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Robby Nov 2019
The way this medicine makes me feel
It’s my reminder that my heads not right

I don’t think like you do
My thoughts are too fast and come with flames

My anger is swirling in there as well
Raging thoughts of self harm

My little pills dizzy those anxious thoughts
Slow them to a less frenetic speed

Put me to sleep and make me dream of peace
Winter Sparrow Nov 2019
The wind howls from the north.
A cold blizzard has struck;
Leaving the man astray;
But the poet couldn't stop.

A horseman approaches...
Fate? Death? Destiny?
None of those;
It was reality.

The reality of a memory never forgotten.
The reality of a touch never betrayed.
The reality of a gaze upon ones glass eyes never amiss.
The reality if it being what it is.

The winter sparrow tells an Autumn tale of lust
Medusa engraved the moment on Smokey Quartz.
The witch added the forbidden lovers spice to the brew.
And the horsemen rode off into the night with all he could take.

Yet, the poet lusts for more.
His muse, she too wants that.
But what is may never be...
Or could they both be wrong?

Only time can tell
What only the moon knows.
Until the winds howl again.
Unless they never stop.
Robby Nov 2019
Is it sane to question your sanity
Sometimes I wonder what real is

Am I? Are you?
Are my words landing somewhere?
Or did I just imagine it?

How many people did I hallucinate?
Can I trust my thoughts?
Or my memories?

What if this is all a dream?
Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow to something else
What makes real really real?

Maybe reality is just us responding to our own imaginations
julianna Nov 2019
Hospital walls
Make me
Want to fall over
Get attention and
Pity
It’s selfish
But I’m desperate
So
Maybe they’ll
Admit me
~
Jack Torrance Oct 2019
Is this real,
or is this fake?
Is this a dream,
where I cannot wake?

Am I doomed to eternity,
of repeating sin?
A purgatory of do-overs,
again and again.

Purge it once,
rinse and repeat.
Tie up the strings,
and make it neat.

Reality,
is not what it seems,
but which side’s the waking,
and which side’s the dream.

I guess it don’t matter,
if you can’t tell.
Cause neither side’s good,
they’re double sided hell.

I’ll keep moving,
and try not to see,
the fluctuations,
surrounding me.

So if this is real,
then I’m sorry Dear,
but I doubt it is,
cause nothing is clear.

Either way I’m doomed,
to an eternity,
of repeating days,
and insanity.
underestimated Oct 2019
I’m stuck
I’m trapped
Someone come save me
They won’t let me out
I wish they would erase me
I’m so unhappy
Unhealthy
I’m stuck
I’m so alone
Someone please keep me company
They don’t ever let me leave...
Stepping onto the spray of pebbles
making our way onto the grounds
I considered to myself
And to myself alone
This will be a pleasant evening
with all parties involved behaving
as they should
Or something else entirely.
Something low.
Bellies down.

We gathered before
a small card table and
made our way unsteadily
Weaving up the incline
like skiers intertwining
down the molehills
to the properties.
Up is down.
Not good.

You moved to the right
Sprinkling pleasantries in one direction
and into one direction only.
Close and physical.
Like a sprite always looking up in quiet confidences
But a bit too early.
I wondered
Did the companion notice?
Can this companion see the play?

When too many seconds pass
And it’s time to head to the right
Where I am strolling
Disturbingly care free
Unattached and
No sign of attaching
You shakily try a few words
Yet offer no enticements
for that **** costs
It’s expensive
So you hoard and bestow sparingly
To well considered targets

Knowing this
And that there will be no payout
My body has told you that much
You return back to the companion
again and again
Softly stepping And considering
with your magical archetype-wielding
Hustle and shake down.
A threadbare con under the moon
And blackened sky.
I am left alone.

I had looked into your eyes at some point
and wondered
What are you? Peering deeply.
Are you a daemon?
I felt badly. To wonder
And certainly not for the first time
That this extended moment
sitting side by side
On stools
In the Mexican night
Was with some kind of creature
Not human
Not kind
A predator
You said so yourself
With pretty eyes
And two harmless old canines.

We sat and waited for the companion
Who showed up with a bottle of wine
And we sauntered back to your rental
The senile dogs entered and retreated immediately
into the darkness
to face the walls
immobile yet somehow agitated
A bad sign.
Spirits are here.
The dogs are aware.
You have said that they could be
Easily corrupted by being pure souls.
By a force that’s
bent upon the destruction of
All Souls
Not just dogs.
However if you asked me
The devil gets his due.

