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 Nov 2014 philosober
Molly Hughes
I’m always hungry,
so I’m always eating,
and I’m always growing,
even though I can always hear the wind whistling
around my chest,
cold lashes that escape when I open my mouth,
freeze the air when I try to speak.
So I tell myself,
“One more slice of cake,
on a lonely Sunday,
surely can’t hurt”,
right?
I wait for a reply,
from the empty room,
but I’m already licking
the crumbs off my fingers.
I want to
gorge
on happiness,
drink down mugs
of sweet nothings
that will make my heart stretch
instead of my stomach.
God knows,
I have enough room
in this swollen rib cage.
Two
Im always conscious of your ten fingers
nine in the morning and that touch still lingers
you're the eight ball that conquers me
if you fall
seven days of the week
I faintly hear you speak
for the six missed calls
id **** to return them all
the five stars in the sky id multiply
just to get you by
four walls never felt so strong
when they reflect what you speak as a song
those three words always felt so true

two
Is better than *one
Aye, though ye may have the spark within,
thou needn'st be a **** about it:
for, it is that very spark that you may squelch,
and if thou findst joy in that inhumane act,
thou art of the very Evil
we strive to overcome
as artists
and Humans.
 Apr 2014 philosober
Ghenwa
Tonight
 Apr 2014 philosober
Ghenwa
Tonight,
I'll pretend I'm drunk.
That way, they'll excuse my sadness.
Tonight I drown in regrets,
in my shower,
in the blood on my arms.
Tonight, I'll laugh hysterically
at all the pain
at everything that hurt me.
Tonight,
my skin won't ever feel the same
my lips won't ever taste the same.
Tonight all smiles will fade away
Blame? Shame? Fear? Pity?
No.
Surrender.
 Apr 2014 philosober
Ghenwa
sadness
 Apr 2014 philosober
Ghenwa
I am bound to sadness,
like Dorian Gray,
was bound to his beauty.
It seems to me, that every time I try,
It gets harder to turn back,
to the person I used to be.
Innocence disappeared,
and this world is a cruel place to live in.
All it does is just break me down,
bone after bone.
I have become addicted to sadness,
because happiness doesn't seem normal.
But what's normal anyway,
when they say it is the best of worlds,
but we know nothing of others,
or when it's simply not true.
I die everyday a little.
I cry a little more everyday,
into ashes those tears will turn.
Best friend and worst enemy,
loneliness and sadness,
come together as one.
This is probably what I deserve,
and how I should live
and die
Well, my daddy left home when I was three,
and he didn't leave much to Ma and me,
just this old guitar and a bottle of *****.
Now I don't blame him because he run and hid,
but the meanest thing that he ever did was
before he left he went and named me Sue.

Well, he must have thought it was quite a joke,
and it got lots of laughs from a lot of folks,
it seems I had to fight my whole life through.
Some gal would giggle and I'd get red
and some guy would laugh and I'd bust his head,
I tell you, life ain't easy for a boy named Sue.

Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean.
My fist got hard and my wits got keen.
Roamed from town to town to hide my shame,
but I made me a vow to the moon and the stars,
I'd search the ***** tonks and bars and ****
that man that gave me that awful name.

But it was Gatlinburg in mid July and I had
just hit town and my throat was dry.
I'd thought i'd stop and have myself a brew.
At an old saloon in a street of mud
and at a table dealing stud sat the *****,
mangy dog that named me Sue.

Well, I knew that snake was my own sweet dad
from a worn-out picture that my mother had
and I knew the scar on his cheek and his evil eye.
He was big and bent and gray and old
and I looked at him and my blood ran cold,
and I said, "My name is Sue. How do you do?
Now you're gonna die." Yeah, that's what I told him.

Well, I hit him right between the eyes and he went down
but to my surprise he came up with a knife
and cut off a piece of my ear. But I busted a chair
right across his teeth. And we crashed through
the wall and into the street kicking and a-gouging
in the mud and the blood and the beer.

I tell you I've fought tougher men but I really can't remember when.
He kicked like a mule and bit like a crocodile.
I heard him laughin' and then I heard him cussin',
he went for his gun and I pulled mine first.
He stood there looking at me and I saw him smile.

And he said, "Son, this world is rough and if
a man's gonna make it, he's gotta be tough
and I knew I wouldn't be there to help you along.
So I gave you that name and I said 'Goodbye'.
I knew you'd have to get tough or die. And it's
that name that helped to make you strong."

Yeah, he said, "Now you have just fought one
helluva fight, and I know you hate me and you've
got the right to **** me now and I wouldn't blame you
if you do. But you ought to thank me
before I die for the gravel in your guts and the spit
in your eye because I'm the nut that named you Sue."
Yeah, what could I do? What could I do?

I got all choked up and I threw down my gun,
called him pa and he called me a son,
and I came away with a different point of view
and I think about him now and then.
Every time I tried, every time I win and if I
ever have a son I think I am gonna name him
Bill or George - anything but Sue.
 Mar 2014 philosober
Ryan Topez
My whiskey habit is complimented then insulted by the ever temperamental voice of Jim Morrison,
I listen to Alabama Song by The Doors
I throw my pen and page
In an anger induced rage
As my mind recites the wrong words
To his poems and songs
His voice plays on repeat
All i can do is blame myself as the primitive synth dances it's oscillating tunes through one of my depleted senses.
My hearing
Mojo Rising's face crudely made into pop art painting by a fan, an idoliser's image
Suddenly the fender telecaster takes over the smokey airways
Hypnotising, mesmerising
as it fills the space between the barely conscious being and the walls that surround
The tempo of the snare, tom and high hat slows
I now have time to gather my ever harsh and bitter thoughts
Harsh like the whiskey, bitter like me
Errors are inevitable, go **** yourselves
How heavy the days are.
There's not a fire that can warm me,
Not a sun to laugh with me,
Everything bare,
Everything cold and merciless,
And even the beloved, clear
Stars look desolately down,
Since I learned in my heart that
Love can die.
When you find a man
Who transforms
Every part of you
Into poetry,
Who makes each one of your hairs
Into a poem,
When you find a man,
Capable,
As I am
Of bathing and adorning you
With poetry,
I will beg you
To follow him without hesitation,
It is not important
That you belong to me or him
But that you belong to poetry.
 Mar 2014 philosober
Ghenwa
As I stand in the flashing city lights,
I feel the earth move under my feet.
This is my home,
My beautiful home.
As the world stumbles upon
the horrors they see on TV,
I stand still,
My home,
My beautiful home.
I whisper to myself,
Everything will be alright,
I whisper to you,
Like a mother singing a lullaby;
Beyrouth,
My dearest Beyrouth,
One day.
One day, you'll see your wonders,
One day, your children will be here
One Day, they'll come back,
For you.
Beyrouth, Beyrouth,
You old soul,
You beautiful mind,
Stand still.
We are here.
as i see the horrors on TV, i have realised that we never show Beyrouth as the beautiful town it is but as the horrible things that have been done there. I wander endlessly in this city and could spend every second of my life there.
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