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 747° 
charles bateman
Dear God , I approach you as a humble friend , I ask you to please bring hell to an end , the thief's the liars the suicides , please let them with you abide . Lord forgive me I ask so much , have mercy on those whom suffer such . I am certain they've learned their lesson there bring hell to an end it's only fair , there must be something you can do , nothing is to big for you . Lord I beg thee this poem I send , Lord please bring hell to an end . Lord everyone there knows the score , shut it down and bolt the door . I have to ask you once again , Lord please !! please !! bring hell to an end .
Lo
 340° 
HOPE
On this midnight hour
I desire to pen...

What is in the mind
What is in the heart
And unleash the heaviness in my spirit

To allow the ink of this pen to drip
And drive the desire within thee

The hands are willing
Yet the mind is impulsive
With omnipresent emotions
 284° 
kevin wright
Its
in the news
on the social
consuming dollars

delivered ideology
to young and old

queuing voters
rolling cameras

polls are taken
tempers heighten

debates abound
swing states are tested

hearts will be broken
hearts will be bolstered

four years for the victor
and
the end to the vanquished

a poetic egalitarian
a president to serve them all
2020 another president  election in an ever mobile world
 220° 
Olivia Thompson
attachment is the pill i take every night before i sleep
it isn’t something that i want to do
it is the cure for my need to serve
my need to satisfy
and i know it isn’t healthy
that’s why i take the pill
 180° 
I'm not Anne
People look in a different way
what they don't see everyday.

That's why
I react like this
to your compliments.
My mind always remind me that I'm not doing well.
But "sometimes to stay alive you gotta **** your mind"
 131° 
Betty
Every thought, every sight,
every book that you've read
Is all packed neatly away in your head!
A big subject in as few words as possible-neat!
 120° 
Emily
I almost feel naked under your gaze.
That intense black eye stare, tar pits
reminiscent of the extinction of the dinosaurs.

You keep writing songs about yellow eyes,
and mine shine golden in the sun,
but I can't help but wonder if

you realize I'm extirpated by a gun
filled with rubber bullets bouncing
off my chest.

Topple me down.

Like grass sprouting through concrete,
I will break any boundary

to remind you that
you cannot get rid of me.
I live forever immortalized in amber.
i think i am in lava and it's really scary
 112° 
Diksha Prashar
Explanation will ruin

The fun part

Let’s not judge

The art,

Let it speak for itself

Depth of forgotten parts,

Each stroke

Portray love of

Its own

Shaded parts hide

The truth unknown

Light adds essence

Outlining presence,

Dancing on tunes of calciminer,

Enlightening eyes of beholder

Inspiring dormant emotions

Weaving commotion

Art of devotion.
follow my blog for more- www.dikshaprashar.com
 108° 
ibkreator
to like self

that's not how you work
 102° 
C
I am haunted:
Not by poltergeist,
but by my unlived lives.
Parallel universes
won't ever speak,
they took an oath
to keep from me.
I have words and voices
humming in my head
that will never be met
outside of my bed.
I have to accept
I cannot have it all,
I have to accept
knowing nothing at all.
 95° 
Beckie Davies
you told me this cage was a palace
you told me I was lucky to be in a place so luxurious
with beautiful bars to grip and look out through

you told me the people walking outside were the prisoners
you told me that freedom is poison
you kept feeding me stale bread reminding me how miserable they were with their champagne and cavier

i kept looking out at the ocean and wondered what it would feel like to swim beneath it's depths
you caught my gaze and promised me that the ocean would only drown me

you told me this cage was a palace
that i was outrageously lucky
so, why did you never call me your queen?
why did you never join me in this so called luxury?
you spin her the same lies you spin for yourself
 91° 
amanda
how do you expect us
to make it to eighty
when i don’t even know
that i’ll make it to tuesday?
this is getting too hard

watching you with her

watching you spend
your tuesdays together
 70° 
Mary Frances
I look at myself everyday
in the mirror and then realize
I've been given the most beautiful gift
I could ever ask for - my existence;
my chance of life;
my chance of love.
 66° 
Qweyku
AKA
Established thought
unearths reputation as
a time-based construct.

Little wonder He is named;

Rock Eternal
&
Ancient of Days.


