Joshua A
Joshua A
Sep 13, 2010

"Why did you stay up so late?" she asked
Because my mind is a machine
And this machine controls my body
And this machine told me not to sleep
So instead we paced and we paced
And we paced until my body was tired
And than back to bed the three of us went
And we lie awake pondering -
All the things, minuscule and big-
That I can not, will not ever change  
Until it reached the point of futility
My body ready and willing, begging
The machine resisting, pulling itself apart
"Just wait for the collapse" I told myself
Then and only then, will this machine-
Release it's grip on me
Then and only then,
Will I be allowed to sleep
Wait, what's that sound?
What's that sound?
It's must be the sound
of the answering machine
Please leave your message after the...

_JxA

Becca DeMateo
Becca DeMateo
Dec 6, 2013

You're beauty
I'm the beast
I wish you would come save me...

I don't know this has been rewriting itself in my head for 3days now I figured I'd I didn't get it wrote down now then I never would
raw with love
raw with love
Apr 23      Apr 24

in the end,
we're all
reduced
to
                                                                                
                                                                           "time of death"

#suicide   #sad   #depression   #life   #pain   #death   #dead   #hurt   #equality  

guess you shouldve thought about that
before you broke your mothers back,huh,sweetheart?

in my anthology that will probably never be published this and vol 1 go right next to each other so people see the contrasting lengths (~841 words vs 14. yes)
#beep   #bop   #boop  
Nat Yonce
Sep 2, 2010

Forgot
Soul of dew
Hurled.

Dried by midday.
‘Tis a sensible hour.

He is the one who is called
Forgot.
I am the one who is called
Soul of dew.
I am the one who is now
Hurled
Into an evanescent being,

Only to dry
Much too soon.

Forgot soul of dew, hurled.
Soul of dew
Hurled, Forgot was too late.

©2008
M Clement
M Clement
Dec 2, 2012

My fingers
Worn
My wrists
Tired

I can feel the energy leaving my arms
As if there's nothing left to write.
It can't be true; however,
that there's nothing left to write

There's got to be something
Mermaids
Unicorns
Rainbows
Flowers
Life
Death
Sodomy
Ab­use

That got dark fast.

I could write something,
I think I have the energy
But what to write about?

TT
TT
Jan 24

i’ve forgotten the sound of your voice
except for the time you yawned
and daisies were pushed through the grass.

your hands are locked together, aren’t they?
i can’t open them anymore because
i’ve foolishly lost the key.

don’t forget to water the cactus
give it a kiss or two so it remembers
even when you bleed, it’s still loved.

are you still listening? i've been
wandering for days in the desert
looking for your last drop of water.

orange has turned into green now
but only you’ll understand why
my heart breaks when the flowers bloom.

Beep.

Beep.
Beep.
Boop.

Beep.
Beep.
Boop.
Boop.

Beep.
Beep.
Bebop.
Bo­op.

Beep.
Beep.
Boop.

beep bop beep
Science
Science
Apr 17, 2013

beep bop beep



...

beep bop beep

...



BEEP BEEP BEEP
squiggle




died!

Sonic ou Mario qui est la question ...
died!
suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beepbeep jug jug swoop sound of the nightin
Martin Narrod

We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.

On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.

We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.

 
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