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 Aug 2016 Sierra
Chloe Booton
I write poetry , not suicide notes.
As it seems every poem means suicide

Why am I lying ?
My words are undying . I write poetry to stop myself from that idea.
You had no idea.
People feel uncomfortable
when the topic of conversation is death.

Although I'd just like to save my breath,
from your experiences with me.
It'll all go south and sour words will spill from your mouth.
I'm sad and you'll be angry , you can't make me happy.

People get sick of me, they punch and kick with their vocabulary
"Go swallow pills again"
I know they don't mean it , I'd never fear it
The Idea of leaving.
The idea of leaving.
Diapers and politicians
need to be changed frequently
and for the same reasons

********

los panales y los politicos
hay que cambiarles a menudo
y por los mismos motivos
 Aug 2016 Sierra
N
Today,
a somber sunday
the streets flooded with
rain and ***** drainage water.
this town
has seen so many deaths--
men shot in the head,
the hopes and dreams of little
girls concluded far
too soon and the constant buzz
in my head that softly whispers
sad songs on loop.
i have tried
pretending that i don't hear it
just like how women become
temporarily deaf when some excited boy
catcalls them but
it wouldn't stop
so i taught myself how to
laugh and dance to the cheerless
melodies while grabbing death's
clammy hands,
kissing him on the lips
and whispering back,
not today,
*not today
---
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eCeBNwBUkcI
---
 Aug 2016 Sierra
wren cole
Tell me how my eyes look like hot embers when the sun catches them just right
And how they light up when I talk about my latest obsessions
Tell me you love the way i jump across rooftops
Unpredictable
Always an adventure
Sketch a more beautiful portrait of this marred flesh
Like you don't see my scars
Like my extremes aren't deadly
Like you aren't afraid that one day jumping across rooftops will be my literal downfall
Just a simple slip
Always just a simple slip away
 Aug 2016 Sierra
Yggy
I don't want to write. I'm not in the mood.
But I have to do it. It's a thing I do.
So, sorry y'all. You'll have to bear with me.
I can't even get drunk right now. Oh the misery.
If you want to skip the *******,
Click down to the ******* squiggley.
I write when the overwhelming reality
Of post-happiness and emptiness surrounds me,
Drowns me in the grip of the undertow
Issuing from all those things I knew
And wouldn't let go of. So they grew
To be stones immovable, the blue
Churning to make room for their slow
Descent into the unknown.
All this is, is my effort to make a bubble.
Whether to signal for help or help myself,
I don't know. I guess whichever is less trouble.
The lovable, down-on-his-luck, real distant
Misfit who knows exactly how to fit in.
I suppose that's me, if you choose to believe
This is me that I'm being. I won't be
Fooled so easily. For indeed I am the fool,
The fool who used his hands
To take food from other lands
And ran on his two feet
After kicking something sleeping.
Something sleeping selflessly.
Something sleeping just for me.
Hell I had to wake it up,
I'm not worth a price so steep.
Everyone should have their chance.
I ****** mine up, so **** me.
~
I told you all to bear with me.
If you've stuck around, that's nice to see.
I don't care either way, the point this is making
Is no point at all. I just need to write.
It's like pressure being taken off a really filled balloon.
It's like somehow quieting down a goin-ape-**** baboon.
Take one is always great, until you record over it with take two.
My lines aren't always great, but you'll snort em up anywho.
I know, I'm all over the place. But these words, they stick like glue.
Maybe that's why I need to write. Maybe that's why I hate it, too.
They never seem to come out right. These words hardly fit any shoe.
Yet, I need something, somewhere to start.
Bleeding heart poet? I'll play the part.
Evolve like a **** to a shart, and become
A mean-spirited thing. A bled heart sum.
A regular in the slums
Breathing trash-burn oxygen.
Looking up at the sun
Wondering where my moxy went.
Burdening my pen,
Which shifts it to the page;
Estranged from the tangle
Now, this unaimed auto-ramble.

I suppose everything should have an end
If only to leave openings to begin again.
But knowing me, I'll probably nail my shin
And fall to the ground, oo-ing and ahh-ing when
It's time for me to get off the stage.
Just take a look at my life, any page.
You'll probably wonder how I've survived on such a wage.
Well, I'm thrifty, *******. I'm insane.
I'm like a perfectly fine cat, but with mange.
You won't touch me, but my own kind will still play.
And if you do, my disease spreads like a plague
And consumes you until there's nothing left but disdain.
Please try to pet me so I can run away.
I want all the attention, without any of the danger.
I know you've fed me....like, every single day.
But that doesn't change that we are both predators.
And that hand that feeds will meet catastrophe
If it happens to wander too close to me.
Cliche time: it's not you. It's me.

So I write and while I'm writing
I find the signs of my demise
Comforting in light of my shortcomings
Falling in place along these lines
 Aug 2016 Sierra
Urmila
Words,
Could never perfectly sum up all that I feel
 Aug 2016 Sierra
Skye Blue
Untitled
 Aug 2016 Sierra
Skye Blue
Saying I’ll die for someone isn’t very loving when I wake up day after day wanting to die. So if I tell you my dear that I would die for you I must not love you because if I loved you then I would tell you that I would live for you.
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