© Qwey.ku
Matt 7:24
 60° 
Beau Donner
cherry snow cone &
          chapstick lips

crosslegged under
          the cranberry tree

taking it all in
          at the school spring
                    fling

for a barefooted
          boy of six

it doesn't get any
         better than this

in the spring of
          19 seventy
 58° 
Emma Price
There's so much that I can't say
that saying anything at all leaves me in dismay
~much love
 50° 
Traveler
Whether a comma, or colon:
Punctuation slows my rolling
I need no period. When I end
no Capitalization when I begin
Rulelessly I flow my art
  Not a single!
Exclamation mark
Are you not the one
Who'll know?
Where a question mark
No longer goes

Warp the structure
Bend the lines
Put in repeat
Let emotion unwind
Make yourself
Your poetry's the best
Be your own ruler
Pass your own test

Take your own road
Where ever it leads
Lover or hater
It's all poetry!
Traveler Tim
Hay
No matter who you are
You have my deepest respect!

Yeah Incubus!
It's not
fate that created
this senseless
passion.

It was the
mere existence
of
you and me.
 45° 
Deadwood Jawn
-------------------------------------------------------



H́ͨ̆ͪ̉­̴̛̫̥̳̪̘̫͙̟ͪ̈̓ͨ͟ͅE̶̊͒̔̀͛̌͡͏̛͉̦͚͚͔͝ ̵͑̔͗ͥ̉̐͋̈ͥ͒͑̋ͨ̍͂̚͏͕̼̲̫̥̫̮̙͖̤̮͖͓̲͍͍̀̕W̢̹͕̫͇̙̞͇̪̌̋̆̔̃͛͛ͩ͐̊̃ͨ̅ͮ̍͊̈́́̚­͉͕͍̞̱̠ͅͅA̛͆̋ͩ̓͋̓҉̶͙̣̹̥̩̘̪S̡̃ͤ͗̒̐̊͛̍̕͞͏̰͍͖̥̦͎̻̱̪̪̙̭̫͔͚̘̣͉ͅ ̵̉̈́̌̾̿ͪͤ̃̈́͏̡̗̪̦̹̪̟̞̪̗͇̯ͅN̸̢̨̺̱͉͙̝̖̣̻̺̳͔̮̱̜̪͚̠̤̜ͬͮ͐ͤ̋ͪͩ̇̂̀͊̉̏ͦ̏̌ͧ̑­O̵̡̹͓̣͙̘͈̩̳̫̼̖͙͌̂̃̚͘͠Ṭ̢͓̭̦̣̗̩̭̪͉͓ͤͬ̋̎̓̾̔͛͛̔͂̾ͬ̄͊ͦͥ̅͡ ̧ͩͤ̑̿̿̇̚͘͏̢̛̯̬͍̹̳̘͇̥̩̣̩̟̤̺͉A̶̴̬̗͍̥̞̞̩̝̩̣̰̳ͯ̎ͥ̏̃ͮͤ̆̋̏͜͜Lͨ̀̄̏̓̉̋͆̋̇­̸̧͔̼̰̪̱͕̞̺̬̼̘̟̭ͥ͐͒̅͗͠͝͠W̧̖͙̞̪͙͙ͮ̑ͥ͆͛̌̽ͭ͐̌ͩͦ̓́̚̚͘ͅA̰̺̝͙͖̻̹̘̣͌ͨ̾̓͢͜­̬̣̺Y̢͎̹̩̺̦̬͚͉̲͎͓͉̅̄̽̅̎̏̎̌͂̃ͫͭ͞͞S̴̵̨̠̞̖̠̳̖͇̓̇ͧͮͥ͗͑̅̃̾͗͂ͨ͊́̆ͨ͢͢ ͦ͌̌̃̋̒̽͜͏̴̧̪̯̻͙͇̙͈͉̠̠͇̜͈͇͍̣͕̞͢L̵ͪ̊̏̃ͭ̒͊҉҉̞̰̣̥̺͙̣̥̳̠̹̭̘̜̜̙Iͨ̂ͬ̑̿͋͐­̲̗̹͓̠̜͕̞̞̻͙̞͚̼̫̲̞̣̟̃͑̓̃̂͊͛̅̓ͥ̕͜K̅͊ͤ̃̊͂ͮ͊͒̒̎̿҉́͡҉͏̖̯̜̜͔̪̖̟̙̞̺͎̦̖̠E­̶̶̵̪̱̺͍̫͎̣̾̽̂̾̒ͣ̀ͬ̏̐̿ͭ̿͟͡ ̸̧̡̞̠̻̟́̅ͮ̋̕͢T̡̢̼͕̝̠̼̩̜̜͓̠̱̘̜̲̦́͆ͩͨ̈͊ͮ̆̈͑͐̚͜͢͝ͅH̡ͫͧ͛̐ͦ̋ͣ̔̓̾͆͐ͥͯ̚͢­͕͉̤̫̹̟͇̭́I̷̧̨̒ͬ̇ͬ̾̆ͬ̂̌͌͏͍͍͔̖̮̪̖͓̰͎̪Ş̴̰̭̜͓͚̖̯̦͇͓̞̹̼̺͖̐ͪ̐̅͒̚̕͘



