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CC
The journeyman of sounds;
A welder of the pain.
From the land of abundant treasures
And alternative domains.
Dyed black mops.
A youth spent alone —
In a room full of darkness,
Save for your glowing tones.
Just another gutterball outsider,
But the star of the dejected.
Your poems sung of promise —
We ask: why were you not protected?
Roads “long and weary”;
You were just as lost as us.
I guess that’s why you were lifted:
To The Highway you were ******.
Now no more Black Holes,
Nor Seasons of “endless winters”.
And no more Curses —
Your side free from thorns and splinters.
Although I never really knew you,
You helped encourage me to tread.
I’ll do my Jesus Christ Pose.
For you Heaven isn’t Dead.
kerri Mar 29
please make the hurt stop
i was never yours
you were never mine
why is this pain here?
why doesn’t anything good ever stay?
when can i finally evaporate?
Tahneeta Jan 15
I felt fireworks when we first met
When your arms were close when your legs were close when your mouth was close

But I guess you didn’t feel it too

Hi. C.
I’ve been sick and hurt and sad and
When you disappear it makes me ache

You made me ache

My smiley toothache

Never my.
Andrew Rueter Oct 2017
There are some pro wrestlers
Who always have to get all their **** in
There are people who expect things from them
And they give those things to those people
But for the rest of us
The match becomes predictable
As we await their signature moves

Which is why I think we need more wrestlers like Chris Jericho
He never had to get all his **** in
He served the story
Not his glory
He displayed the petulance of man
And showed us how we can say the right things
In the wrong way

Yes, we need more wrestlers like Chris Jericho
Someone who can host a talk show or headline Wrestlemania
Someone who can be comedic or vicious
We need people who understand the importance of looking foolish
As well as the obligation to maintain an edge
And people who can mentor the rookies
While hanging with the veterans

Yes, wrestling needs more people like Chris Jericho
People who don't depend on wrestling
He makes music
And has a podcast
Avenues being paved
For the crossroads many wrestlers face
Between business, art, physicality, and mentality
Where the road being left behind is physicality
It is hard to watch people hang on for the business

Yes, the world needs more people like Chris Jericho
He never cured a disease
Neither did he make one
He's a performer who creates
He creates for the benefit of himself and others
He's not a wrestler who has to get all his **** in
He understands signature moves can become crutches
On the path to a boring finisher
a tsunami catapulted cruising skiff
skyward landing with quiet thud
across undulating infinite granular waves
formerly solid state rocks and minerals

optimism vibrant upon initial unforeseen
crash asper for test dummies
foundered as undertow fostered diminishing hope
initial faith for survival quickly ebbed

nsync with retreating tidal wave
pessimism dreamt fantastical holograms
farther from beached berth
immediately transformed into quicksand,

while off in the distance
a glimmering chimera
(the first of many) appeared
amidst the desert sands one mirage

after another falsely broken promise
buoyed drained salvation
quick decision decreed each man for himself
thus disseminating banded bruited "brothers"

condemnation, damnation, excoriation, fulmination
hurled at cosmic creator thwarting intercession
dehydration, exhaustion, ingratiation, jubilation
foretold merciless portentous demise

witheringly desiccating lovely bones of mine
no doubt raw elements of nature wrought
fate worse than death sans, cabin "mates"
lost among expanse of whittled quartz

across chronometer measuring millions of years
now subjecting one measly mortal i.e. me
to cruel unforgiving, unrelenting,
unwelcoming petty coated junction

blistering hot wind obliterated
fellow travelers convoy deeply
within diabolical dunes
eternally erased doom

awaited for 21st century explorers
to discover scattered wreckage
both beast of burden, outrigged contrivance
and starry trekkers, who vanished without a trace

a handful of scrappy rapscallion existences
blotted (like ink, oil, or other liquid sponged),
where subsequent seasons
of wicked bewitched slow torture

akin to being raked over hot coals
exception made for this interminable sufferer
at the whim of sadistic
persona non grata evil spirit

n'er obliterating diehard survivor instinct
a foreigner to yours truly
but atavistic primitive fight or flight
witnessed relieved whence absently blinking

this life married to indiscriminate
clamped, harried, styled devilishness
evaporated in thin air
upon tentatively opening myopic brown eyes
horror, twas boot a dream.
Tintin Mar 2017
On the bedside she see's
the bottle responsible
for keeping her big brother
the way he was before

the 'happy bottle' she named it
and hoped that eventually
big brother will no longer need it
and they could really live happily

But big brother said
he hates the happy bottle
and that when he uses it
it hurts

she grew to hate the happy bottle
because she realized
in her brothers eyes
he was only numbed

Taking the happy bottle
she breaks it
hoping to give her big brother
his happiness back
dani evelyn Mar 2017
the truth is that my heart feels like it’s broken and blooming all at once.
the truth is, i thought you might be the one
to reach in and rescue me.
the truth is
i cannot stop watching you,
i don’t know what it is that you want.
i don’t know if i could give it to you
if i knew.

the truth is that it has taken a long time for the pieces of my heart to fit right in my chest.
the truth is, i was just beginning to feel strong
again.
if only you knew how your smile has sent all my fault lines into a panic,
every inch of my body braced for the earthquake
bound to come, atoms
climbing into doorframes,
opening the bunkers.
even the way you put your hand in your pocket ***** me up. i can’t pretend anymore.
i’m not pretending.

the truth is i’d **** to put a stethoscope to your heart;
we can play doctor, two kids under the dinner table.
if you run out of here, full speed, i can’t promise i won’t follow.
the truth is,
i just want to know how it ends.
Meaning

They say a drunk man's talk
is a sober man's thoughts.
Frankly, there is some truth to that;
but drunkenness has a way of muddying meaning.
When I said I loved you
I meant it.
However what I meant by it was just what you think,
and so much more.
I love you not just physically,
mentally,
spiritually,
but on an emotionally dependent level.
You have a way of getting me high.
Higher than any inebriation can or ever could.
I love you for being my friend.
For believing in what I believe in
on my behalf.
And, most importantly,
for not shunning me for my flaws.
For all you do for me without even really trying,
I should kneel at your feet at the sight of you,
and thank whatever cosmic coincidence
brought me before you.
For you are walking, talking,
breathing:
Therapy.
So, for the next time I'm too drunk to stand,
and am throwing up as you hold my hair back:
Know that afterwards when I kiss you,
hug you,
tell you I love you, even.
Know now,
Exactly what I mean.
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