It was the night of the concert
My very first one
My lips were cracking
From being bitten and chewed on

I was excited, you were too
You loved the band
And I loved you

You lent me the ChapStick
It smelt like ****
It tasted like you
It filled me with need

Need to be closer
To hold you
To taste you
Gods you tasted good.

I kept it
I'm not sure why
Maybe I forgot
Or my lips were still dry

Maybe it was conscious
I stole the **** thing
It tasted like you
I ignored the sting

We realized our feelings
You're my best and closest friend
I dont have that ChapStick
I lost it in the end

It smelled like ****
Tasted like you
I hope you still know hon
I love you too.

I know a boy who sits under the bridge at night
Looking dead inside such a gangly sight
He told me he wishes he could sleep but it never comes,
And the bridge at night is where he runs
"Its nothing new..."

I wait for you.

I know a kid that smokes and cries in their sleep
They get high and then cry themselves to sleep
Told them "you should quit or you'll never heal"
He said "I hope that one day I can feel real"
"Its what I do..."

I wait for you.

Hello poets,

My name is sunny, and I'd very much like to propose to all of you:

A Challenge.

It is quite a simple one really, I want to see just how many are willing to help me.

Recently I've found out of a group of poets that are using AI to create their "art" for them.
I won't give names unless it continues to worsen. They know whom they are.

We cannot stand for this.

AI is not art, its thievery, its not creative, its lazy, it is awful.

Poets, true poets, their words come from heart and soul, their voices are powerful. It disgusts me that AI is taking away the magic that drew me to poetry in the first place.

That's why I ask of you, true poets, to create. I challenge you to make a poem that damns AI even farther, using the #AISucks .

I encourage any and all of you whom see a poem in the challenge to repost, heart, and spread the word.

And if you see any other "poets" using AI, please report them. That isn't creating, its borderline stealing.

Thank you all, and I wish you the best of luck.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                   “I am Going to Call for a Major Investigation…”

                             -Our Red Queen on Truth [sic] Social


In Wonderland a new oppressive conjuration -  
His name is Major Investigation
Sent at our screaming queen’s instigation
To drag us all down to her police station

Beginning with Kamala, Oprah, and Bono
For somewhat disapproving of him – oh, no!
The Major will punish their laissez-majesto -
In the name of freedom their heads must go!

(But of course the irony in all this biz
Is that their heads are even larger than his)

Garbs woven of silken stars and leather sewn in with gold
Stories of the past and future stories new and old
Stories tell of green laiden pastures those stories never told

I'd been said to rest but why shouldn't I go out and put it to the test
A dress, stitched with star dust, comet on my neck
I will go out there.

I cannot stay up here.

Gardens evergreen and fields lain with soil I thought that I would be keen
But now the fields are empty, barren, and the ravens scream.

I run home to the moon and sky begging to come home
But when I attempted to return
My comet was gone

Et tu, Domine, iam non es sacer.

my words are not coming from my head or my mouth, my brain or my ears, they don't spawn from my wondrous imagination or from my inspiration. they do not form from beautiful imagery, nor are they created in image of any person. my poems are not forged with tender love and care that others are, they are not tended to, edited, revised.

my words are not from the heart, they are not pumped through my body to my mind, my words are not from the heart or its binds. my poems are not formed of love and emotion they are not made with the same ideas others are.

my words come from the ink that pours down my wrists and thighs that were made in mutilation. a work of "art" through self deprication. my poems come from the hurt, the pain that i so obviously crave and create. my words and poems are my blood. my bond. my ties to worldly connections.