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Tommy Randell Dec 2018
This poem is a hoax, okay
That says it's not a poem
But it sure as hell looks that way -

And though its rhymes offer recognisabilty
One hundred likes are needed
To give it credibility, so

Please copy and paste it onto friends -
The more a hoax poem is actually read
The more it reads like commonsense.

It means well in the humour it evokes, so
Please, help these dubious lines become
More poem and less hoax -

Or else I will, I will do my very best,
I will send it to Trump who will cancel Christmas and
Live on YouTube Santa will die a lingering death...
juliet Nov 2018
i am thirsty for
all your blood, milk, and honey
sweet and thirst quenching
like a mosquito
let me seep into your veins
and take everything
you have to offer
thunder rolls above
a sweet death kiss waits for you
trust me, not clickbait
~ i want to feel your love (all of it)
WistfulHope Sep 2018
I once felt like words gave me power
Like they gave my quiet shell of a self a leg to stand on
Now I feel like I have none left to speak, to write
I've been drained of verbs and left broken -- immobile
My adjectives fall soft and simple, even the deaf don't pretend to hear
It's strange
Being so far removed from the one you called yourself
I don't know what there is left for me to say
It's like being a young musician on stage
And people have slowly stopped cheering as they realized
You have no more tunes left to play
Yet I've stood frozen, stuck, despite myself
I'm waiting for them to come back
The words
The crowds
The self that I used to know
That I thought I did know
I haven't a clue to where they've left, to where they'll go
But I hope that they find it
The messages they seek
I can no longer provide them
My inkwell bone dry
My spirit missing it's former vibrance, now dully meek
They once called me wicked
I thought it ironically sweet
That for someone so bitter
Many worshiped me
Hiii...
It's been a while, I think, since you all got a nice wordy note from me.

I've been writing poetry for...8? 9? years now... And I've gotta say, I legit cannot tell if I've gotten better or worse. I used to write because I was ****** at life, or violently angry with myself, or if I wanted to do bad things. I don't feel like that anymore. Pretty much never. I've survived some ****, but now (all things considered at least) I'm starting to thrive a bit. When I was at my height of popularity on this site, or at least what my very ****** up and disillusioned perceptions gathered to be the height of it, I was sick. I was having regular dissociative episodes, was severely depressed, engaging in self harm in a variety of forms nearly daily, and very suicidal. If anyone is going through some ****, please seek help, and hold on. I promise it gets better. But yeah. When I was very aggressively using this site as an outlet, I amassed a good sized follower count and trended almost daily. The only poem I ever had make daily poem (which btw was toward the beginning of my worst downward spiral ever) was about hanging myself. Like what the **** lol. But if I helped people -- or even just one someone somewhere -- feel less alone, then I'm glad. But ever since I had started to get better I got less attention here. Which is kinda a weird feeling. I'm not sure if it's cause my writing started to **** or if I got less 'interesting' for lack of a better term, or maybe a mix. Or maybe it's all the changes this site has had over the past 4 years since I joined. Either way, it's weird... I feel like I don't know how to keep writing or improve... Idk, I'm just kinda...
stuck. ...This has been a stream of consciousness.

Anyway, I love you all. And in a special way those of you who have left this world for another. I will never forget you.
Pax,
Wicked
clem turner Nov 2017
"what painting only your thumbnail means."
i look down to my thumb.
i click.

"YOUR child might have college freshman disorder!"
i don't know what it means
but i think i might have it
it sounds sad
i click.

"i'm tired all day, and awake all night. i'm sad. you might have..."*
i click
with no hesitation
i click

i get a virus.

— The End —