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Cana Apr 2018
They whirl and swirl and dive
But do they?
The no see ‘ems, You can’t see ‘em
but you can feel them there
Cavorting and frolicking, invisible in the air
A dinner time dance, gluttonous splurge
You’ll know all about their evening soirée
When you discover the main course is
… You.
Stupid bugs. Biting my legs. I look like a ****** addict that can’t tell his legs from his arms.
kaylene- mary Feb 2018
One.* I planted a poppy seed in my back garden for every time you broke the sky. They bloomed as softly as the lies you rooted in my chest, conecting the exposed wires to my brain stem. I never thought they'd erode a part of me that wanted to die.

Two. I built a bed of thorns for every time you chocked down my trust. I slept in it for three days, like a shallow grave of misguided programming. But at this point you had watered our aviary with blood lust and it must have been awfully convenient that you had the poppies to match. God was off duty that weekend and all I could think about was your camouflaged bug trap.

Three. By now, the coding of my skull had cracked and everything looked much like your eyes did the night you accidently said you loved me. Stems grew from the pit of my throat and I swear I could feel the ground quiver.

Four. My poppy flowers have melted into a sea of unclaimed blood.

Five. I woke up to a locked jaw and a splintered tongue. Right then, I felt like every missing escape key on every abandoned keyboard in all the major cities of America. Despite my best efforts, I am real.

Six. I'm sitting in a bathtub with a little bag full of drugs and hand drawn map to the nearest greenhouse. I've spent the last hour picking thorns from feet, each one a replication of me, a me before I started planting flowers.
I haven't posted anything in a really long time, I'm not crazy about this poem - it still needs a lot of work but I wanted to share it anyway.
Darby Hurr Dec 2017
Neon butterflies beat their wings against the soft darkness of inside of my eyelids
Nothing short of searing pain
And the ache that’s grown over months of slaving through your life
Not being a human
But a prisoner to everything
When you mistake bugs
crawling on a white, blank sheet
for ink blots, or dark stains,

It's just like when the stars
you see in the pitch black sky
move, and turn into planes.
Written walking how from work at night, in Canterbury, Autumn 2016.
Meg Oct 2017
I don't want them to fill the empty parts of me. 

I don't want them in the space they have already consumed and made their home.

Yet they still crawl around my mind like they own it.

Insects that cant just be flicked off.

Filling every space,  till i become them and they become me.
NTR Oct 2017
Social recluses, We only met to dance tarantella.
secluded away one night in a dark cellar,
I was captivated as she taught me the steps,
From that moment she had me trapped in her web
Her body was poison to the eyes,
the way she bit her lip had me paralyzed.
As she had me wrapped in her thighs
my hips moved like i had been hypnotized
I asked if she loved me with a sigh
a kiss goodbye was her reply.
This woman will be the death of me
and her name was arachne
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