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Distant learning courses in the heart
Irrelevant actions have left us all apart

Acquisitions decaying those stray minded people
It's no longer a commonplace to feel peaceful

Simultaneous occurrences have our mind in disarray
Through our pasts they begin to replay

All these calamitous activities brought through maleficent eyes
Disintegrate what's left sending us in a fools paradise

We reap to elope from these rigorous bearings we call home
Only to find ourselves cast away into the unknown

We strive to survive in a world full of abhorrence
Being seen transparent just as worthless corpses

Those few who prevail are not left without detriment
They are forever severed a mental delinquent

Nevertheless our story lives on
In this godforsaken marathon

-Joseph B Schneider
© Joseph B Schneider. All rights reserved

Life always finds a way to repeat itself, if not through your eyes then through another's.
 Jul 2014 Benedict Menda
I want a girl with eyes like daggers
that tear her up when she's looking at me
with a mind that badgers
and I know it's thinking about me

I want a girl with hair so wild
but eyes that could calm the sea
with a voice that smiles
every time it's talking about  me

I want a girl with a real good grip
and hands as soft as sunlight
with her arms wrapped 'round my hips
sleeping next to me all night

I want a girl that likes to read
so she can read all that I write about her
a constant source of inspiration to me
she never lets me run out of words

I want a girl that likes to ****
and wouldn't mind falling asleep right after
with a talent for making her own luck
and getting  people to fall for her

I want a girl that wants me too
that made a list of qualities I happen to possess
I want to know you're right for me and I'm right for you
and we won't turn this into a mess.

                                           ­                                      *smndi
Every morning I head to the airport
Where the daily poems depart and arrive
I'm always hoping to catch a rhyme
Coming in on an early flight

When at Gate #9

I saw what appeared to be a famous poem
One that looked awfully familiar
I think that we might have worked together in the past
Early on in our careers

But so many have flown in and so many flown out
It's so hard to keep most of them straight
So we nod as we pass each other by
On our way to another of life's gate

Right then comes a gaggle of poetry
Newly fresh poems down on the tarmac
This is moment I'd come here for
And need to think fast on which ones to grab

...and I did grab me a handful,
took them straight back to my place
This should give me enough of something to do
At least for a couple of days...
Say what you mean,
but say it without being mean.
Who am I kidding? I am always so terribly mean. Oops!
When I die, dear Mother
don't give my body away
to science.

I'd rather have it given away to poetry.

I want people to cut me open
and observe
how my bones were riddled with
melancholic verses of joyful pasts.

They have to see
the scarlet of my blood was the hue
I stole from the sunsets of
wishful thoughts.

Dear Mother,
give my body away
to the art of writing:
for they have to look past
everything they have ever learned.

They must know
of how much I loved and I lost,
and how that made the twine of my ribs
a story to tell.
Haven't written anything new in months.
I wonder how you love me
when I'm a total mess?
Or how you wait patiently
sopping up tears with tenderness?

How is it that you love me
when I spit venom of blame?
Or turn my heart on and off
siphoning life from our veins?

How is it that you love me
when I'm always on edge?
Or when I'm crying then raging
with one toe over the ledge?

How is that you love me
when you watch me try to escape?
A dysfunctional drain swirling
with anger and self-hate.

What must it be like
to love a woman like me?
I bet it's hard to watch
the abuse from my worst enemy;  me.

I wonder how you love me?
Tell me please.
Lucky me to have the heart
of the man who sees all of me.
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