­--------------------------------------------------------
He wasn't. Thanks for understanding, Lydia.. Lydia is angry.. Someone's hurt him..
This is Lydia speaking.
 44° 
Bek Blanchard
Now there were two of them
Separated between thousands
of read texts and timely
chats touched by sound
but not skin  
Awake in the others sleeping
Sleeping in the others awake  
Restless as they wait
Restless as they wait
How are you?
Are you in love too?
It's wonderful isn't it?
I wish you luck
 39° 
Astral
When I was a child,
I was taught poetry wasn't mild,
It was deep as the sea,
And it seemed truly unachievable for me.
I was taught poetry had to rhyme,
Every single line, every single time.
So poetry seemed out of my reach,
Like chasing a seagull down a beach,
Jumping ever so slightly away,
Or soaring into the sunny day.

So I never thrived for what I thought would,
No, Could
Never be.

I guess now I'm fixing the mistakes of past me.
 32° 
E
The face in the mirror
the look in the eye's
that reflection ain't me it's just a disguise
the fading of hair
the wrinkles that bend
it's just a life story that's told on my skin
this man in the mirror he ain't really me
their's a child inside that want's to be free
that woman of mine you could say she's the same
sometimes in the covers we laugh and play games
but as I get old and my life bears thin
I think of the fun
and think of the friends
so you could say i'm kind of bold
it's just a part of getting old
A poem my dad wrote on his 45th birthday
we all thought it was funny but truth is
I think it was the greatest one he ever wrote
 31° 
Reagan
I never truly believed in you
Maybe i did once
But now i know you
As the thing people hold on to
When there's nothing left

So here I am
With nothing left
This is written as my sister is in a coma
 29° 
Wk kortas
You’ll not see their like come race season,
Having left the premises to be replaced
By the preening breast-augmented and face-lifted set,
Shaking their heads and clucking sadly if one inquires
If they might have something
A touch smaller than a Franklin in their wallets,
Their smooth patter, replete with references
To Paris junkets and Milan catwalks
Occasionally interrupted by one of their more prosaic counterparts
(Hard-core players following the nags up from Belmont)
Stopping in to partake in one vice they’d sworn off earlier
While loudly disclaiming the other which had ruined
An otherwise perfectly lovely afternoon
(They’ll down their draughts in short order,
Most likely headed for the harness track
To drop a twenty on some longshot
Which bears the name of a long-departed grandmother.)
This time of year, though, they are ubiquitous
As the black and salted slush,
Sad souls slouching in after a bracing walk from Skidmore campus
Or some down-at-the-heels apartment on Alger Street,
Forlornly popping into some quiet booth
With the familiar long-distance stare seen in those
Beginning to grasp the truth that one
Is an object of prey in a very small pond indeed
(Likely a semester, no more than two certainly,
From having their undergraduate epaulets
Torn unceremoniously from their shoulders)
Being as quiet and unobtrusive as church mice
Until a half-dozen or so Coors Lites
Leads them to pontificate on the injustice of the universe
And if they have not decided to stagger home
Or degenerated into desolate tears of self-pity,
They are wont to dispute the existence of the Almighty,
Saying with a conviction which would be impressive
If expressed by Beelzebub himself
That he does not exist, that he cannot exist,
Though the body of proof cited in support of the proposition
Tends to be fragmented and rife with circular reasoning
(We know that they’re most likely drinking with false ID,
But they are invariably pedestrians—let them have their moment,
Only threats to themselves, after all.)
As for myself, I’m of the opinion that faith in the Hereafter
Is that rarest of bets, an absolute bet-the-chalk- dead- cert
Where you walk to the betting window clutching house money.
 29° 
tainted black
..
she
closed her
eyes and took
a very deep breath,
crossed her fingers then
w  h     i     s    p   e    r     e   d,
"I long to see the   o n l  y
man who made me
shine in his
darkness
..
 28° 
Em
i found it kind of ironic
how maybe the only way
to wake up out of this hell
was to land myself in other one
~e.m
She was stuck
in endless cycles
it seemed to her
more harm than good
to be a girl
in this world
 27° 
misha
your name is
forbidden in
my mouth
or in my heart
because when
i think about
you;

i'll cry a little more,
hurt a little stronger
love a little softer
because you no longer
make me feel sober

i'm drunk on the
memory of you
if only i could chase you with pizza but shots don't work like that
 26° 
Jeremy Stacy
How can you not see the **** on tv and photos from paparazzi, the nominee in front of me is a hyperbole of an unfree reality

