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Aniseed Sep 2017
And on these strings, I write a symphony of Eskimos,
Of love
Of regret,
Of sisters,
Of mothers,
Of happiness,
Of the unknown.
I write a ballad of rhymes, almost-rhymes
And nonsensical *******.
I spill a little of my soul
Drop by drop
Into a song that no one will fully understand.
Not even I understand these things.

But they just seep out of me like sweat from a pore.
Circa 2012
Vexren4000 May 2017
The brook,
Moves on from the uprising spring,
Marching past reeds and flowers,
Crystal clear,
A life-giving substance,
Uprising from the sandy hot ground,
Showing that the earth,
Is not as cruel as it can be.

maxime Apr 2017
I'm sorry baby but you can do that for you so I don't have anything for me anymore and you have no worries I love it tho lol okay I'll text your mom if she wants you too but she is still a little too bad she said okay good night but she is so happy I got to see her tomorrow morning so she could have a great time she said thank goodness for you so I don't have anything else for me anymore lol okay so sorry to say I don't want to do that but I'm sorry for you so much but you have a great day and you will see it all together again.
Sydney Marie Jul 2016
my mind is huge and difficult to get in,
                   i know what it's like
                                   so i close black holes
           and show you beautiful constellations
                                                 ­          and brave planets
                                   that linger there
a little something personal for a change.

Life has been crazy lately, hope everyone is well.
Brent Kincaid Apr 2016
To be fair, this superstitious stuff
Goes a helluva long way back.
It was around the time of Babel
That the Israelites lost all track
Of logic and reason in the books
They were peddling as God’s word.
Oh, okay, they were just passing on
Mesopotamian stories they heard
But then to start calling it all
The voice of the spiritual over-mind
Means we are expected to be
Sort of intellectually deaf and blind.
Even if one can accept things like
A snake that talks and wheedles
I think accepting talking bushes
Requires stuff in hypodermic needles.

I think you have confused
Your Jehovah with Santa.
They are not the same thing.
Let me hear you say hallelujah!
Some of your traditions are
Verging on the weird and funny
When you peddle stories
About an egg-laying bunny.
And that basket of fishes
To feed a thousand was dumb.
In prehistoric Israel, just where
Did those freeloaders come from?
That strange ‘water into wine’ thing
Would be banned by law today.
Jesus, as evangelical moonshiner?
The authorities would put him away.

But that’s all fine and good if
One personally deems it to be so,
This claiming to run daily life
By words memorized long ago.
Since some of it makes sense
It may be easier to just ignore
Things like wizards and magic
As something from long before.
Evidence today says nobody lived
For eight hundred years and such.
But things like facts don’t seem
To bother religious people that much.
So, have at it, you spooky folks
With your symbols and mystery
Just save your breath if you think
You’ll get acceptance from me.
Brent Kincaid Mar 2016
Costume clowns
And closet clones
Clutter up my world.
Simulated simians,
Both boys and girls,
Ricochet like rifle shots
In the hallways of my dreams.
Honeyed hectoring
Always more than it seems.

Missing messages
And mumbled grumbling,
I find it quite humbling
That my rhetoric is glistening
To discover nobody is listening.
But be assured, at its root
Disdain will not make me mute.

Despite the confusion
Created by collusion,
And the babble of rabble
That grapple inside my brain
What will remain after
This noisy war is done,
It will definitely be won.
The race will be run
Because I am number one!
Rose Davis Jan 2016
Together, we springtime saunter through a busy cities with pink dancers and naked cowboys cluttering the street.  The buildings are towering above us, but we don’t bother looking that high; we maintain straight gazes towards ordinary people.  Lady liberty waves to us and expresses fondness towards our interlocked fingers.  He casually wonders how sharp the spokes are on her crown and how tall the real statue stands.
     He learned to love himself through me and someone called that misandry.  It was utterly absurd so I paid her no heed, but it made him realize where he’d go if I broke him.  “I promise I won't break your heart,” I say, but he tells me, “You can’t know that .”  He doesn’t yet know that I always keep my promises.  He doesn’t yet know that if anyone has to fear a broken heart, it’s me.  When he learns to spin in pulsing neutron stars and sees that I am but a sad cloud of collapsing solar dust, he might decide he would prefer to love something a little more radiant than I am.
     “Stars burn out,” I think, “and solar dust can turn into a galaxy one day.”

