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 Nov 2019
Nigel Finn
No more poems, thank you;
I think that I'm done.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.

Please turn off the music;
My songs are all sung.
I think the night's over,
Although it's still young.

No more words, I beg you;
Just slice off my tongue!
They're just wasted air,
From a withering lung.

I've no more left to say;
Time to blot out the sun.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.
This space to be left blank
 Nov 2019
fray narte
"I guess we're all in varying degrees of 'not okay'."
 Dec 2018
Mike Hauser
People are loopy
People ain't right
Inside of their heads
Out of their minds

People are nutty
Loco coco bean
Imaginary buddies
Putty for brains

People are batty
Fruit loops that fly
Come in different colors
Confetti minds

People are special
They say with a wink
Jumped the train trestle
Over the brink

Pick one or the other
No answer is wrong
It's all the above
When people are off
 Nov 2018
Buried Words
You dreamed to live,
While I longed to die.
 Nov 2018
bow
I'm afraid to die
because
I might come back to life
10w
 Nov 2018
Bus Poet Stop
~for those who will read this and weep~

the quiet ones,
the silent Job ones,
who quote not from the
Book of Lamentations,
but author their own,
based on-the-job experience

localized versions of cryptic elegiacs
accepting the wooden crosses borne,
stepping up to the
unrequested unforeseen,
then buried under, burnt alive,
yet never relieved by dying,
nailed by words, stronger than iron,
promises sworn, promises kept
with no ending date relief,
promises by and to themselves,
but not for themselves!


the wearers of crystal glass shackles,
adorned with decorative locks for which
no key did the maker make,
nor any divine creator
dare conceive an early release,
never no escape contemplated,
for the lock human, unrepentant unbreakable,
a decorative useless metaphor gesture,
a blunt “life *****” advertisement

I compose amidst a
bus pond of mismatched city folk,
a tapestry of ages colors and differing views on god/no god,
none would believe that as the bus sways me,
it’s in rhythm to holy choral music,
hundreds year old,
divinity masses and motets worships,
where one human can hide temporarily
a safe house,
to calm his questioning relentless
from the horrors of no answers,
for when the mind has no solution
to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement,
the poets desperation equals theirs


summon eagles to transport these imprisoned,
but the shackled refuse,
I come to them but they wave me off,
I go crazy for once I was enslaved,
thirty years war that left devastation,
from which so many poems created

so I speak with heightened regard
of one who planned futures for others where his
non-existence was a founding father (ha!)


but the day came and
I was released by my own inactions,
but means nothing until a way to
away found
to release the yet bound early


got a couch, airline miles, hundred dollars
in my pocket and an unrelenting need
to save them, a consumption disease,
the glass shackled, at ease,
won’t rest till all are freed
this my creed
no one left behind

these cyber words do not mock
for they are unbounded, set free,
when
the flesh connects and the needs of the flesh
are stronger for they are in heart conceived
 Nov 2018
DrippingWatercolors
*      ·   
   ✦                      . ˚   
                                                          ✦      · .
  ·     . .   *    *  . * .         ·
·           ·✷ *              +     ·   ⊹  . ˚  ˚    ˚     * . who will mourn the world ˚
+   ·  when there is nothing left?+                ˚
+   ·        *   ✺ ˚ ⊹           ✵      ˚ +    . .          ˚    ✷ ·  .   .       · *      ⊹   . ⋆ ˚
*       *      ·   
   ✦                      . ˚
·           ·✷ *                  +     · ✵           ✫    * .      * .  .
I felt like space
 ✦  
so so alone
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