How twitter fingers trigger exchanges between strangers, neighbors, and calm natures to waver in ranges that cause dangers

How healthcare and welfare get lost in Laissez-faire, that airfare, software, and warfare get arranged for billionaires over childcare

How a schism between racism and altruism is created by journalism to institute imperialism and break a rhythm of higher criticism
 25° 
Dean
when you sleep it's like you never cried,

breathing soft and steady, wet cheeks dried.



when you sleep it's like you never lost,

boundaries weren't broken and lines weren't crossed.



when you sleep it's like you're still there,

and you still smile and you still care.



when you sleep you look young as I,

no crease in your brow and no old worn sigh.



and so if sleep is death just being shy,

is it still so wrong,

to wish

to die?
This was made by yamiyurei
 25° 
Raghu Pratap
My lover remembers to leave me a note,
talking about the time we used to talk
when we were lovers,
when our bedsheets aligned,
and the politics overhead too, made love every day,
and found the time to write spare notes - on cheap paper, and my borrowed pen,
to an amour she would not see anymore,
talking about the blue nights she spent with me,
my lover recalls with vividness
the words I had said to her,
before I could learn to speak again,
in this really long note she has left me, and
I can suddenly see time as I have never before,
my lover looks at me as if she has never before,
and she doesn’t know when to stop, and her heart doesn’t stop so easy,
and I could stop reading,
knowing she might die soon.
 24° 
Mohannie

Although I don't know you
I know some need to hear
That I'm proud you're alive
You've got this, my dear.

I know it's been hard
But you are so strong
Keep your head up, my dear
And remember:

you belong.

Hello everyone! I'm back with a mission to spread love <3
 24° 
Lillian May
Lightly given,
her heart to me.
I will never betray.

The secrets of ***,
The way she turned me ‘round her,
As clean as well water.

I cried.
I was in her and taking in what a perplexity she was.

“I, at long last,” says she, “have given you myself.”
She is all I ever wanted.

My lady,
So desirous,
Give me you;
Your tenderness.
Page 247 in my blackout poetry book.
 24° 
REY
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a thousand papers
Filled with broken poetries
And deadbeat proses
Full of woeful verses
With mournful pieces
Of unfinished stories
That are yet to be written
And failed to be spoken;
If you could read my mind,
You’d hear horrible screams
And earsplitting weeps
From shattered dreams,
Kept in a nasty notepad,
Scribbled on a bed
Of bloodstained words,
Ringing in my head.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the shadows
That lurk within me;
You’d hear the bellows,
Screeching the words
“I’m tired,”
“I’m a failure,”
“I’m stupid –”
I know it sounds stupid,
It’s pathetically foolish
And seems like *******.
If you could read my mind,
You’d feel the tears
I had ever failed to cry;
You’d see the people
That make the weak weaker;
You’d see the monsters
That consume my head;
You’d hear the hollers
That failed to be freed;
You’d see the heart
That still bleeds and bleeds.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the face
I’ve failed to show back then,
The face I’ve faked back then.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a character
I had ever failed to become
If you could read my mind,
You’d be able to read
A book you never wished
To touch and read,
But sometimes I still wish
Someone could read my mind.
 23° 
Ariana Bagley
I love him
I tell myself
I know that
We will be together forever
I don’t believe that
We could be separated
My thoughts tell me that
He’s the love of my life
Sometimes my heart lies and says
I could live an eternity
Without him
Like my friends say
“We’re perfect for each other”
And you can’t tell me
He’s not the one.

Now read from bottom to top.
 23° 
Rupert Pip
Break my bones;
cut my throat.
Pull me open,
learn the ropes.

Breath me in;
taste the fear.
Shank my skin;
stand and cheer.

Kick my head;
let me bleed.
Unbolt my veins;
enjoy the read.

Gouge my eyes;
punch my face.
Wrap me up
in your embrace.
Get to know me like I do you; inside and out.
 22° 
Mary Frances
They said that even demons
sometimes have a change of heart.
This made me wonder.
My demons' hearts never changed.
But mine did.
And it got even darker
as it gets broken over and over again.
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