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 May 2015 Aniseed
Sara Jones
I'm not a poet
I shouldn't claim the like
Because a poet would know more
About struggle and strife
While I myself lay my head on a bed
Some poets stay up all night
Driving home their nails
Into the coffin of conviction
How dare I say I'm impaled.
While others wrote beautifully on social issues or on love
I sit and stare at the wall
I churn out writings on things such as white struggles and heartache
I'll write about the same boy over and over again with a different ad lib.
I'll write about voices in minds I can't reach or begin to comprehend
So tell me how I'm a poet, again?
Because I can write a line and hit an enter key
I somehow think I'm a cool *** thing.
Nah man, I'm not a poet
I'm a wannabe
 May 2015 Aniseed
Emily Budrow
1
Gold is pretty much nothing next to you.

2
You're those precious flower seeds that have just been sprinkled in the wrong place.

3
Even when age consumes my bones and time creases your face I'll still love you.

4
You're such a lovely existence.

5
You paint such beautiful pictures on the walls of my head.

6
I absolutely adore you're way of thinking.

7
I tend to study and appreciate every little feature of yours.

8
I try my hardest to make you see that living isn't so bad.

9
Just knowing how much you've been through and your will to keep me alive is really remarkable.

10
I'm gonna love you until my lungs collapse.
 May 2015 Aniseed
Peter Cullen
An island, off an island.
Water,
puddles,
mist and rain.
The vast expanding ocean,
the one that carried you away.
Walking from the parlour,
looking out across the fields.
I wonder what your doing now,
I always wonder how you feel.
I know,
we knew,
what's for the best,
yet sorrow never hides.
I often look upon the waves,
upon the changing tides,
I see your face in everything,
your teardrops are the rain.
Remembering that final day,
I live it everyday.
 May 2015 Aniseed
Brycical
Parents would prefer kids stay away
from these three jobs,
cause as they'd say
There's no way to make any money.
At least you can sell paintings with art
or hock a few bucks with albums from your music.


No parents encourage children into any of these gigs,
especially prophecy.
Today, a kid would be fed pills for breakfast
if they expressed any interest in becoming the next Jesus or Buddha.

Suppose Moses decided to go try an open mic comedy night
instead trading his commandments for a set list
but I bet his adopted parents would have lectured him just the same.
At least Moses would have gotten a few laughs.

The job descriptions are strikingly similar,
just like the outcome
a 50% chance the audience will applaud and chant
or watch you in heavy, maudlin silence... sweating nervously struggling
to maintain a sane face while raucous thoughts of loathing and doubt chew then spit out pieces of heart and soul forcing a confrontation of an emasculated existence for five to seven minute while....

whoa, hi, sorry.
Must've been having a flashback for a few seconds,
forgive me.

There is a difference though,
in the mindset of this trio.
A poet knows they're crazy,
a comic ponders if they're nuts
while a prophet thinks everyone else is just cuckoo.

I can see why parents don't want you to
go near these three jobs,
problem being, it's more of a calling than a culling,
and once it's answered,
all I can say is, well...




good luck.....






have fun.
One day, I will come to know
How clouds only smoke
And never flame, I will light
As sun climbs into the earth,
Know that water is blood,
Alive as it streams to the sea.

One day, my heart will calm,
Only flutter now and again
As do the butterflies in gardens,
I will know the sweeping moon
As my friend, jolly, bearded
In curly stars, winking at me.
 May 2015 Aniseed
Leigh
.
Let's go searching.
With hand over heart to
Set the pace, you can guide our
Way through goosebumps. We'll search
Close and thin for meaning
In fears we're yet to shed.

Let's go falling.
We'll feel fuzzy headed
When the bough breaks
With a crisp crunch and
We'll leave to chance
Whose fall needs fixing.

Let's go shaking.
We'll let blurry white stars
Propagate in petri dish
Pupils; A shudder
At the brink with
Nails buried deep.

Let's go dreaming
Dreams of finding
Soft sands stretched limitless:
A place to land
Where respite paints
Over sanguine lips now still.
.
I never used to tell you the names of my favourite places
But I would make them seem so remarkable in your head
That they would become places you couldn’t resist going to
And I was the only one with the map to the location

I never wanted you to know where they were
So that when you came to me, you wouldn’t go to them without me
I wanted to share my favourite places with you
And make them our favourite places

But today, I sent a letter to you in the mail
With a list of all of my favourite places
Because I want you to still get to enjoy them
Even though I will not be there to appreciate them with you
i dont wear bras

          my **** will look great when im old

i gave up on makeup

          unless its a special occasion or my friends are convincing

my fingernails and toenails are clean

              nail polish prevents your nails from breathing

ive outgrown my asthma

       my lungs rise and fall

          so deeply, so freely

since i was 15

   there has always been a boy in my life

          i intend to cross that off the list too
 Apr 2015 Aniseed
Denxai Mcmillon
I'm, too;
caffeinated to sleep,
****** to be awake,
Anxious to be thinking
And
Afraid to ask for a hug.
As a result,  
I'm  thinking about God, death and us.
To be honest, I'm not even sure
which I'd least want to think about.
I've never had faith in anything, really.
Well, aside from the inevitably of my death,
Which I don't want, yet, I'm not ready.
If God was around,
I'm sure his or her gaze
has been pushed elsewhere.
And
There's us.
Well,
there's you and I.
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