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Jeremy Betts May 22
I can't live with these thoughts
Take them from me permanently
Or ready my pine box

All life's cheap shots
I've never found a remedy
All pleasantry coagulates or clots

Vast planes of sparse lots
Riddle my memory so little to no memory
Only empty, inflammatory subpar plots

My past leaches off my future as it rots
Leaving mostly nothing left for me
Subsequently having less than the have nots

I was asked to explain what I mean by
"Dead Inside"
Typically I pawn off a joking motion
waving my marionette arms
to hide the rabbit in the hat
I adequately nick-named misery
because it keeps me company.
But if you sawed me in half
I'm quite certain all you will find
inside is a silhouette of  man
dancing around in a light box
doing the same fruitless jig over and over.
A couple of loose strands
and a few holes in the images
but the end is the beginning
and I am putting on a show for you all now.
The curtain is  my mouth
strung so tight you'd think it was a smile
And the words I say spin round and round
not a genuine frown in sight.
The light may be on inside
but the picture never seems to change
day after day,
collect the pieces off the floor
get up,
fall in love,
trip over the same type of girl
have my heart shatter into pieces
fall back down on the side of the road
remember how uselessly alone I am;
rinse and repeat.
This is paper thin love
and see through expectations that will not fail.
And it doesn't matter which way you spin it.
Its A tragically bad silent comedy
that doesn't need a narrator to explain
Just how miserable the person inside really is.
My heart is just a silhouette of a man
and if you think you can put some tangibility
behind it and not have it shatter into 1000 pieces.
Congrats you too have joined the circus.
and spin round and round in my light box.
M Solav Jun 2023
There is a curse in every name.
Shoot me in the back of the head and I’ll be dead,
But my name shall carry on
In the depth of my killer
If he was a friend
Or in the wallet that he stole from the corpse
Now lying dead on the floor.

"But the curse", I explained
"Is neither in the ****** nor in the theft,
Nor is it retribution for a life shamelessly taken.
It’s in the neatly shaped boxes
In which the mind must be bent
To fit the guilty and the innocent alike
And each and all of their names."

That is the real ******;
And that is retribution.
Written on May 18th, 2023.

— Copyright © M. Solav —

This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact for usage requests. Thank you.
Trojan Mar 2023
I stared once at this box
With a golden pink sign
"Femininity" it said

And yet the box was black
A sealed and hidden front
Pry it open? T'was quite hard

I know that this Pandororos' box
Holds some treasure at the top
I dread however, all the rot below

I think often of this box
All the treasure near its top
Creativity, care and justice

Pandororos - all the gifts at the top
And I still dread, what hides just below that top
Blood and tears, bits of flesh
All the rot below the top
August, 2022
Mrs Timetable Mar 2022
Wooden, splinter


Stupid box
My brother in laws contribution to poetry...
I'll tell him keep trying
Raven Feels Aug 2021
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, memory loss is impossible to the sense of smell:)

ancient perfume box
left somewhere in a classic loft
opened moments in a meet
to an old of an old sweet
memory in a tape on a leash in fear
like a flashback of brief to four years
disclose the good not the sad
never the bad
already made sure to wear
on the days of happy in mere
and now the odor
smells a swift of colors
once in each while
go back a little in miles
a tickle to the nose
something out of Beethoven's ears
souvenirs the precious chandeliers
things the mind randomly chose
several pasts when my pen couldn't write
and the piano served a beam of light
in an ocean
sinking deep with no motion
from each New Year's mistake
for the lifetime spaces
of the turn from the tackling faces
pink floral promises
of better opposites
fragranced to keep a stay
afraid a glass would slip away

                                                               ­                  ------ravenfeels
Sharon Talbot Aug 2021
You sleep in a golden box, it seems,
On India patterns of rose and tangerine.
The brightening sky sends amber light
Through ecru lace and lowered blinds.
I imagine your lithe limbs stretched out
Beneath the coarse blanket you love.
Your rustic side has always shied
Away from luxury and ease.
Sometimes you even refuse to eat,
So I tempt you with a favorite repast
Things meant to break unwarranted fast.
And often, I ask you to show me
Your lean limbs and boyish length.
As you poise upon the scale
That balances youth and strength.
But at night you leave our tryst
And drive a phaeton of amethyst
To a place no longer gold,
Where you make diamonds out of coal.
Where they drain you 'til day is dawning
And batter down your soul.
Yet it seems you revive each morning
In your pretty box of gold.

July, 2021
Omarcito Jul 2021
change consciousness with another

ashes turn to plastic

giraffes play wack a-mole

i’ll miss you when you’re gone

messages dart his eyes

playing with the devil’s knife
living down,
in the darkness
of my mind
between infant cries
connecting lies
and infernos burning haunted lives

i wish no one
the pain
of a box of broken matches
Kitty Jun 2021
Does my skirt provoke you?
Are you scarred by my top?
Does the length and depth define me,
Could I do a better job?

Am I made by what I wear?
An outfit I compose
The paint I layer on my face
The cut of my clothes.

You say I have no self control,
No power of restraint,
You place me in a little box
A student with a male teacher or peer.
It’s her fault he could not.

Hold himself away from her
Chain himself to the chair
labelling her his object
Instead of averting his stare

I’m not defined by cloth it’s purpose is warmth
Nor the body underneath
It is me and my intelligence

Does my existence provoke you
Fill you with disgust
Because my ability to choose
Is simply not good enough

For the standards you set me
The body I must have,
To be considered ‘pretty’
To be considered ‘bad’

My skirt can not be to short
My shirt not to deep
Because a low neckline
Will prevent my ability to speak

Does my happiness provoke you
My confidence in who I am
Because it’s taken a long time
To love myself
Ananya May 2021
The eerie calmness in the air
Called me foreward towards you,
The distinct voice of my scruples,
Holding me back.
I should have stopped,
I wished to stop,
I didn't stop.
Bringing the evil in the world
In contrition I was left alone,
The only thing I had,
Was what I trapped,
The sense of hope lying in the box.
What was going in Pandora's mind after she let the evil out?
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