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Even the scene I was making was making a scene:
I've been freed by friendlessness, so why do old pals
embitter w/ velleity a reunion can still rouse?
It's just I'm so swizzed by reading trueselfbydates.
Shawl, who is also called Pall; runagate who is also prostrate.
To the bull's eye, the hawkeye is palpable, tangible, felt
To the hawkeye, the bull's eye is palpable, tangible, felt.
Phone went. Atonement? Opponent. Alone meant
renewal of the same old selfentering entertainment.
Narcissistic conception: a privately bred clone
'tis my duty to bully, torture earnestly. One does one's own.
British Ionists don't even understand Zirony.
But I wish I was as simple as just contradictory.
Tragready? Incipit tragoedia: travesties hurt.
Like seeing my Riot Grrl swiothrrt in a 'Travis' tshirt.
Trillions killed during filming, fastforwarded orchids.
Cast of inexpendable heart oscitation deleted.
To einsof soft life on the air, we're lost. In the sour feast,
50 years' service is a ****** on the mantlepiece.
*******, mon semblance! Goose scry to the scaly
Torygraph; Presidented Gein; masSACREDad (God's Mochrie).
It takes CITV & CBBC & pre-DWP DSS & pre-DSS
DHSS to raise a child, not a Doubting Momus.
Dreamflounder, dreamfloater, dreambounder in a dreamboater.
English country Capgras bros. of a stranger in  an oater.
Nil admirari, ennui, omnui, zennui, nitchevo.
Yet buckaroo Love's hopingpong lives out my spermself's FOMO.
I foamed at the month, Lysember, annually,
for flavour of the mouth should be Oxyjanuary.
Sandwich artists, stationary bloggers & ancient astronaut
theorists all walked Jackonoryology in school reports.
'Sweirdly emasculating, like a tall grandmother,
how I cannot poetsplain the future or its lovers.
1,000 albino bishybarnabees rorschach the tragic
lantern: swarm th'only pattern of fatback TV static.
Negress of the World dreams of unio Mr.Car
in the cave of charades that's shrine to an umbra.
Afflatic calculus of tragic trajectories, romantic ratios:
lyricalgebra. Show my working: Statement of Aesthetics, Rothko.
Song of alien vitalism, Neanderthal Jesse Garon.
Prosody fit for Methuselated muse, Struldbrugg paean.
How clean is your dream disqualidayhome celebrikitchen
bug in **** conscience, Carol Vorderline? Pigpen's plugin.
Jack of Shapes, Jack of Ages, Jack of Doors, Jack of Cues.
Best of all possible Lords to follow? Serendipitous debuts.
The Devil writhes a kiddiefiddlin' schtick.
The Devil is a devout Catholic.
Pincered zen selfsparta builtsitting in what it's from:
cogito keeping its damnable cheek above fatsam & fleshsam.
I feel it so intensely: irony of ironies when I don't care.
Selffulfulling jelly w/ nothing to fear but fears nothing hears.
Experienshit, differenshit, definitely still ****, diffranchiser
of scheisser. Choken record: wist zither, aubade nebuliser.
You pick up. Seashellsussurus of a radioed purlieu.
Your crepitant crelp, monastic by virtue of ***** flu.
Bellybutton ash/blue & green dahlia: inner & outer bull
of bull's eye anthropocentrism. Both can & can't be too careful.
Hawkeye Bennu or other siderolite's solipsism
cuts short my nut cutlet nuncheon: absurdissimum prism.
As a young man (30ish)
Sat alone in a room,
His feeble voice
Rang out:
"If there's anyone here,
Please talk to me."

"Help!" He continued.
"I've gotta go
To the bathroom.
Please, help me!"
Echoed his broken,
Lame voice.

Sadly, his cry
Fell on deaf ears.

I've seen him
Throw himself down,
And banging his head
On the floor--
In a loud voice,  
Cursed God continuously.

With a lamenting voice,
He prayed to die.
And yet, he lived.

In pitious ragings,
He'd severely
Threaten others.
But with family,
He remained utterly calm.
Only his family
Could console him.

My heart ached for him,
As my eyes welled with tears.
For, you see,
He was young and blind.

He was a young blind man,
Consumed by his blindness.
This story is true. And situations such as this, illustrates the truth of life's less glamorous side: the affliction. The darkness. The loneliness. The dependency and utterly helpless feeling. The fear and despair. What is not, and yet could have been for any of us.
Katie Edmunds Jan 2018
There once lived a girl
Free as can be,
Her smile bright,
Her heart young,
And her eyes full of sympathy

There once lived a girl
Loved by all,
Never sad,
Never lost,
But this was before the fall

There once lived a girl
Crying for help,
No one to turn to,
No one to trust,
Everyone heard her yelp

There once lived a girl
All alone,
No more friends,
No more laughter,
All because she wasn't a clone

There once lived a girl
Horrendously broken,
When her life slipped away,
When her smile disappeared,
So many words left unspoken

There once lived a girl
Free as can be,
Ruined by the world,
Ruined by society,
Now she lays under the oak tree

So many times she was hurt,
So many times she cried
While everyone stood by,
Now she is gone
Everyone has died a little inside
In memory of the girl with the bow in her hair
Pagan Paul Apr 2017
Hold me through the night
Still the pain and keep me safe
I can't face being alone

Fold your arms so tight around me
make the dark go away
Please stay, hold me through the night

© Pagan Paul (01/01/17)
Haiku 5-7-5, 7-5-7
Chaotic world Jun 2016
Hold me close tonight,
I need your arms wrapped around me
Before the pieces of me tumble like a game of jenga,
I'm trying my best to see the last page of my story,
But I think it's only a matter of time till I decide to end my story,

So hold me close tonight
While you fill my head with beautiful fantasies,  
Before I decide to insert lead into it tonight,  
Intoxicate me with your voice,
Before I intoxicate myself with deaths poison tonight,
Give me the oxygen that I have been gasping for,
Before I decide to close the path to my lungs tonight,

Pull the mask off of me,
So you can see past the illusion of my smile,
So you can see that I'm in need of help,
Hold me tonight,  
Before you have to hold the stone with my name on it.
Sometimes people are crying for help and we don't know it.
Bria Hunt Apr 2016
The blade brands my skin
As the tears burn my cheeks
And my head pounds more than I can breathe.

This isn't what you think it is.
It isn't a wish for my life to end,
this is a cry for help.


with this final scream left
I will get someone's attention.

Someone will see,
maybe even notice me,
maybe, just maybe,
someone will stay and comfort me!

The pain of life,
the stain of sin,
is the blood that drips
down these pail white bricks.

No one seems to have the strength
to remove even one brick.
To see if I need help
or to see if I'm hurting myself.

I'll scream one more time
To see if someone hears my cry
"I'm hurting myself, I'm hurting myself!"
But no one seemed to lift an eye.

— The End —