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Shawn Steven  May 2018
Untitled
Shawn Steven May 2018
Damsel in distress but we live in a world where no one cares just in case their is a **** under that dress as if it ******* matters but you've been trained to thinkless and act thoughtless toward those a certain race lower class indigenous or just flat out weird you profess and treat the life as if it's worthless and if they are of anther species you **** openly so proud to of taken your advantage knowing their was never a chance for the other side to dance and then you celebrate like you did something noble ******* cowards swing sing and sink with hands on chest to flags or the statue of liberty fool you not me oh so ******* siked to be hated by the world but in the mirror liked oh so entitledly elated happy to be an American and to know it full-blown show it but deny it that's it's the Fourth ***** launching another strike at victims worn completely out to make it easy for the Vatican or London to reap the benefits of what you thought was your gain but you gotta be insane to be such a fool and *** with no class elitist bad pass slaving away though samsara since you lack the intellect to be anymore than a tool for a few horrible people to rule and they do with iron fists lies and gagets enticing sheep to vote for it over again you fall like dip ***** into hard laughter when I've run to help her making me different than you so making me worthy of going after so bring it let's have some fun not here to sing the same songs that usher in wrongs as long as I'm breathing I'm going to be a shining star blinding light with all my might trust on every breath in this chest that I'll do my best not going to ever give in or give up the fight to stand up straight those indoctrinated to sit and fake polite
Third Eye Candy Jan 2019
there is no summer in my skin but the bees and the lint
clinging to the flop sweat of my invisible dreaming. clinging to my notion
of anything Other than this.
i have clover in my teeth and James Joyce in my marrow like a cog
in fever… I keep leaving you where I found myself at a loss.
but i return with a poem always
to breadcrumb you out.

but here’s the thing….
my kind of disrepair is a healing cacophony that has the music
that kills the lover the most. Life is the whirligig of a purpose
Loving harder than a grave mistake.
And all time is a momentous conclusion
that continues.
without a Cause.

Just my kind of broke.

II

there is no summer in my skin… only January's tongue
kissing dark and cement.
a slim hemisphere of wide eclipse
on the thinkless edge of my enormous
insignificance.
i come from a horde of unhinged things
where rabbits run like blank stars on garters
the Creator gave to women
for to hear them
bargain… in a silhouette
of extinguished
hard loss.

Regardless.

My kind of broke is how i know this
for no reason… and my charms
clink in the soft spot of my terminal Forever.
Mocking the Everafter
of a wrong Sun

all night.
Patrick Harrison Jun 2020
If I could feel no pain,
maybe I would comb my hair,
run my fingers through it like curtains.

If I could feel no pain,
I would be unstoppable.
No story unwritten, no person unnoticed.

But if I could feel no pain,
I would not be me.
I am a refraction of my feelings.

Sometimes the fragments--    of myself
like shattered glass reappear.
My old glasses, my weight, my memories.

They all pour like dark rainwater down
to the waves, when I am alone and I am
teetering on who I am and who I see.

And in that darkness, in that cacophony
that screams "Worthless! Nameless!"--
I can see someone else behind the haze.

A little kid, no more than ten or eleven,
with his backpack on and a smile on
his face. Innocent annoyance in his eyes.

I can hear him too, hear his sense of humor
as his mother loads him into the van. The
sun just rising on the horizon behind the house.

The early summer air is like a fresh bouquet
of roses, but then I look slowly around.
Notice the other people surrounding him.

Remembering the late nights, the slow declines.
Remembering; but every thought slipping away,
like a nightmare where the hall is eternally long.

And I see my fingers, their callouses, taking my
eyes from the broken things around my feet to
the messy counter; the room I've grown inside.

The lock was shut, always. My hands always
dry and cracked, the mirror fogged and the
lighting as poor as the terrifying feelings inside.

And it yells again, "Worthless! Nameless!"--
and I am still sitting and watching paint
dry on my mirror. Watching me decay.

Seeing now, my cheek bones as they sink,
as my face begins to turn ever paler,
as my hair begins to fall out.

If I could leave this pain I would throw it all out.

If I could feel no pain, I would be a jester; sitting
high in my palace, no bitterness, no faults.
I would be a fool in a hat and suit with money.

If I could feel no pain, I would still be afraid of
everything. The siren sounds coming from my
own mind at night; the horror that I left locked in.

The buzzing of the locusts' wings on my window
flicker through my ringing ears, my destroyed,
ruined atmosphere. My meditative chamber/pile of ruins.

I listen to them tap on the glass, their wings turning from
buzzing, to fingers scratching, to accusations of my lies.
They tell me I'm unsure, that the world is as I see it.

But why would I listen? What insanity in the dead of night!
Isn't it pretty to think so? Isn't it pretty to think so?
I can see the drilled abscesses in their skin.

I crawl beneath my bed, escaping them. But I feel
their talons all over my skin, trying to pull me into
the world that I can't see, that I can't reason with.

They scream "Worthless! Nameless!" and I crumble
like overly baked bread. I am the crust of the loaf
in the sink after it is cut, I am the vessels' thoughts.

They are all within my mind, they are all within my
own delusional world; where I can see or not see whatever
I want. Where I can forget about the people I've loved.

And where I am in my little place, my mindless thinkless
chamber above the clouds, I don't have to think of the
beautiful people I've destroyed, consumed, manipulated.

And they yell "Worthless! Nameless!" until--
I can't bear to hear them all scream out loud--
Their teeth and eyes glaring, the torn twill--
I feel it around my fingers bowed--
like a great ship, the edge phased--
Sinking beneath sodden roaring waves--
I can't hear myself think, I'm amazed--
I will end up in the same graves--
SO WHERE DOES THE OCEAN MEET THE END?
OR HAS IT BEEN MASKED ETERNALLY?
I CAN FEEL MY THOUGHTS WHILE THEY TWIST, BEND--
IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL INTERNALLY.
But in the real mental insurgency,
I am losing my mind in urgency.

So if I could feel no pain at all,
I would be the same.
Bitterly, utterly similar.

Boring, worthless, nameless.

— The End —