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Makenzie Marie Mar 2015
I don't know.
I'm sad
and I'm mad
about being so sad.
Because I know life isn't so bad,
and I'm trying to add
more of the happiness I've previously had
and I'm so dang glad
I mean, I can see the blessings I have.
But no matter how bad
I want to not be sad
or how hard I try...
I still sit here with tears in my eyes
and I'll tell you "I'm fine."
And you know it's a lie;
I'm holding on for dear life.
I am tired
and the fire
in my eyes?
Along with my cloudy heart,
and the cloudy skies;
those flames
are dimming
going out with the city lights
in the middle of the night
Like if I just hide
and take some time
to get things right
The despair will somehow
dissapear from my mind.
Maybe if I try
being kind
to myself
...and my heart and my mind
I will be fine
sometime.
Edna Sweetlove Mar 2015
To **** or not to ****, that’s the ******* question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the bowels to suffer
The twists and turns of outrageous rumblings
Or to take action against a bellyful of gas,
And by farting pump one out? To strain, to bloat
No more; and by a mighty outburst we’ll end
The gut’s ache, and the thousand natural stenches
That the **** is heir to, 'tis a resolution
Right devoutly to be wish'd. To ****, to ****!
But perchance to ****, there's the ******* problem;
For in that mighty **** of doom what turds may come,
When we have let the little beauty out from mortal tail,
Must give us pause; there's the danger
That makes calamity of the farter’s life;
For who would bear the sneers and mocks of men,
The neighbour’s shock, the lover’s curling lip,
The pangs of horrid stench, the *******’ o’erflowing,
The leaking **** orifice, and the drips,
Impatient strainings that the tragic farter makes,
When he himself might sweet easance make
With a careful prodding finger? Who would a ****-plug wear,
Grunting and sweating with noisome convulsions,
But that the dread of solids after air-release,
The undiscover'd oozings, from whose delivery
No toilet visitor recovers, puzzles the will,
And makes us bear the bellyache we have
Than fly to others we know not of?
Thus indigestion does make cowards of us all;
And then the native heave of constipation
Is sicklied o'er with the pale fear of defecation;
And enterprises of both ******* and crapping
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of exciting toilet action.
JDK Mar 2015
It seems to me that one gets **** on,
and the other does the *******.
(Not directly you see;
this ***** exchange is done through a third-party.)
One swallows his pride for the sake of relief,
and the other is proud of the way that he stinks.
Taking a dump on morality

"And for that one moment of freedom you have to listen to all that love crap . . . it drives me nuts sometimes . . . I want to kick them out immediately . . . I do now and then. But that doesn't keep them away. They like it, in fact. The less you notice them the more they chase after you. There's something perverse about women . . . they're all masochists at heart."
- Henry Miller, The Tropic of Cancer
Just Jake Mar 2015
Sometimes comfort is the sound of rain,
the crackle of thunder, the crackle of fire.
Or a cup of warm tea,
a whole day spent in bed.
Sometimes nondescript is all I am,
and hiding isn't real but pain is. Compulsive lips meet mine,
whisper "I'm fine," and well I
rake my face
with claws
to rearrange salted waterfall
into bittersweet smile.
Woo, garbage.
To all my "friends"
I want you to know
I want you to know that from now on You're alone.
Don't cry to me for help
Don't **** up to my face
I know to you I'm just a mark you'll erase

To all my "friends"
I want you to know
I'm not a toy you can use
You can't pick me as you please
Just because you're favorite toy is missing
I'm no one's second choice

I gave you guys my all
You just let me fall
There is no trust here
Just rotting walls
What do you say behind my back
On second thought, I don't give a crap.

To all my "friends"
I figured out you're game
And guess what?
I'm done playing

To all my "friends"
I want you to know
I used to live you so much
But people change
Time moves on
Its time for us to go our separate ways
tired of being used by the ones I love
sun stars moons Dec 2014
how do you let someone go
when you were the one who convinced him to love you?

how do you break his heart
after you were the one who picked up the pieces?
Sara L Russell Dec 2014
Sara L Russell

A songwriter sat down to write
and tried and tried with all this might
to make the inspiration come
until the bowels of his soul were numb
until he almost screeched in pain
and forced an idea in his brain.
He strained, then like a thunderclap,
out came a song - and it was crap.

Established DJ's tapped their feet,
they thought it sounded rather sweet;
it had nothing unsafe to say
and so they played it night and day
and so they played it day and night
ad nauseam, as if in spite.
It should have been hurled down the nearest drain
but was played again and again and again

And so it got to Number One
and bored the **** off everyone
and so eventually went gold
as down the river the world was sold
as grannies bought it in their droves
(as if grannyhood behoves
the buying of such awful things)
And thus the turkey spread it's wings.

One day, a man with a broken heart
whose business venture fell apart
whose grandmother was very ill
stood high upon a window sill
and wondered, should he jump, or no?
And was six floors high enough to go?
As his aching heart began to thump,
He heard the song - and decided to jump.
*Written a fewyears ago and revised tonight; this poem was inspired by the song "Achy Beeaky Heart" by Billy Ray Cyrus, which I have always hated with a passionate, red-eyed, fire-spitting hate. I also dedicate it to every Christmas record that ever made me gag.*
I have a little black book
and in it I do write
the thoughts that scramble round my mind
throughout the day and night.

I ponder on most everything,
my mind is like a drain.
Where everything just washes down
however so inane.

I don't know why I think like this,
it just springs up as thought.
The silliest of images
in my mind does distort.

Sometimes I think I'm going mad,
but still I write it in.
Each word is in my little black book
but should be in a bin.

Perhaps I hope that one day
I might write something good.
The real hope is that one day,
that I really could.

But just for now I'll write it out
these words I will entrap
and keep them in my little black book
even though it's mostly crap.
12th November 2014
I wrote this little ode whilst I was trying to think of something decent to write. LOL
rare-and-rad Sep 2014
Dear ****,

       ******* and your devilish traps
thanks for making my good days go to crap
thanks for separating me from my mother,
for making me look like a **** up to my brother
thanks for the addiction I have to face
you really did take me to another place
thanks for making me into the person I am
at least you never made me slam
thanks for making me stay up for a week or two
you showed me that I got nothing to lose
thanks for putting shadows in front of my eyes
but if it wasn’t for that I wouldn’t have realized my lies
I now put a gat in the side of my lap
cause I can’t even sleep or even take a nap
I’m always moving around , where ever it is you take me
bringing me to my dealers house making me beg on my knees
even if it’s just leftover’s, crumpled up in aluminum foil
Now I pick my arms because I think it begins to boil
I’m known as the black sheep in my family
you made my life a ****** up tragedy
The scars you caused aren’t only visible but mental
Thank god I stopped before I melted my dentals
There’s still a voice in my head telling me not to leave you
but I want to start my actual life, I want to be someone new
I thank you for the **** caused, for the mistakes you made me do
But I’m leaving you now, one last thing, *******.
You make me feel like crap

you ******* little sap

you cry about the world

but you torture all the girls

you stupid little sap

why do i let you treat me like crap.
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