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We are not friends
We are nothing
But you can't seem to take the hint
That I don't like you
You did me *****
You threw me to the dogs
But you seem to think
I still like your guts
Coming over
Spreading lies
Acting like everything is alright
Sorry chicky
But you are just as **** in and out
I don't give second chances
You had your chance
I am doing better now
So get the hint.
Carl
Jung
.
..
.
Or Carl
'S
Jr.
;
........
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Burger
Queen
NM Aug 1
All that money, and yet, still so cheap.
Based upon deep pain and resentment I have had forever regarding being cheated on and compared to *******/cam models.
.
.
Sad how loyalty is nothing but a casual game now and people only want/look for "temporary bliss"...but to each their own I suppose.
Peter Gareth Jul 17
Hopefully someday
Your memories'll be as cheap
As the wine you drink
And that's ******* cheap
Nat Lipstadt Jun 23
poems are cheap they say, the supply exceeds the demand,
all are product of criminal mischief, and Lord, I know,
I’m one of the most thieving, most mischiefing ones

when no one was about, I scribbled many notes,
transplanted from my eyes, for a bottled voyage
to fallow beaches for sandy seeding

no matter IF these poems are from your womb ripped,
****** red concoctions of life’s cute cutting edge inscriptions,
no one cares re your titanic love’s labors, your children’s betrayal

no one cares from whence and wherefore they birthed,
all words, low class and progeny, not prodigy, of demeaning circumstances, best tossed back without much foolish hesitation

writ with pen tip of broken green glass from a parking lot,
the point I broke once more before my commencement,
inked from a wicked witch’s melted green spittle pooling alongside

poets of no way, falsely prophesying falsehoods most singularly bad,
waste not-want not, time better spent than reading rhymes of stolen disrepute and cloudy ownership and ignoble authorship

unless you among a blessed few, who see a full blown poem in glassine clarity, birthed fully formed Elton songs in a mouth full of amniotic fund, you, put down thy laboring eleven instruments

if words you claim of new parentage, you as the mother dear,
know there is nothing new under the sun, even these very words,
scripted by Israelite king whose tomb gone, he, too, poet forgotten

join me in a needle park of junkies who tried and failed, nickel bag
smoking budget dope words, in cigarettes of mostly discarded seeds and twigs, hallucinatory inhaling the same vision again & again

you refuse, naturally, glamming in notional newness, your arrogance, a plentiful commodity of wood-be writers by thousands buried in wooden caskets, under wooden inscription-less crosses

and of the trillion readers possible, to coloring picture books and instant grams, all have gone to the labor-free glancing look-see
of a seconds-short, lengthy meme, 10 second videos, 140 limitations

of the greatest, of Shakespeare and Coleridge, reader’s fast-dying, sunburned neurons reply; “free ***** of his Love’s Labour’s Lost, and the Ancient Mariner, overdue, free him too!”

ancients mock you aware that there be no verbal combination yet to foretell, what Lear said, that’s the the idea, “When we are born, we cry, that we are come to this great stage of fools.”^

fools we are, for there be no fore, the tale already told, once before & more, vaingloriously does this poet’s false vanity speak, so, so boisterously,
  
“why my tale, why my tail, is as new as the oldest fossil”
^ King Lear, Shakespeare
Ylzm Jun 7
peeling walls, cracked floors
dusty filigrees, in fake gold,
kitsch figurines, cheap watercolours;
Jerusalem hangs on the wall.

the music played, and I heard the viola
- often lost between the violin and cello -
but this time, I heard the viola sang:
peaceful and pure, wise and warm.

life, petty, greedy and ******,
dissolves in ethereal beauty;
you can take all my money:
I’ve seen heaven, and life’s worthy after all.
Allowances
I've made myself
Include living freely
Despite the rejections from Heaven

Here I go, one more time
after what I said was
the last time I would
bury my favorite parts.

How can I justify this
deviant behavior to you,
when I'm still learning,
myself, about me?

Can't you just go with the flow?
I'm going alone to the ocean.
Words are empty promises
Talk is cheap
Meaning can be easily said than done

c.m.l.
Johnson Jan 20
Lust is such a pain when held in the mind
A home to some solemn a morning
The outer rim of sight distorted
Never to see for I am blind

How arduous a task it must be filling this void within
Though you try to no avail still this longing persists
Never is it quite the same this flushed face hangs in singularity
Never is it quite the same the caress of her hand around your cheek

This warmth could never fully replace but yet seeks to comfort
On to my own left again am I to this bitter taste
As dark dreams are held fighting to resurface

What is it this wistful yearning to that which I despise
Casting aside vanity's vision as somehow I am left to my own demise
However monotonous the day to day may seem as my mind tapers on
To be trapped between her sheets I find ecstasy replaced with solitude's forlorn

For like moon that sits alone hung in the luminescence of a winters sky
So dull is the ache within my chest
As the darkened walls do double as they revolve around
Only to ruin what bliss I have taken upon myself

For tomorrow is to resurface
And so again I will chase the blame
For all the inevitable I attempted to thwart
Yet it all remains the same
Poetic T Jan 9
I was a tall order,

                            but the bill
                            was cheap.

And I filled you up every time
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