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cleann98 May 22
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 12
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.
coqueta Apr 30
I’m angry with you. I’m tired of you. I’m tired of feeling so small and disregarded. You’re so big. You use your size to stomp me into submission. You’re a bully. The little get picked on and the rebellious are punished. The hate bubbles up in my throat and I become exhausted.

I wish I was seven feet tall and if anyone dared talk back to me I’d beat them till they shut up. I’d scream at them and smack them over the head and if they cry it’s their fault and they deserve more. Like you. I hate it when you scream and even more than that I hate that you can’t admit your faults and refuse to grow up. There’s no light in your eyes, no brightness in your heart, and your soul remains dull and ugly. I pray God forgives you, and I pray He gives me the ability to forgive you too.
Abuse has the ability to breed a lot of hatred in people, and I think that’s forgotten in favor of painting us like pitiful victims. We’re bitter and angry too, and undoing the hatred that was gifted to us by our abuser is a lot of work.
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
Carlo C Gomez Apr 14
~
With all too
familiar moorings,

holding fast the chain
of sons and daughters,

this hiding place
isn't watertight,

life trickles in everywhere,
hopeful to the bitter end.

~
John Darnielle Dec 2021
I hope that our few remaining friends
Give up on trying to save us
I hope we come up with a failsafe plot
To ******* the dumb few that forgave us
I hope the fences we mended
Fall down beneath their own weight
And I hope we hang on past the last exit
I hope it's already too late
And I hope the junkyard a few blocks from here
Someday burns down
And I hope the rising black smoke carries me far away
And I never come back to this town
Again in my life
I hope I lie
And tell everyone you were a good wife
And I hope you die
I hope we both die

I hope I cut myself shaving tomorrow
I hope it bleeds all day long
Our friends say it's darkest before the sun rises
We're pretty sure they're all wrong
I hope it stays dark forever
I hope the worst isn't over
And I hope you blink before I do
Yeah I hope I never get sober
And I hope when you think of me years down the line
You can't find one good thing to say
And I'd hope that if I found the strength to walk out
You'd stay the hell out of my way
I am drowning
There is no sign of land
You are coming down with me
Hand in unlovable hand
And I hope you die
I hope we both die
There may come a day, as I say, when you may have cause to sing this song. I hope that that day never comes. At the same time, I know that it will. Let’s not kid each other. You're going to have a very bad relationship someday. It's not just gonna ****, it's gonna **** ***. You’re going to make up a little chart of all the ***** that it *****. It’ll be your ***-chart on your bedroom wall. Your significant other will say, 'What is this?' and you will say 'Oh, they’re butts. Just butts.' and they'll say, 'The hell they are; that's an ***-chart!' Where will you be then, O Sinner? As the great worm that never dies curls its slimy folds around your naked heart, you will need a song to sing. This is that song.
Ira Desmond Nov 2021
The fruit of
the Pacific madrone
tree may at
first entice you
with its ripe,
fiery, scarlet skin.

But bite into
this fruit, and
you’ll taste an
astringent, gristly pith
with hard seeds
like children’s teeth.

You will know
the foolish feeling
that lurks within
that yawning gap
between sugary expectations
and bitter reality.
Katie Oct 2021
I lost this game long ago.
I lost the moment I considered it such.
Your heart was far too pure.
It matters not if I have to endure
Seeing her smile raise you so.
My words were a crutch.

You were always here,
and you always will be.
I hate that that's not enough.
My love is unrefined, far too rough
to lighten the sun and make skies clear.
I'm far too blind to see.

Love is hard, but beautiful.
My heart is blackened, wrong.
I love you too much to make you
Suffer all the pain I'd put you through.
She's kind, loving, dutiful,
enough for everlong.
Part 2
Written a short time later.
Sharon Talbot Sep 2021
A haggard angel
Stands behind my back.
Is it me or you?
For three decades
She had graced me
With words of love
And fits of anger.
I helped create her
And yet hurt her .
And suddenly, she turns
Away from me,
Still loving me, I think.
But all she wants,
She tells me bitterly,
Is to be alone.
She leaves and I wonder
If she will ever return.
I stand on a garish train,
Thunderstruck, unmoving,
As I watch her storm away.
Suddenly, I feel what she does—
The pain and sadness.
I created her long ago
And know why she is livid.
And now she returns the hurt,
Leaving me as the empty one,
My insides vacuum up sorrow.
Am I now the angel,
Fallen and haggard?
I can't remember what inspired this--probably a film or novel about lost love and irony.
My Dear Poet Sep 2021
You gotta like love
Like a good cold warm dish
Losing a chance on one wish
A saltless main meal
A genuine touch you can’t feel
Like lukewarm coffee
Ants stuck in toffee
Warm soft watermelon in summer
Shrivelled cold fries the day after
A delivered bitten slice of pizza
Uber, two hours later
A flat glass of Coca Cola
A wet cold doona
A missing piece at the end of a puzzle
A resentful bitter cuddle
Matchsticks with wet strikes
Your best poem with no likes
Oil stains on a monopoly board game
A long conversation with a forgotten name
You gotta like it, to love it
Just like, we like loving
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