God that’s funny.

You withdrew to get them sorted
In the darkened rooms
Especially that dusky mauve poodle
A miniature with a frazzled dying coat
And questionable eyes
Blindness or Defeated?

You and the companion dug into your chicken
Ravenous and American style.
I, horrified, ate a bland soup of corn

Out came notes and pens and post-its
And the data was exchanged across
the central kitchen prep-table
with the white quartz top.
You paused and turned to your right
Facing me and my spoon
And speaking under your breath to your shoulder
Confirming with your angels
and channeling guides
That the real estate numbers looked good,
In what wasn’t any language
that I’m familiar with,
But they validated your inquiry
As they should
And perhaps you scribbled a notation
Or a mathematical calculation
Perhaps not

The companion saw none of this
Apparently hearing no little squawks or soft babble
Too busy grinding into her meal
and her resentment.
This is not going well at all.
My soup is bad
My company is bad
I must change this immediately.

But
The companion has a word for me
Instead
You are too nice
You have made yourself too available
You will get hurt by bad people in this town
You with that sweet smile
Warm hands
huggable shoulders
kissable face
and laughing eyes and all those euros in your
Change purse!
They will mean you harm.
I know about these things.

I chose not mention the man that drew my portrait that day
Although it did look like a rock
And yes the one that arrived at our lunch unannounced and uninvited
That did not go over well either.

But you
You have your daemon
You are safe
And protected
And loved
Touching fingers
And make offerings at her altar
by way of undeveloped but
prime
real estate
Giving the devil her due.
Jorge Oct 2019
Sitting down looking at the mirror
I see someone that looks like me
But, is it me?
Confused right now
Just to know it's me!

It's my reflection
I'm obviously funny
Need no psychologist yet
All I need is a friend
To get rid of this madness

But no,
I'm okay with it
Indeed, I love it.
Just by thinking of the little amount of madness everyone possesses, I wrote this poem due to the excess I have.
Still Crazy Oct 2019
“High in an ingredient called allicin, garlic can help stimulate circulation and blood flow to ****** organs in both men and women. However, because of garlic's mood-killing smell, eat it in moderation.”

while researching mold, stumbled on this factoid,
the one that’s asking
what is moderation in love?
and where in the oddest places, we find answers...

oft thought that pure love is extremist,
and any extreme needs to thrive on its antimatter,
so goodness, needs speckles of unkind,
and ****** promotions, aides that aid,
present an invoice needy for stamping “paid!”

such is the casino we play life in,
you cannot leave till you’re paid up,
paid in full in heartbreak joyous,
so the odor of love, keener, fruited,
when absent and the green grocer
no longer smiles when his ex-best garlic
customer walks by(e)

I toiled in seduction fields, gathering fruits and flowers,
now, reduced to a window-sill gardener whose
crop will grow from citified rain, small stunted,
leaden and ripe for discardation

troll me not, your stuff is your stuff,
mine is mine, when we meet, you will be slow to recognize,
but you will smell my garlic, and know it’s

that poet
exactly

au revoir, no!

it’s not your eyes that will acknowledge
my existence, but the dirt beneath my fingernails,
and the perfume of what might have been therein contained
if you, sadly unlike me,
are!
s t i l l
crazy after all these (tears) years
Gray Dawson Oct 2019
I need security, like a hug that warms me
I can’t keep pretending not to be
I’m struggling to remember what made me better
Cause the words that I used to say seem like an error

The memory of the colonge “Invictus” still floats
His cologne always seemed to calm me during my episodes
But now I’m starting to wonder if that was even real
Anyday now someone will rip off the disguse and make the big reveal

Am I delusional or do I just need to stop obsessively obsessing about everything?
These thoughts don’t sound right and my futures looking grim
I’m chasing a feeling that doesn’t exist anymore
I’m trying to fight and serve in a fictional war

Maybe I really am delusional, and I’m not sure what’s fact and what’s fiction
I’m waiting for someone to give me permission to make a decision of my own volition!
I want people to give a **** or two about the things I’m thinking loudly
I’m just asking for a little respect, after all, I always listen undoubtely

Smash me into the ground with your opinions, just listen and hear
I’m not trying to take your ear
You may not be real at all, but could you try a little harder
I want effort in relationships, not this ******* social torture

I need a push in the right direction, don’t tell anyone, but I probably need some help
I don’t think it’s in my best interest (even if it’s what I want)to be
I’m not trying to be a **** when I say this, bud
But I need you to step it up
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