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 Jan 2014 Poppi Mae
sinderella
I regret every meal
I hate my every flaw
I despise how I feel
all I do is sleep and draw
nothing keeps me positive
what is this life I have lived?
© sinderella.

this mood is ******* me off.
 Jan 2014 Poppi Mae
Cathyy
'Angels'
 Jan 2014 Poppi Mae
Cathyy
There are no demons really,
Just misguided angels,
I believe.

We are all angels really,
Even if we harm and we cry
Even if on most nights, we wish to die
There's nothing wrong with wanting to get to Heaven faster,
In order to guard someone else's life.

It is wrong however,
To believe that you are not good enough
To be one's ideal angel
For you cannot fly and you do not shine,

It is wrong to feel like you are unworthy
And could never help
Because I promise you someone who loves you,
Needs their angel tonight
 Jan 2014 Poppi Mae
Cathyy
'Life'
 Jan 2014 Poppi Mae
Cathyy
You say that life is cruel
Well maybe life isn't,
Maybe it's just the people who are.
 Jan 2014 Poppi Mae
Nat Lipstadt
One evening with a few friends in a borrowed minivan, we got a flat tire.   Changing the tire was so complicated (like PhD. complicated), we finally had the owner of the van drive over to finish the job while three other men stood and watched.   This poem came out of that night.



I think you become
a grownup
the moment,
the very second,
you realize at
some very, very
early age,
you have
limitations.

Perhaps not quite
a total grownup,
mature like,
but some
irreversible threshold crossed on
a life long voyage,
a descent of no return,
a Checkpoint Charlie crossed.

You will never be all you
want to be.

Some will disagree.

the day of maturation,
they'll claim,
comes on that day,

when clouds
of different shapes
call out your name,
raining saturation
of responsibilities,
(feed your family, son).

you
initial your acceptance
by quenching thirst by
drinking 'free' raindrops.

ain't arguing,
the when exactly,
for this highway-journey has
so many rest stops.

But
when your body
cracks with disappointment,
harvests the bitter knowing
that
can't,
means there will be no defying this truth, now self-evident:

there are somethings
you ain't gonna ever be,
or never be able to do.

here's the rub awful.

the street called
Recognition Rue
is the longest road to
a dead end
you are forced to travel,

and the cruelest part
of this joke is
you rue the day
and the next day
and the very next day,
when, each time,
the Dead End sign
moves along all by itself,
another block or two,
with you following,
behind by a
block or two.

after awhile,
you cease to curse,
satisfied with the certainty of discontent
you and your
bag of tools,
cannot have every,
will always be lacking,
the precise instrument
to do
every job right.

half good is likely
your total best,
so sadly shuffle along
at the bequest of
the little voice insisting, whining,
have to, gotta go...

You
want to jack me up
on a cross of
protestations,
words like learning,
and
promises to teach,
no limitations,
words that overreach
and hint of
lesson recitation.

I can't change a tire
but don't give a ****.

this is not how
I measure my self worth.

the sadness that prevails,
that contaminates my brow,
ain't mastery of survival skills
likely I'll never need again
don't need your
complementation/approbation
of what I can,
or rants
why I can't.

For nothing will ere exceed
the exasperation,
chest ripping
agony of frustration,
that one single poem
worthy of saving
has ever,
nor will yet,
never, will
leave my fingertips.


It is
forever detained
in the prison of my limitations.

now that's worth
acknowledging,
now that's worth asking
now that's worth
answering -

why, why, then,
grown up you,
keeps on trying,
surely sure,
that looking back
regretfully,
is useless,

(and you have heard
the lock click thunderous clap of:
"sorry son,
your presence is...
not needed,
no worries, we won't
ask you to do
when better
surrounds us everywhere").

