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 Jul 2017 R
Sylvia Plath
Daddy
 Jul 2017 R
Sylvia Plath
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to **** you.
You died before I had time ----
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My ****** friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You ----

Not God but a *******
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the *****.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two ----
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagersnever liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you *******, I'm through.
 May 2016 R
Fish The Pig
better
 May 2016 R
Fish The Pig
she forgot to write a poem that day,
and the day next
and the day next,
she forgot to write a poem that week,
and the week next
and the week next,
she forgot to write a poem that month,
and soon forgot that she had forgotten to write a poem,
she forgot all about words that rhymed
and titles
and tags
she forgot to write poems,
because she forgot to be sad.
 May 2016 R
A H J
Indecisive Night
 May 2016 R
A H J
Trembling over my haunted thoughts,
Deciding whether to listen to songs or not,
My playlist plays all songs I have no mood to listen,
My books are all placed on the table,
Yet my imagination run so wild that I couldn’t focus on anything,
I don’t know how many times I switch off the air conditioner,
Or do I want to curl up under my blankets?
Should I grab some chips and watch a movie?
Ah, but I already brushed my teeth,
Should I reply to the unanswered text messages?
Should I sleep, but I already slept five hours earlier
Or should I check my social medias?
But I would just be sad again viewing other people’s profile and pictures
I don’t know what to do,
I feel like I’m trapped into a loop of indecisive nights,
Should I click game over so I won’t wake up?
I bite my lips and scratch my wrist,
Because they were so dry yet so sore at the same time,
I feel silence and silence is so loud I’m deafened by it,
The color of my lips is pale peach,
And my eyes are empty,
This is my indecisive night,
The night which I do nothing but write my thoughts.
 May 2016 R
Tori Hart
Please do not wear your scars as labels
They are not your identity
They are not your name tag
They are not your talismans
You are so much more beautiful
Than a sad part of your story
And I’d much rather see
You embrace your Fighting Warrior
Than for you to cower
Before your personal hurricane.
Written: October 29, 2013
Revised: November 12, 2013
 May 2016 R
Natasha Meyer
My Crypt
 May 2016 R
Natasha Meyer
Welcome to my crypt
Where dreams dormant lie
Covered in cobwebs
and gathering dust
Calcified veins
Once abundant with blood
Now a coniferous wood
Petrified
 May 2016 R
xmxrgxncy
Listen
 May 2016 R
xmxrgxncy
Don't you think
It's
Crazy

That I want to be a singer
And an actor
And a painter
And a writer
And a race car driver
And president

But I can't even be happy
With my sexuality

And it's not my fault
But yours?
 May 2016 R
Anthony Perry
Anxiety
 May 2016 R
Anthony Perry
An anxiety attack holds the body pressed against a table, unable to even struggle as the ropes pull and fold the layers of your mind like a peeling lable

Cloth begins to cover the exposed skin, over a layer of sweat that starts soaking in, panicked and encased in claustrophobia with weaning breaths that sound out a hallowed hymn

Skin pulled tight along the muscles, layers ripping across the joints like papyrus separating blood vessels, body pressed so tight that straight knees crack with the buckles

Unable to evade the stout flame hooking into the small of your back flaring up to the ceiling charring the body black, its a panic attack that has you trapped

Mummified and cremated without a hope of escape while motivation lays in ashes around the structure left behind in the agony of a triggered perception

All without the grace of an execution outside of this institution, locked away from happy thoughts and depression, the trauma stops only when it waits to feed on the negative pollution.
 Apr 2016 R
Anthony Perry
Reclaimed
 Apr 2016 R
Anthony Perry
Creatures crawl from under the roots of trees and bugs scatter from the pockets of the lost to the cadence of sprinkling rain

Silence in the woods of missused life brings out the sounds of wind screaming past the tightened ropes and rusted knives

Those who walk through the aokigahara forest hear a symphony of life that persists through the maimed, a festival of tents and people strung up like decorations as if it was meant for a parade

Nature reclaimed the unused death of unwanted bodies and the rain drained flesh from bones, simulated hell and suicide is what's found soon after passing the warning signs in red and white marked zones.
 Apr 2016 R
Monica
Becoming who you are
Is not an easy feat.

You have to shed the skin
Of many failed versions.
Prototypes are stowed away,
Blueprints shredded.

Which laugh works?
Is this personality too loud?
Will I be a loser if I don’t go to that party?
Or to that event?
Should I modulate my voice?
Am I too much of a nerd?
Am I not enough of a nerd?
Do these glasses work with my face?
Do these clothes work for my body?

Over and over,
The plans change,
And you change,
And you try to find the best
Version of yourself.
And you wonder why
There’s more than one
To begin with.

You wonder what happened,
To the innocent kid
Who thought her elementary school
Friends would always be there,
And who thought she could do anything.

You look back on yourself
As an athlete.
You look back on yourself
As a writer.
And you wonder why
You became this person
Who will just settle
To get by in life.

You wonder why
You’re constantly at
The drawing board,
Why the things you really
Want to do in life
Are impractical,
And why the things
You’re going to do are
Only semi appealing.

How did you get
****** into this society,
And how did you become this

Automaton with no autonomy?

Why can’t you decide
What’s best for you
Without being wracked with
Guilt?

Looks like you need to be
Reprogrammed  
So we’ll scrap this model
And get back to you
With a new one.

Try not to break it.
 Mar 2016 R
G
Six Little Pills
 Mar 2016 R
G
She stared at the six little pills in her hand

one to be skinny
one to be pretty
one to be smart
one to be funny
one to be happy
one to be perfect.

She took them one by one,
feeling them slip down her throat.

at last, she finally felt
skinny
pretty
smart
funny
happy
perfect.

little did she know,
none of these things mattered anymore
for these things she once wanted
now were the things that killed her.
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