     Together, we lie on crispy summer grass that brushes our spine as the sun tickles our collarbones.  Our ribs ache from laughter and I know I belong to him as the stars belong to the sky.  “I’m glad we got to spend much of vacation together,” he says.  I mutely agree because I have no cliche metaphor to contribute.  I just try to stare at the sun, convinced that it wouldn’t damage my eyes because I didn’t go blind the last time I tried.  “Youth is invincible,” I finally say and I let him ponder what I mean until he puts it in the back of his mind with a long list of phrases I uttered to him, all of them just short of poetic.  Still, I know he plans to write a song out all the babble he thinks I mean.
     He grabs my hand and traces circles around my knuckles. We’re only sixteen, but he thinks that if people aged backwards, teenagers would realize they were wrong when they were parents, so he doesn’t think high school love is insignificant.  They told us we’re in our prime, but he doesn’t think people in their prime are always staring at sharp objects and read Ecclesiastes for fun.
     “The others are wrong,” I think, “it can only possibly get better from here; it definitely can’t get any worse.”

     Together, we watch as colorful nature is scattered across the sidewalk and piles up in the road in mountains of autumn.  Squirrels gather the acorns that we are trying not to step on since we are barefoot.  You can’t see the mud on his feet because his skin is so dark.
     We discuss how the universe is a place too vast to fit within our logical comprehension, too vast to understand.  We both know that infinity isn’t something to grasp, even if physics said it must exist. Since we’re just a little pinprick in a universe we’ll never draw on a finite piece of paper, we see we’re lonely people staring at lonely stars.  “All we can do is hope that company of others will prevent all this loneliness from consuming us all,” he says and I’m impressed, so I say, “I’ve learned that it is possible to find the right company.”  He smiles because he thinks I mean him, and maybe I do.
     “I love him,” I think, “and I’m lucky that he somehow loves me too, even if we can’t understand love.”

     Together, we jog to the place where the moonlight shimmers in melodic zigzags over the bronzing sea and the night is thinner than it is in the city of a million lights.  Our jaws are clenched because breathing heavily  in the cold is painful to our chins.  He tells me secrets and the words empty from his throat into the atmosphere, where the water in his breath freezes into the night.  “You’re a dragon,” I say, but I mean, “Winter is turning your voice to smoke.”  As always, he doesn’t understand what I mean, but I have learned not to worry about it.  He says, “You’re also a dragon,” and he means, “We have a lot in common.” I’m sorry that he doesn’t understand me the way I’ve learned to understand him.
     He litters the air with secretive water droplets; the night gets thicker with his words.  I want to tell him that I’ve never cared about a person more than I care for him, but I’ve learned to say nothing explicitly, because the art of finding metaphors in the simplicity of meaningless chatter is what convinced me that he cares about me.
     “He can play the same treasure hunt that I played,” I think, “and when he wins, he’ll be the happiest person in the world.”
Aaron Bee Jul 2015
Tiger eyes behind
Silver lines and
Nonexistent badges of authority.
Your somewhat of a
minority without a voice
nowhere to turn,
But turn fierce.
Your teeth sharp as ever
Never better!

Your coat is Fancy,
Your story isn't
You ****** with some guy
to get where you are.
Not very far from where
you started .
So you started to pout
and pour your spout on
Someone else for 200 dollars

Incums great you
roll in the bills(dollars)
Smile is fake, but you make it
because you faked
your "O" face and recited
The other vowels
on their lips.
Mad and drunk
Aaron Bee Feb 2015
**** me, my mind
said so. Heart doesn't
like to talk anymore,
since she's been beatin' one
to many times by nervousness.
Anxiety and Depression
like to have threesomes
with me, ******* me
from all ends.
I'm so sore, they do
it raw and sometimes I bleed.
Whenever I talk Anxiety's
*** still lingers in my mouth,
it reeks. He made me swallow hard.
They told me
if I said anything
what would be
the point.
They're not
babble from the brain
sheeba balan kpp Jan 2015
You say i am angry
And then say don't share your love
you say don't love me
And do everything that i love
contradictions to what you say
Don't stop your babble
This confused state of yours
is a pleasure to my spirit and being
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