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 Mar 28
Too old to be young
Too self conscious to be fun
Too depressed to be light
Too sensitive to start a fight
Too combative for a man
I should chill but I'm no fan.
Too me to be free....

So, here in my mind is where I'll be.
 Dec 2020
S Smoothie
Hold up

Enough of this bird drip

Wipe your nose and look up

Pathetic blind mice play 2 wise sheep

The artificial heart beeps

While yours bleeds

Your blood is coin

A fools folly of *****

Your child sacrificed

Cut to pieces and torn

Yet for the afflictedbstrangers you mourn

For animals you weep

Some to **** some to keep

Scientific lies poison your mind

Call the message fear

Call the message hate

Call the message division

God does not exist

Re-call the message

Re-call the message

Re-call the message

Fall asleep zombie

Fall asleep sheep

The lion sleeps tonight

The red dragon stalks

Green eyed monster

Gives birth to the invisible beast

A burden

Gray matter feeding artificial martyrs

You can do it yourself only you can't

You can be free only youre not

Poked with incessant panic

Prodded with incessant fear

Switch off

Recall the message

Recall the message

Recall the message

We are not saved in this world but the next

For the wise
Not the intelligent.
 May 2020
My dear I know it should be clear,
but I fear to tread and tarry here,
because your madness is so appealing.

eyes of passion blue,
that burn with the ill-intent
of what you plan to do,

the furies you will harness
going from seriously harmless
to sinister in seconds.

Yet, red wet lips are made for stealing
the warm affections that I’m withholding,
withdrawing deposits, I should be saving
for another worthy lover,

but your disposition is enslaving,
ensnaring me in in your insanity
as if it was a bear trap.
I can feel my bones snap
as my will collapses.
So, I lay back
to submit to
what you will do.

Until, you leave me dying
and drying
from an unquenched thirst
and a deep hue of blue
that hurts worse
then the pain you caused
while you were here.
 Apr 2020
B E Ragland
skipping rocks across still ponds,
the gods are comedians.

my coffee is still hot.

middle fingers to a walk of shame.

you all get lost like bats in a thick fog.
so let me scratch my scrimshaw
in peace, please.

i write for the ghosts of my past lives.
that's why i leave ink anywhere but on the page.
 Apr 2020
Jacob Dunstan
Sheets of linen, palls of grey
Old bathroom walled
Scrawled dismay

School of halls, rooms of beige
Sheets of linen, palls of grey

Old bathroom walled
Stalls, dismay.
Memories of waiting for my father to finish up work as a teacher, I'd spend afternoons pensive, wandering about the mostly deserted schoolgrounds. There was a hymn like repetition to it all.
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