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Ken Pepiton Jul 10
Were your mind the soil from which words rise,
autochthonic,

filled with meaning-ment-al
ready to write asif

you exist, dear reader, and know
autochthonic
people are some different from

Gaijins, gegenes, genetical offspring of Gaia,
I imagine, gollum mud men, goy-soulish sorts,

were, once thought,
asreal as death itself, by those in the know;

but

we never know ever, ever being as it is and

this being mortality,
the act of dying,

asif we were seeds, words whispered in darkness,

come and see. Buy of me gold,
without money,
without price.

Grace, take it for granted, and grow on.
Become that which the seed demanded you to be,

when autochthonic was re
cognized as some word Nunzio Corso knew, but you

never heard of him.
https://allpoetry.com/Gregory-Corso -- How many poets have I never heard, who found solace in such a once dark word by adding self. Self-chthonic, almost spontaneous generation of more than existed before the word came to be known, and shared, just in case you never gave it any thought.
Her face was like an auto
While being struck by an auto.
And the driver?
Well, the driver just laughed.
“Thanks god my car isn’t damaged;
I stole it yesterday night.”
I made myself laugh so much, but basically my dad always says “you look like an auto” when someone’s face is like 0_o.... yeah, it’s not that funny but **** it.

I might post another ACTUAL poem before I go to sleep.
I crawl out of the wreckage
after talking to myself
about the troubles I am having
with my debt and bills to pay.

I dig myself out
from envisioning  
my headaches taking hold
and threatening to blow my eyeballs out.

(And then I start to realize...)

I am stuck in the middle of nowhere
in a shop run by ghosts
and they won’t let me go free.

I stop envisioning
the woman who stopped talking to me
and I realize that I can’t go anywhere wherever she is.

Then I touch the counter
and I realize how dusty it is
but I don’t see any dust on my fingers

(And then I start to contemplate…)

What if I am not living?
What if I am wasting time
on the things making me dead on the inside?

I wander around this dead auto shop
and see the wrecked metal shell that was my car
and the wrecked driver that was me.

I only see it as a tomb
for a dead shell of a guy
too busy thinking about worrying and too busy thinking about dying
than paying attention to the road.
Wyatt Nov 2018
I’m starting to
lose the feeling,
I miss the times that
I took for granted.
I’ve dug a grave too
deep to escape.
It’s all like a dream, yet
I’m still wide awake.
I’m going on auto
because I’m unstable,
losing my balance.
I always hide the lie, but
I think someone found it
so I’m going on auto
until they forget about it.
There’s no good in my secret,
don’t search for the pilot.
You searched for a king
and all you got was Wyatt.

This false light I got is
starting to flicker.
Every promising life goes
out in a whimper.
I miss when things were simpler,
but were they ever simpler?
I’m never the winner,
so I need a mentor.
Stuck talking like this,
stuck living like this.
The people who know me
don’t know who this is.
I’m stuck acting like this,
hurting myself like this.
The people who know me can’t
pull me out of this.
I'm going on auto.

Everything is
looking in at me.
I can’t get away.
I can’t get away.
Everybody is
singing in harmony and
I’m still singing
out of key, out of key.

I can’t get away.
I can’t get away.
I can’t get away.
I can’t get away.

I wrote this part
when I was in the
darkest days of my life.
This is it right now,
this is the height.
I always speak in past-tense
like I’ve lived any kind of life
worth repeating all the time.
I’ve only repeated a lie.
Everyone and everything
has felt alien to me, but now
I’m realizing that in reality I’m
the one who’s been left out.
Every lie has a little truth in it,
the pain in my smile has always
been on my face by default.
When you can’t be
happy manually
you throw your life
on an auto-pilot,
and hopelessly hope
someday you will like it.
Sweeping up debris from
another catastrophe,
add another pretty line to
an awful masterpiece.
A shoulder to cry on
has never came to me
because I’ve cried enough
and now I’m completely empty
so all that’s left to do
is shrug and live with it.
I’m going on auto.
Jack L Martin Aug 2018
What do you know of war?  
First person shooter
Simulated gun fire
computerized blood splatter

What do you know of war?
Tag team alliance
Kids slaying kids
for virtual dollars

What do i know of war?
I saw the carnage
Devastation, the horrors
The smell of death

What do i know of war?
The pain haunts me
every day
every hour
It NEVER goes away!

War ain't no game, bro!
These words need no explanation.
Zero Nine May 2017
I can't find my wallet.
I can't find my passport.
It's a problem because
my driver's license expired.
Need the passport for ****.
Need it to cash the paycheck.
At *-Mart, because I
don't have a bank. US, Chase,
Wells Fargo. I owe from the past.
But if I don't get to the CDC,
or Nectar to get the ****,
I won't function my best.
I'll be without mental rest.
At 800 a month, it's my only
and the most expensive hobby.
...
A circle noon is here and we message awhile
or oft right assuage the view of Ashton Hayes
as these will meet with hardly a shiver forthwith our hindsight there harbors a polite politic without polemic.

As observations finish at sunset and measure loft during sunshine with embankment that has marked us with sheen inside.

Therefore heathers disappear as smoke clouded conditions now our gazes in the fog of the air as the ashes still in the rain only go away if we accompany legislatively hence rescue reform yet seen in glory.
I was told a brain on poem was a terrible thing to waste . To which I retorted ,"Which one is wasted?"
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