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 Sep 2018 Joy Onyango
Mitch Prax
Are 'alone' and 'lonely' the same thing?
Are you as alone in a crowd
as you are by yourself?
Is your loneliness the mist
floating on the water
or the lurking creatures
beneath the sea?
 Sep 2018 Joy Onyango
Mitch Prax
the knives in our backs
are the only things
keeping us upright;
Who'd have thought
betrayal could be our
greatest asset?
How ironic.
 Sep 2018 Joy Onyango
Mitch Prax
I have not been whole
in quite some time.
Too many nights spent
pouring my soul into songs
in hopes to fill those holes
you all left in me long ago;
words, chords and harmonies
that will never bring you back,
nor will it undo the past
or take me back in time.
And yet at this very hour,
these songs are stuck in my head
and I have no resistance
to their siren call.
 Jun 2018 Joy Onyango
Mitch Prax
I was reading over your poetry,
Like somehow, if I repeat it
enough times
you would come back
and I would find myself
in your words
We let
them induce
trauma to babies and
feed children to cages
mean gestures
felt across the divide
We are the monsters
in Grimm's Fairy Tales
the beasts of nightmares
and bad dreams
deplorable is our apathy
 Jun 2018 Joy Onyango
It's been some time, a lengthy while
Since I've written poems freestyle
Rhymes, you see, are pretty things
But they're like birds with broken wings

But when freestyle starts feeling fake
And no longer relieves my ache
I take refuge in dear old rhyme
Till my music can truly chime
 Jun 2018 Joy Onyango
I. When death smells like sunshine
and graveyards like candy
I feel like a dagger
might just come in handy

II. This Dagger I have
It's made out of spite
It's silvery white
but now it looks red

This Dagger and I
We got into a fight
It killed me last night
and now I am dead

III. As life starts to fade
and dusk turns to night
As we end our charade
and we give up the fight
We say our goodbyes
and we gulp down a shot
We laugh at our lives
we untangle the knot
Then, as the string we are tied to does break
we fall to our death and we never awake

IV. Dark and alone in the cold and dry earth
Worms eat my flesh and devour my girth
Can it be that the dead in the grave get no rest?
Can it be that I died, and I still am depressed?

V. The ocean is rippling, the sun's shining brightly
Birds sing and chirp and the breeze whistles lightly
What a beautiful day to have breakfast in bed
What a beautiful day. It's just too bad I'm dead.
When I feel depressed, I find that writing dark sarcastic verses somehow lifts my spirits... I pieced some of these verses together, to ruin your day:)
 Jun 2018 Joy Onyango
Hannah Marr
this is
a poem
right? just
put words
on a
page in
an aesthetically
pleasing manner,
two words
to a
line to
simulate deliberate
communication to
a designated
audience who
may or
may not
even bother
reading through
to the
end. this
is poetry,
right? some
vague form
of connection
to strangers
i will
never meet
face to
face, an
illusory contact
simulating comfort
through a
blank screen,
apathetic in
and of
itself. this
makes me
a poet,
right? you
want to
bet on
how many
people will
actually read
this long,
rambling rant
in its
entirety? it
is so
easy to
mask emotion,
this rising
swell in
a hollow
chest, when
the chosen
medium is
mere words.

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