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 Aug 2018 No one
elle jaxsun
running
 Aug 2018 No one
elle jaxsun
i always have
the urge to run.

but what is it like
to be a tree?

to be confident enough
to root yourself
and grow with
wild abandonment,
being unapologetically
you?

i'm still running,
but i wish i knew.
 Aug 2018 No one
Poetoftheway
,how do you know when
(a human is too broken?)




<•>

human too broken?

like the light bulb, removal from its fixture, a simple shaking revelation of the tinkling filament spent, something that cannot be repaired, the only option is replacement and that makes
you cry

the empty box of oatmeal raisin cookies, you find secret’d,
hid by you, not to be found by you
at the bottom of the kitchen garbage,
but box betrayal, by the chartreuse tipped box lid sided
peeking upwards, asking, silencing screaming,
what did I do to deserve
this degrading

like the blouse now too tight that it brings stares as the buttons strain, unwelcome attention unintended,
you know it but still pretend not to see,
for you both once loved that silky guise that so
heightened the high tender, the match of your pink rose skin letting, no! making
your eyes glisten, like broken filament glass, on the sidewalk,
recalling the pleasured admiration,
rain remembered from the
prior priority of a life consisting of only
perfect gifts

so mean revert to the poseur question; this is how...

remove the human from a fixed place, whimpering-threatened,
you may hear clear the crackle cackling  of the innard shards against the misperception of a body intact,
even if you do,
no repair service you want,  can be found, see it nowhere,
is it even
anywhere advertised?

the body presumed intact is secret’d under a tactile coverlet,
holey scupperrd holy cuttered
so that the cells and bicuspids, the threads
no longer function in a tandem,
you keep it in the closet closed,
in the back, deep hid, where,
when it screams why,
it can be safe ignored,
because  ‘betrayed’ is no longer a word,
in your globe's dictionary,
the parental controls activated by you to
save your own inner child’s unconstrained confusion,
it has been removed


so the broken glass, the clothes you dressed each other,
if not weep-well,
well enough hid,
the fit is off,
the fit is off,
the coverlet ripped so bad and neither cares
an unexpected poem, unplanned, needing work
aug 4-5
 Jul 2018 No one
Jasmine dryer
if anyone gets the hatred towards others
its a lost poet
not because of their flair for "dramatic"
but because we see what others fail to acknowledge
we see a new perspective
even if it is sometimes
in black an white
so when you say you hate me
or when they curse your name
simply explain how it is wrong
in the words of a poet

"it seems that through our differences we have forgotten, that at dusk and dawn we all share the same color shadow"
 Jul 2018 No one
Toothache
53 4f 53
 Jul 2018 No one
Toothache
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 Jun 2018 No one
Geanna
Gone
 Jun 2018 No one
Geanna
They tell me to be happy
They say they want me to be happy

How can I find happiness in something
that doesn't make me happy?
How can I be happy in a world
full of pain and suffering?

I have to find it myself, right?
What if I don't find it worthy?
What if I successfully commit suicide?

You can't help a dead girl
You can't save a dead girl

All you can do is sit there
wondering what went wrong
wondering how did you miss it all
wondering why couldn't you save me

But i'll be gone by then
There's nothing you could do about it
The pain will always be there
..
Scarring you forever
~ G.P.O
 Jun 2018 No one
Raven
Forgotten
 Jun 2018 No one
Raven
Forgotten wishes
When we turn
Four

Forgotten dreams
When we turn
Six

Forgotten friendships
When we turn
Eight

Forgotten imagination
When we turn
Ten

Forgotten smiles
When we turn
Twelve

Forgotten crushes
When we turn
Fourteen

Forgotten love
When we turn
Sixteen

Forgotten stories
When we turn
Eighteen

Forgotten family
When we turn
Twenty

We forget
And we remember

Every new memory comes at a cost
For every memory gained
A memory is lost
 Jun 2018 No one
France
A poet’s weapon of choice:
Their Pen.

This weapon –
The only tool,
Capable to express
A poet’s emotion.

It lets:
Ink flow on paper,
By its delicate touch;
Emotions to be engraved,
Onto the paper;

Hope; transcends onto it.

This is done by a majestic tool:
Their pen.

I wish to be a poet.
But –

My pen flows with blood,
My pen viciously carves onto
The paper;
Marked – by blood stains.

I wish to be a poet…

However.

My pen; my weapon –
Is not used for writing
But;
For cutting.
My weapon is a double-edged sword.
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