Answer is:
that it is worth trying,
writing,
a poem about why,
I can't change a tire
and it don't matter,
just so I can say
to myself,

*I'll never be all the way grown up.
 Jan 2014 Poppi Mae
Chris
They forgot to tell you it's not always easy,
that just because the ocean seems so
calm at night
doesn't mean it doesn't ache
for morning.
They forgot to tell you it takes time,
that weeks may feel like hours
and months may feel like years.
That it only grows deeper in patience
and stronger in absence.
They forgot to tell you it speaks louder
in silence than it ever could in words,
that it listens closer when my hands
talk to yours,
that it lives inside your bones,
and not inside your heart.
They forgot to tell you it makes you
weak at the knees,
and strong in the head.
That it can fill every broken crack,
and heal every open wound.
They forgot to tell you it will leave scars.
They forgot to tell you that you can
give it all away without ever having
it given back to you.
They forgot to tell you that is okay.
They forgot to tell you that memories
don't fade away.
They forgot to tell you that it hurts.
They forgot to tell you what it means.
I'm here to tell you that it's worth it.
I'm here to tell you that you're worth it.
 Jan 2014 Poppi Mae
sinderella
thoughts in my head
never go to bed
they remain
they stain
they ache
they hurt
they love
destruction
in the first degree
I wonder why
I'm so caught up
emotionally
like a snake bite
the poison sinks deep
it brings out
the best
but worst of me
it consumes my mind
leaves a mark
on my brain
where good
once was
in place
© sinderella.

4am poetry, so yeah.
 Jan 2014 Poppi Mae
Emma
you (singular) ask me if i am mad at you (singular).
the answer is no;
i am not mad at you (singular).

i am mad at you (plural).
she is a punk rock goddess;
you (singular) are a soft and fragile mermaid.

you (singular) do not belong with her.
you (plural) make a tragic pair;
like diet coke and rubbing alcohol.

maybe i should let it go.
you (plural) are out of my hands;
i shouldn't have to bother myself with you (plural).

so please do not ask again if i am mad at you (singular).
you (singular) know the answer;
yes, i am mad at you (plural).
 Jan 2014 Poppi Mae
Cathyy
Everyday is a second chance to begin again,
Oh darling don't you know,
Today you can begin again

..But what about me?
How can you be so quick to leave me behind?
It's like I'm losing myself,
whilst trying to find myself
and it's logical yet completely stupid at the same time because
I ended up lost in a maze I didn't even want to walk into..
It's like getting stuck in the middle..
of a book with no pages
Perhaps I should write myself a route out of all of these mazes.

..Well now we've reached the en-
No. No it's not over yet,
my poetry has no limits,
my words will never just lose their meaning over
time

.. Time.
It may be running out but darling,
never will it
End.
 Jan 2014 Poppi Mae
Reece
It was social experimentation
To be locked away, windowless
Four walls, perpetually fixed
- as his figure in a lightless room
Ears removed, mouth sewn closed
Eyes blinded, no light, no sound
Muted humanity, no dignity

He happened upon a laughing child
before the procedure
and that sound echoed inside
Deep within his bowels it reverberated
Through his blood
Distorted in his stomach
Youthful innocent laugh,
it grew monstrous
It began to talk
and the beast within was personified

Day one he lost his mind
Day two was still day one
(how irresponsive time becomes)
Day three the laugh became a growl
Day four the voices started
Day five in absentia
Day six he was done
Day seven, bizarre interim
- that between life and death

Profoundly lost in swingin' psychosis
Met by the devil in detailed cerebellum
Watched memories deteriorate
like some reel-to-reel burning, spluttering
His wife now only a hydrogen hallucination

Do you, the reader, know true loneliness?

The observation deck was packed on day eight
Muted, yet guttural screams of anguish
from deep within his throat
Were haunting reminders of the damaging effect
of psychological studies and the fragility of humanity

The cataract voids in his stoic face
they betrayed fear, and begged captors
for some respite from this hellish dream

Until in a tormented blinded haze, the voice was clear
His ears still dead, though this voice was true
Spoke but three subtle words
The subject experienced simultaneous neurological
Joy and fear
He had heard the de facto vocalisation of some supreme

he spoke them aloud
his only utterance

and the teary eyed scientists gathered
sterile needle
no words
dead.
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