I say I'm
not looking
for love but
I'm looking
I'm catching
cold glances
from eyes filled
with the weight of
sorrow been cast in gold
My purposeful fingers
reach up for money from
the gutters, this,
is just what I'm told.
Enter my ears,
enter my eyes,
enter my skin,
into my lungs.
I'm not breathing
oxygen if I exhale
byproduct. I'm out
of luck, won't press it.
I'm out of reason in
speech. Beyond
preventable death.
Regret, turned to
malice. Chest
compression. I
could have been
a good person.
What value in gold,
if I have you?

I am thankful for the opportunity to feel.

To be here, as opposed to absence.

I am a statistical near impossibility.

Death missed me, as stars led me from nothingness

through time to landings where feet touched, and

breath breathed, and blood pumped.

I am fortunate for the blessing of clarity and thankful

of those moored in the void around me.

Is love? Is love, s/he said, (…) is love.

Games are for boys -- I was in the wrong.
No other opinion ever matters,
and how I know this, it makes me sick
Middle of your twenties dedicated to
card and computer games, but
never once was your attitude cool as
you thought it was.

Maybe I'm wrong, but I play for fun.
Maybe I'm naive, but I play to feel free.

Games are for boys only --
sometimes for girls who "aren't like other girls"
but then look what happens, Mary,
you get exposed to **** enough,
you'll become an *******.

I want to have fun, but I can barely breathe.
You all want to be competitive until you lose
in a way you never thought you would,
then suddenly the competition's a farce
and you're not okay, because of that list
you made, the one that has acceptable
and unacceptable ways to win and play.

I could be mean if I wanted to, but sometimes
the truth does work.

Sometimes the truth does work.

Honey, if you're hurt that you didn't learn
what you should learn in kindergarten
you are more than welcome to join your
toddler friends in the playpen

the owner operator
of the poetry
site
doesn't adhere to
his own guideline's
rite
it states that all members
must be
polite
yet he allowed slurs
from the Michigan
*****

one clearly recalls
what happened on that
day
a lowlife bloke used the term
***** in an offensive
way
whereupon the poetess who'd received
his nasty comment, left the site's
bay
she'd not be subject
to this derogatory
spray

no action taken against
the one in the
wrong
he still remains part
of the site's
throng  
an injustice within
the owner's weak
song
the smell of it is unforgettable
of reeking
pong

would seem that the trash talker (****)
does whatever he
likes
and the webmaster is complicit
in the words he
trikes

I am at peace
Tho my heart has freezed
No more love
My soul is floating above
Looking down at the decompose
I take a while to pose
To see if it's really me in the shallow grave
Laying damp and half decap, in a foam cave
So far from home, in a lonesome forest
Dumped by my own, here I rest
Who would have thought, of me this way
Wonderful words about me, all say
Yet, so brutality tortured and left here
Covered in blood, face torn in fear
Just my wealth was the family greed
So viciously got rid of me, a soul freed
Now almost thirteen days
I am missing, broken from ties
My eyes deceived all the beautiful lies
Trapped here, all alone
Thrown on me, are some big stones
I wished for love
I wished for life
I wished to live
But now, I see my body and grieve
Such a honor, I received
May the wealth, grant them health
From here, I wish for them to atleast thank
But I can imagine, their rejoice at the bank
An orphan, I was with fosters around
So make believe love, in my surround
Now its my decomposition rotting in this ground
Silence dusting with winds, such a peaceful sound
Waiting to be discovered, this known decap
In the news soon, my ****** mystery shall recap...


©sim