughts of wrong.
I'm boiled up in a roast stew of fallacy,
chopped up guilt and crushed cloves of forgetten forethought to add reality.
layered in-between self-hating bread,
I'm like a rhetorical tomato,
or concise and crisp lettuce.
flavored with oxymoronic mayonnaise
and ironically erroneous thought.
a tossed salad of melodrama and not enough attention.
with self-defeating ranch,
I'm a self-deterministic rock.
like bitterly sweet sugar,
I swear loving words like antonymous
synonyms-
and I never read past where the sentence stops.
with words like spaces
and thoughts like these-
it's a miracle I'm not the ******* child
of a kardashian and a sneeze
Bobby Dodds Oct 2018
people have written about everything,
nothing has been left to be found.
I've tried to find what wasn't leftover,
but it's gone.

there's been poet's and scribes,
prophets and writs;
but they're gone,
for now.
until another one reincarnates.
again.

love is nothing new to us.
and war never changes too.
but what we write is just rhetoric,
maybe that is too.

what's written makes no sense.
but there's no more writing to be found.
weirdly how I'm writing,
what should've seemed so profound.
we've reached everything, but haven't found the end.
is writing just a super-task of infinitesimally unfinished words. or do you have to furnish all the poems with fancy oak and gold
Bobby Dodds Aug 2018
I've made my bed
I know what I've said.
But i still fill my brain full of lies.
The ugly bliss
Of satisfaction almost missed,
Like a a truth
That was secretly a lie.
A wonderful thought,
Comforting you think,
but really it's not.
Its a tear down your face,
As you tear holes in your face.
With your own self-righteous lies.
You do it for yourself,
it would be nice if it helped.
But it does nothing,
But make me cry.
It's been an interesting week so far, thanks all of you that are on this page, albeit only 3,
Thanks those of you that have seen and enjoyed I really don't know what else to do.

— The End —