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 Aug 2015 ani
Joshua Haines
Tortured people tell themselves the past never happened.
They sit and reminisce about memories that they created.

Their hands are brown and worn down,
looking like a sibling of the ground that will eventually be a tomb for their bodies.

The teeth are fake and so are the smiles.
Hair falls off like rusty leaves brushed by a breeze, warning of the death of winter.
Limbs turn into string, ******* hang, and guts grow; like pregnant, stray cats.

Whenever they die, their houses will be eaten by their children, and not even a piece of gristle or a picture frame will be left.

The house will be nothing but a sun-dried ribcage:
a discarded postcard with the address marked out.

The children will sit and talk of their parents, repressing the abuse and the inability to meet expectations.

The children will work in sterile cubicles, thankful that their hands will not be stamped by calluses, yet knowing their fathers would not approve.

The children will open up the dust-blanketed boxes and stare at old family pictures, not able to recognize the people who smile and have perfect posture.

The children will lay in bed with their spouses and say, to no one in particular,
'Why was it never enough?
What did I do?

Was it me?'

The children will be tortured by these words,
by lives that weren't in technicolor,
by the paranoia of being tolerated instead of liked,
by the anxiety that a paid-off house
and nice car couldn't alleviate,
by themselves.

The children will retire and will have realized that they worked their entire lives just to enjoy ten years.
Their hair follicles will let go of strands and locks,
like a dandelion being stripped by the wind.

The enamel on their teeth will corrode and, before long, they will be thankful for the sensitivity of their teeth because the coldness of senior-citizen-discounted ice cream will be one of the few things they will be able to feel, let alone put a genuine smile on their face.

They will sit on their recliners, stare at their keyboard-kissed fingers and tell themselves the past never happened.

Because that's what tortured people do.
Ashland, Wisconsin
Reaching out,
she grabs my ankles.
Pleading for a friend,
she slips away into the dark.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
 Aug 2014 ani
SG Holter
His Down's Syndrome makes
His age a tough guess, I'll
Say eight to ten.

Wide eyes on machines,
Ice cream dripping on the
Pavement outside the

Construction site.
I wanna work like this when
I grow up,
he says in

Young enthusiasm to a mother
Whose eyes well up with
Gratitude when I approach

And kneel down in front of
Him. So you want a job,
Buddy?
I ask him with a

Wink. He suddenly remembers
His ice cream and bites into
It shyly. Nods, glancing at the

Tools in my belt, the scratches
On my arms, the brick wall
I've been attacking with a

Wacker jackhammer. Nods
Again. Well, I'll see you in a
Few years,
I say with another

Wink, this time to his mother,
Who'd look her young age if
Her eyes weren't as tired,

But you can start with this
And get some practice.
I hand
Him my Stanley Fat Max

Hammer. His ice cream
Hits the ground as he
Recieves it with both hands,

Looking to his mother for
Confirmation that it's ok.
Oh, it is. She mouths a

Thank you SO much...
They walk away, his chatter
High pitched and fading

Around the corner. And I
Head over to the foreman to
Report that I lost my hammer.

Don't ever employ me.
I can work a good game, but
I'm too soft around little heroes.
 Aug 2014 ani
Adele
broken pieces~
 Aug 2014 ani
Adele
Maybe if I step on
enough flowers
or break
enough  
hearts  
I just might forget
I'm made of broken parts
my fave piece </3
 Aug 2014 ani
imadeitallup
I don't expect you to understand
Why I recoil when
You extend your arms and hands
Why I brace for impact
Within the trajectory of your touch
It is warm,
and I am cold.
It is wind,
and I am stone.
IF YOU STEAL THIS POEM, OR ANY OTHER POEMS OF MINE. I WILL FIND YOU, AND I WILL COME AFTER YOU LEGALLY. I AM SOOO SICK OF SEEING THIS POEM ALL OVER THE INTERNET WITH SOMEONE ELSE'S NAME UNDER IT. I DON'T UNDERSTAND HOW YOU CAN LIVE WITH YOURSELVES. STEALING OTHERS WORK AND CLAIMING IT AS YOUR OWN. BUT ALL OF THESE ARE COPYRIGHTED SONGS. SO YOU BETTER HOPE I DON'T CATCH YOU. P.S. THANKS TO ALL OF THE PEOPLE FINDING AND TELLING ME ABOUT THESE FAKES. I APPRECIATE THE LOYALTY. :)
 Aug 2014 ani
Nicole Ann Sandoval
When I asked you to fix me,
You told me I wasn't broken.
But, let this soak in.
I just wanted to know,
If i was still a pretty enough picture to be worth, agonizing over a puzzle.
Even when it's a struggle.
And you have to nuzzle each piece into place,
Kissing the pieces bent out of shape,
Searching for pieces gone missing,
But you can't make a raisin back into a grape.
Yes, I Remember your middle name
And who says we can't celebrate failure?
Don't be sad, we tried, we tried.
When you write your story in the sand it washes away with the tide.
It isn't our fault.
We may have cut ourselves open, But we didn't ask for the salt in our
wounds
Can I still say "we"?
I guess you're kind of done with me.
I don't blame you, Puzzles are frustrating.
they're a tease.
Please, tell me I haven't lost the most important piece.
Tell me I haven't lost
you.

© copyrighted Nicole Ann Osborn
 Apr 2014 ani
Joshua Haines
I wanna fire you in my veins;
have you ruin my life
I want you to be the cancer, baby
I have to cut out with a knife
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