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 Apr 2015 Tuesday Pixie
Sam
Yes I want a ******* poem without fallacy
A poem full of fantasy
a fabulously woven fabric without a faux facade

our poems need some faeces not facelifts
fanciful fairies dancing fandangos
NOT followers of this current fad
who have fastened Poetry... with fatality

****! I'm fine with fate. But I want to be fascinated
by a farfetched farcical fable about a fat farmer farting
something that isn't churned out from this fake factory

So, to start off here is a funny poem with a **** joke:
I call my ****, 'the truth', because people can't handle it.
It hurts when the trending tags on this site are 'death' and 'pain'. Let's not put **** jokes in all our poems... but let's bring the happiness back :)
 Apr 2015 Tuesday Pixie
Sam
Death sits atop his hill,
giving his lips a lick
looking for someone to ****
regretting forgetting his chapstick
Remember kids. Never lick your lips when they are dry.
 Apr 2015 Tuesday Pixie
Chris
.

In everything new,
some old will linger still in
memories we share
I would like to say I fought you off
I would like to say I wasn't charmed
That I pushed you away with a scoff
That I was beautifully armed

I would like to say my choosing you took time
I would like to say this thing we have created is all mine
That winning me over was a rigorous uphill climb
That this falling I am feeling was a choice, a purposefully crossed line

But I have never been a very good liar
And you see every inch of my soul with every adoring look
And with every kiss you take me higher
With every touch I tried to hide my fingers that shook

I would like to say I could walk away anytime I wanted
No consequences, no tears, just like a tumbleweed blowing through
But falling is like being hunted
You don't know it yet but someone already has you
Long ago,
I remember,
we paid the lone-guard
twenty pesos apiece
to camp on
top of the temple,
to experience
something cosmic.
And after he left,
we stripped down
to our bareness
& kissed under
the milky-stars
with howlers squealing
a backdrop melody.
I lost myself that night.
Tracing your lips with my tongue,
I felt the cool jungle air
swirling around us,
you did not fight me
as I melted inside you.
I swear the jaguars
rejoiced that night,
as we had rekindled
the acts of the sacred gods.
It was more than cosmic,
more than stellar,
I felt the poles shift
our hearts.
Skip a little higher
while you can still skip
Run a little faster
while you can still run
Laugh a little louder
while you can still laugh
Smile a little wider
while you can still smile
Eat a little more
while you can still eat
Breathe a little deeper
while you can still breathe
Live a little more
while you can still live
Stand a little further
while you can still stand
to be around the broken
*and not become broken yourself
 Apr 2015 Tuesday Pixie
Kelsey
Somewhere there is a nurse putting clean sheets on what was once someone's death bed. Somewhere there is a police officer laying awake at two in the morning contemplating breaking his thumbs so he won't have to pull another trigger. Somewhere there is a body bag taking the shape of a person. Somewhere a warden has accidentally called a prisoner by their first name. Somewhere there is a man getting ready to pay for his glass of whiskey, his '1 year' AA token falls out of his wallet onto the bar counter. Somewhere the glass is completely empty, somewhere it's overflowing. Somewhere a therapist sitting in an empty session reading the local newspaper's obituary section wondering what she could've done. Somewhere a bullet has fallen in love with a heart, giving a whole new meaning to the 'kiss of death'. Somewhere the girl that never speaks is raising her hand but immediately putting it back down after the sound of her classmates' laughter bounces back and forth from the back of her mind to the front. Somewhere the silence at the dinner table is making a dent in a child's suit of armor. Somewhere a 70 year old man starts skipping instead of walking, he stops taking his medication. Somewhere there is a mother too drunk to sign her daughter's permission slip. Somewhere a man has stolen all of the flowers from a grave, so he can somehow feel as though he's  being missed. Somewhere a child is asked what she wants to be when she grows up, she realizes ''myself'' isn't a good enough answer. Somewhere a mirror has been mistaken for a stranger. Somewhere someone is being loved by another person the only way they know how to love; whether it's through kisses, bruises, sleeping too closely to the other, or fifteen missed calls. Somewhere a man is falling in love with the automated voice inside of a voice mail because at least she will listen to him. Somewhere a 911 operator is walking into her house, hearing screams that aren't actually there. Somewhere these short stories are being broadcasted on the news,  printed in the paper, whispered to a friend, or rotting in the back of someone's head. Somewhere I am whispering all of these things to a silent room full of people, none of them look up.
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