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 May 2020
the black rose
she’s too strong,
she’s too much,
she’s too tough to love.

she’s too hard,
she’s too broken,
she’s not enough.

she’s imperfect,
she’s wild,
she’s lost in the wind.
she’s insane,
sending signs of chaos from within.
-
hi.
 May 2020
Michael Stefan
simple song
of sleep
playing
harps
in hotel
lobbies

see me off
this cliff
of
consciousness

lay me
back
and remove
my coat
of heavy
winter wool

let me
drift
away
on clouds
of dreams
where
nightmares
fear
to lurk
Look at yourself

Squeeze any fat you have

A pinch

A handful

How much is too much?

What really is fat or skinny?

Victoria's Secret "Love My Body" campaign shows seven svelte models while Dove's "Real Beauty campaign features an array of 'Real Women' with curves in all the right places 

Both campaigns exclude most body types and show major problems with society

One shows plus sized is okay is only okay if you're plus in the right places

The other proves skinny is king

These are the standards we set for little ones to abide by

With a small bust plus wasn't an option

So I turned skeletons into goddesses 

Prayed the would teach me how not to need

Worshiped hipbones over pizza

A tiny waist over lunch

Anorexia has the highest mortality rate of any mental illness

Yet todays media forms computers in the minds of children to count calories as thought food were merely numbers

I learned how to purge from a pro Ana website when I was nine

Stuck a toothbrush down my throat and forced up dinner

Turned to laxatives at 12

Learned ill was okay if skinny was the side effect

Today I look at myself

Squeeze any fat I have

A handful

A pinch

How much is too much
 May 2020
Mamolefe
I sip on my green tea
wishing for it to cleanse me.
Wishing for it, to cleanse out the oils and the misery I consume.
Wishing for it to break down my toxins.
Wishing for it ... to cleanse the sections of myself that even I cannot reach.

Green Tea

A substance that supposedly detoxes the belly, but not strong enough to detox the soul

Not strong enough to take away my shadows, my doubt, my ego or my woes.
A drink, not strong enough to hug my spirit at its loneliest hours.
Yet, I sip
.. praying the wet herbs that tickle my tongue shall unlock the gateway, or the path, or the door... to my soul.

So I sip...
And sip...
And sip...

Swallowing it’s brew...and my tears.
 May 2020
Sketcher
Be
You are, but you strive for more,
I am, but the acceptance isn't complete,
Knowing what the future has in store,
Is like looking at a dead end street.
Your joy now will be sorrow later,
For all things come to an end.
Does life's value get any greater,
When you know what's around the river bend?
No matter unfulfilled dreams never came true,
nevertheless yours truly doth gladly bid adieu,
where repurposed afterlife (mine) atomic brew
reconfigured, reconstituted, and reconsolidated
out maws of madness, no matter any blues clue
(yea undoubtedly, hypothetically, and admittedly

handy dandy) eventuality matter factly welcomed
neither feeling suicidal, but speculating often anew,
especially imbibing onset of early spring afternoon
googling Mother Goose nursery rhyme think Kudzu,
(albeit metaphorically) roots kickstarted scant hours
prior to distilling unexpected boyhood memory flew

out lift wafted subconsciously banked boyhood bliss
naively innocent childhood before depression grew
bathing, steeping, drenching psyche impossible exit
to escape apathy, delinquency, and insularity to shoo
away deleterious, egregious, ferocious linkedin angst
predominant across avast good n plenti birthdays (true

value underestimated) ineradicable suicidal ideations
(particularly courtesy anorexia nervosa) hide eschew
permanent stunting emotional, physical, and spiritual
integral vitally webbed no fly zone compromising zoo
wool logical garden variety generic specimen ****
sapien, one poker face Earthling born this way *****

shh he hating self - fostering longing toward deathly
hallows, which outlook averse to quickening Matthew
Scott Harris nsync with grim reaper, and matter fact
bolstering body, mind and spirit whereby altruistic rue
dement tree random acts of kindness infuse being alive,
particularly beset with psychological history in pursue

went of existential fatalistic nihilism apathetic regarding
optimal inchoate development while in utero stuck poo
poo wing me barely relishing gamut of pleasantries stew
wing within vegetating goulash (mush applicable chew
festering childhood's end into young adulthood) eating
je nais se quois healthy propensity esprit de corps crew

shall whereby maximization of gifted abilities shrugged
off (Atlas) suddenly experiencing consciousness brew
witting habituation feeling inadequate counting scores
notching chronological occupancy contingent since moo
knee decades elapsed, whereby cow whirring behavior
found geeky, nasally, and scrawny boy intimidated who

scared of his own shadow allow, enabling, and providing
perfect (no kidding naysaying) scapegoat fodder burr roo
till, short and nasty trolling ogres appeased appetite foo
fighting harmless lad (me) hurling fiendishly destructive
name calling (cruelly, relentlessly, and wickedly) be ewe

toughly heaping shear insults and sheepishly lambasting
second progeny singular son begat seminal viscous glue
embedding, latching, coalescing pinteresting stronghold
nsync ova riding competing mobile ace swimmers few
tile haploid gametes succumbing to soundless didgeridoo.
 May 2020
Donall Dempsey
THE MIDNIGHT HOUR

I was born in
the middle of the 20th Century.

