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Kennedy 3d
my body is a cage.
it is nothing more than a blockade.
a hurdle.
a sack of meat too big for that space,
the one between your chair
and that wall.
The One Between Two ******* Parked Next To Each Other.
why do i have to be my body,
why is it,
that your first impression of me,
is based on what is simply flesh.
i am a sentient being, sure,
but what the ****.
why is it my body that you must see.
why do we as a species look like this?
i would've rather been a slug.
W H Y do I lOOk LiKE THIS.
ohohohoh.
*****.
i. have. *****.
i love *****.
just,
not,
mine.
once i lose it i'll be pretty.
haven 4d
a skirt and fishnets
heels and eyeliner
tattoos and metal

soft skin, sharp edges
LC 5d
at first, the thunder cracks my eardrum.
the rain punches the soft ground after
being held back by the clouds for so long,
and I cannot see past the blanket of darkness.
as the storm rages on, the thunder roars,
but my body knows best like it always does.
my hands carefully craft a cup of strong tea,
and my body rests in front of the fireplace,
and the obnoxious thunder lowers its voice,
and the violent rain's touch becomes softer,
and I finally see the light peeking through.
vern Jul 20
i judged myself so harshly
burying deep memories within the archive
forcing myself to forget who I was
and focus on who I could be
but who I was is a fragment of who I am
diving in the archives of my mind
i forgave my younger self for the mistakes
for i was a child and faults are a given
i relieve my childhood from the catacombs of the past
and move forward together
hand in hand as a whole
Leah Carr Jul 20
my heart is beating still
but why?
why does my body fight on?
I wish it would give in
like I did a long,
long time ago

i am breathing still
but how?
attempt after attempt
to stop that
has failed
to my disappointment

my heart is beating still
and as much as I hate it
there is just one thing
I must do
sit
and let my
heart
beat
LC Jul 19
my thought fibers
push past the clutter,
swirling around until
my brain twists into knots
and my heart follows suit,
its veins tangling like spider webs
until my feet get swept off the ground
and my body gets ****** into the black hole.
Gabriel Jul 18
The thing with begging to be loved
is that there’s more love in the begging
than there is in the aftermath.
There’s more to be loved in a pathetic way
than ever in something genuine.

But we still do it. Admit it,
you’re not the exception. We drag
our hands across our bodies
and pluck them into something acceptable;
there comes a point where it’s not love,
but violence. But acknowledgement —

and **** it if they don’t feel the same.
We are all crying the way children cry
for attention. If I scrape my knee
on the thick tarmac, will I still have to walk
home alone?

The birds sing for food early in the morning.
If I were a mother, I would never
make my child beg for *****. If I were a mother,
I would rip myself apart six months in
to see if I was cooking up something that looked
like me.
From a portfolio I wrote in third year of university, titled 'Infestation'.
Gabriel Jul 18
Some bodies are made of worms,
soft, malleable, wet to the touch
with tears and a thin layer of grime,
built up over years of creaky limbs
oiled with their own disuse.

Some bodies are made of wasps,
and they are violent. The buzz
rings in the ears and they are the type
to throw drunken punches. Every
second is all that is.

Some bodies are made of earth,
in that they sustain others
and drain themselves. Global
warming will **** them off, but
for now, they shine.

Some bodies are made of other bodies,
like Frankenstein, like corpses
that aren’t quite done yet
with the worms and the wasps
and the ground that they clawed out of.
From a portfolio I wrote in third year of university, titled 'Infestation'.
Gabriel Jul 18
They were making Jesus into a marionette.
That’s why they nailed through his hands,
because the hands are attached to the arms,
and the arms the shoulders, and from there
you can pretty much control the whole body.

It’s too easy, far too on the nose
to pretend that God is the puppet master,
and I don’t want to give any credit
to the executioners. So, let’s say
that Jesus is both puppet and puppeteer:

right. You following me?
Hands are being manipulated by hands,
and I’m trying to get at something
beyond a religion I don’t believe in any more.
The ****** lamb is in his ****** chamber
and there’s something controlling all of this.

Unreality is the only thing
that can, for sure, be real. If we’re all
in a collective simulation,
made up amoebas floating around
in some brain hooked up to wires,
then why did we invent God?
From a portfolio I wrote in third year of university, titled 'Infestation'.
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