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My Dear Poet Jan 17
if these tears are no proof of my apology
will you accept a drop of my blood
I am tired of saying I am sorry
bathing in your forgiveness of mud
if tears are not enough to win mercy
then death is the remedy for life
my need for you to forgive me
is as thick as the need for a knife
Jeremy Betts Jan 13
They tell me, they promise me, I'm not alone
But I can only go by what I've always been shown
Unwanted, undesirable, freek show, just a small sample of all I've known
I wish my inner abuser would adapt another tone
I don't own my own thoughts, any positive feeling is only on loan

People act like I hone in on this curse to be worthless
Like I thirst to be anxious
Like I have to coerce this anger and bitterness
Like I enjoy being immersed in the hopeless
Like my first thought is the worst on purpose
Like I enjoy all my deep rooted issues constantly rising to the surface

Then comes the question that brings me back to reality
"What are you doing to get control of this? Not enough certainly"
Honestly that's another cog in the circle mosh pit of misery, part of the continuity
I'd give anything for it to be as easy as everyone claims it should be

Because what most people see from me is rehearsed
My final diagnosis can not be reversed
The totality of my issues couldn't possibly be unearthed
But that doesn't change the horrible landscape I've traversed
I wouldn't be able to tell you what I'm worth, all I know is...
...I am this, for what it's worth

©2024
My Dear Poet Jan 6
I was short of a dream
walking along a quiet stream
by a salty shore of pain unseen
people asked, “Where have you been ?”

My eyes red, through things I reap
I have drunk the sting of tears I weep
and drowned my soul in shallow deep
cried out my heart in silent sleep

None to hear or heal my pain
I kept it hidden inside a grain
with roots thick through seasons of rain
twisting branches upon it’s barren plain

Till I cried no more, red eyes can’t see
and  lay myself beneath this tree
budding bitterness as bitter can be
I fed off its fruits and buried me
David Hilburn Jun 2023
Rose redoubt
Rose few, in the hate we fed
Rose acts, when charisma is a pout
Rose timid, with a live for all ahead

Round eyes of decorum, vice in a wandering hope
Let to take, a tryst of potential...
Long if tooth, a wholesome day to arrive with our own
Here is my naivete, and a steads sulking breeze so beautiful...

When the world is rounder for a secret asking, to fulfil...
Promise me, a livid course, a golden truth
To the wanted more, when we are a soul of will
The tone of our voice, becomes the drama and decency of accepting youth?

Sophistication in a moment alone, with the weight of the world
Seemingly not, before the needs of others, worth is a means to amends...?
And the coltish example of the future, a repose of justness so early
That a miracle in the form of a wish, is a simplicity we lend?

Tales of the reach, the romance of curious senses
And the heart of essence, we know even will...
When boding hours are to be, the callous works of a world come to ends
With a handful of what miracles were, a common where to the liberty of silence, so real
What so wrong with a door knocked by a time with no bitterness; lies or lovers?
My Dear Poet May 2023
What was known yet unseen
was a king and a dying queen
holding their last kiss good bye
That day the kiss died

He then ordered all his men
to bind all lovers in his den  
Every embrace ever lied
The day the kiss died

The Judge and the Law
all came to find flaw
In any poet or guide
The day the kiss died

Finding two lovers, that spoke
of how his and her lips broke
Evidence, they could not hide
The day the kiss died

They cried,
“We hold and we touch
yet it’s not enough in as much
a kiss can’t be denied”

The day the kiss died

With a kiss hid in their heart
They tore them apart
and took them aside
The day the kiss died

Children chanted, “the kiss of death
will draw your last breath.
Don’t or dare to no longer abide”

The day the kiss died

And all the people they wept
and the sweepers that swept
the sad streets, they sighed
The day the kiss died

In lace they all dressed
in hope to lay the last kiss to rest
In a coffin to confide
The day the kiss died

That night,
Artists repainted the sky
Lanterns hung high
In the black rain they cried
The day the kiss died

While white doves bled red
It was heard and it was said
even the angels cried
The day the kiss died

The clowns in all places
Painted a frown on their faces
for all grooms and the brides
The day the kiss died

Old widows slept as it seems
waiting for their dreams
nuns by their side
The day the kiss died

The romantics broke doors
of bottle shops and liquor stores
yet the wine had all dried
The day the kiss died

Yet, still up north and down south
lovers, for love, open their mouth
welcoming death near and wide
The day the kiss died
I am cornered by this world I have come to despise
it has wretched the few morsels of contentment
from my soul
being aware is a curse
in this day
and in the time of my childhood
when we lived in blind bliss
those memories have been stained as well
God help these maniacs
feeling a bit grumpy today
cleann98 May 2022
colored handprints alight
splattered in dots and lines
a glassy pillow stretches
its wrinkled and hairlined skin
     cracked
           creaking
   crooked
          
               stretched wearing thin..

a hold on the waves
grasping currents
            passing
   rushing farther and farther

painting the vastness
of this open ended question
muddled muddied marred
      blurring in sight
not sure if this is an incomplete work or just an incomplete person's rambling...
WJ Thompson May 2022
Rancor,
Swashbuckling with a sawtooth grin and sacrilegious shouts, selcouth with an unsound mind, the commonness of uniqueness, the commonness of opinionated onions cutting their teeth on life and crying, again, and ready to saw off the limbs of the opposition out of revenge!
Rancor, relax, you're not a Twitter matador, I wish you were because I’d love to watch the show.
We cuddle with exotic nylon fibers and squeal about our weight and status and how someone insulted us and how terrible it is to be alive while sipping on easily accessibly high fructose corn syrup! Life has never been this sweet, but I guess we’re getting sick of honey.
I complain about the complaints, I am the anti-complaining complaint club president.
I am a writer, an iPhone thumb tapper.
Hear me
These mental gymnastics will somersault and summerset you right, child,
Don’t listen to Rancor,
That man’ll grab your gaze and stir your attention into a cocktail while winking at you from behind the bar
he’ll leave your brain a little woozy from a life that used to be sweet until you left it out in the sun a few years too long,
I wonder if some of the dead watch us from the corners of our bedroom or the trees along the freeway, waiting for greatness to unfurl.
I’ll bet they do and I’ll bet you’re a glitch, I’ll bet a little piece of another galaxy hit you in the head and made your finger twitch.
How many hot car hours have been spent in a parking lot,
the skin dries, the phone dies,
the spirit once lifted towards the outlines of the mountain peak now seeks memes, transcendent in their own right.
the pompous one
with her comments
as she slithers by
with
the rudest
of dogs

the confident family;
confident
     to a fault
sitting too close
and talking
too loud

the hypocrite
complaining
of the mess
and leaving behind
a scavenger's
detritus

the insecure sage
a font of knowledge
based on
hearsay
and opinion
with only
a pinch
     of fact

the innocently gormless
with no thought
for sense
     or logic
common or otherwise
but only
for the now
and
the immediate

these are
the passengers
on the
carousel
     of frustrations
for today;
replayed
rephrased
resurrected
over
and over

i think
so little
     of them
yet
i'm unable
to stop myself
thinking
about them
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