It was the only life
I knew.

A newly minted time
that had no end.

Now I find the 20th Century
is moving out on me.

Leaving me
to get by...by my self.

People have vanished.
Homes are no more.
Lovers long gone.

The young boy I was
no longer exists.

I have become this stranger
that the mirror insists I am.

"Look..!" says the 20th Century
"I'll put in a good word for you

with the 21st when
it arrives...best I can do!"

And so I kiss you in
the 20th Century and then

a second later
in the 21st Century.

The 20th Century already
smelling of mothballs

hanging in History's
wardrobe

It is curiously flat and
has lost its 3-D ness.

"Look..!" says the 21st Century
"...if you are going to be

like that
there's the door!"

Ahhh Death that
final exit lit up

in neon
green.

I take a tentative
step towards the door.

Reach for the handle
and. . .
Gnome hatter heroic measures taken
moost ludicrously asinine,
nonetheless hoop fully
me legendary penta meat herd bovine design

of modest fellow (me) will endure as divine,
no matter not one ****** poetic line
pertains to original (above crafted)
storied title of mine
completely buried under

thick pronouns hubble verbiage,
I honestly profess opine
precious time frittered away
resultant effort feeble and lame

no matter best college try
with top notch smartest swine,
but... belabored effort
got hogtied and shriveled on metaphorical vine.

Molded analogous to an oh my word
leaning tower of Pisa vase -
brandished (think) by humongous sword
fair complexioned blonde haired aery hen Nord

slapped with two lofty titles
(scapegoat and dunce),
whereby classmates ignored
insecure (missing mommy dearest)
as though linkedin courtesy umbilical cord.

Methinks, cuz me belly button
an innie versus outie
(former and latter both actual medical term),
a stretch, but nevertheless
with active imagination (mine)
doth envision coveted navel as

symbiosis for thee
parasitic Alaskan bull worm,
which notion might suddenly
captcha your attention,
and find thee to squirm.

Anyway aforementioned gobbledygook
attempting to describe theoretical
quantum physics incorporating parasitism
(yea kinda regarding figurative
Trojan Horse that snuck
into inchoate being eventually took

over in utero corporeal
essence Matthew Scott Harris) hook
line and sinker now necessitates sudden look
ever since more'n lint accumulated
within above mention round
little circular cranny and nook.

Yes... moost likely correlation exists
during course of nine month home,
when placenta didst
buzzfeed embryonic fetus
one need apply figurative fine tooth comb
straining poetic credulity
in an effort license to flesh out silly poem.

Which original intent hours gone by
meant to sketch out
(for rhyme without reason)
how yours truly nearly
got held back and waylaid
inclusive K-12 and

every single intervening grade
a curse 'cept for sixth year o primary school,
with student teacher Miss Rainbow,
she did not upbraid,
yet perhaps now she metamorphosed
becoming fossilized stodgy and staid

unlikely our paths will ever cross,
while both of us unwittingly
march to our own drummer
nsync with inexplicable
circadian rhythms obeyed

here (unbeknownst why)
palms perspire profusely
while sequestered at 2 Highland Manor Drive
hermetically sealed within apartment b44
one of many properties owned
by Grosse and Quade.
 May 2020
Jenifer S
What happened to all the beautiful girls?

Ones with fire in their eyes and gold in their chest

What happened to the precious pearls?

Who flowed like the wind and shone like the stars.



Did the ocean take away their sweet treasures?

And leave behind these empty shells

Whose shallow exterior can never measure

To the gem that lay within.



Did they ascend from the Earth?

And leave behind their shed skin

Whose plasticity cannot worth

The firmness that they held within.



Did the fire burn out their light?

And in their place plant seeds dud

Whose bitter fruits cannot incite

The fiery passion they fuelled.



Did the Earth swallow them whole?

And replace them with thorns

Which cannot fill the empty holes

That they left behind.



Or maybe it was the work of man

Who took those girls for granted

Moulded them to suit their wants

And bred them to the expectations they implanted.
When we we younger, we had no prejudice or judgement against one another but as we grew older, we began to separate and segregate and build a heirarchy based on stereotypes and social expectations, where once best friends were embarrassed to be seen talking to each other. What happened during those years of growth for us to turn out this way?
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