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EricM Mar 8
In the passenger seat of my car
You on top in a black dress
Your skirt hiked up above your waist
It was cramped
You struggled to maneuver
But it's always like this
Or so it seems
Things go right in my life
More often than my dreams
Juhlhaus Jan 17
On a misty city morning
Still resolved to early rising
I came upon a heap of corpses

They were child sacrifices
Made to satisfy the fancy
Of Christian Capitalist and Pagan
And a jolly old fat man
Who lives at the North Pole

They might have been

Growing tall
In a field or on a hill
Drinking sunlight
Breathing love songs
In answer to caress of wind

But the silent pines
Didn't seem to mind
Their broken bodies one last gift
Filling my chest with fragrant air
And longings
For fields and hills
On a misty city morning
Spicy Digits Dec 2018
When do we live?

Between 9 to 5 political ****
And mortgages and schools
Saturday's filled with vacuuming
Sunday's stuck in halls
A "quick" traverse in peak traffic
An aversion to a new letter
A coffee catch up full of black words
1 million complaints of the weather

Grey suits, black dresses, white sneakers
Global warming, terrorism, grim reapers

Who's hotter and richer than you
More likes, more shares
How many countries and bunjees
Neck tattoos
Who the **** cares

Straw hut villages with broadband
Switch off your mind, switch on the box
And watch how ******* control our land

Tell me, at what point do we really live?
When do we notice our breath,  the air
Do you know you have the universe in you?
Are you blind to the light you wear?
In my more cynical moments
Lyn-Purcell Oct 2018


~
I am a cynic and
a romantic at heart.
My skin hardened by experience
My heart fearful of pain and trust.
Many have tried to peel away
my doubts and fears and
try to add colour to my
truth.

My truth is my reality.
And with that, no one can
hurt me.
So stop.
Please stop.

Don't look at me with
eyes fascinated, eyes with
pity, eyes of doubt.
My heart's afraid
and my mind's so
convicted.

You taste sweetness
from my sourness
and still...
you
think you can
heal me...?
~


This is an old poem I found in a very very old journal.
Wrote it back 2014-5, wow.
Looking at it now, I think I've gotten a little better,
but yet, this still hits so close to home.
Training the mind to be different is a lot harder than people would think.
Lyn ***
clem turner Sep 2018
i was hoping you’d have gotten it by now
i thought you said that you were good at these guessing games,
yet, i still didn’t want to call you out.
u know these lyrics sound much better without names

but if you need me to,
i can write this out to use:
pay attention to the letters and the words
if you’ll just listen close
you’ll hear me crying out to you
by name.

i was hoping you’d have understood these songs
i crafted carefully and i carved initials into
wooden hearts and boxes made with love.
a lot of effort, a lot of time, for no reward.

but if you need a call,
i’ll pretend that i don’t care at all
i’ll jump alone into a volcano
to survive in “the friend zone,”
you’ll hear me crying out to you
by name.
does this make sense
Enia Aug 2018
Information overload;
Cognitive dissonance
Too much consciousness;
Expand the mind
But makes the soul weak
Finding the truth is a bargain
Of wanting to die and wanting to live
MicMag Aug 2018
What's it take
These days

To write a poem

That makes the world go mad
That brings the crowds to their feet
That spreads like wildfire
Through a dry winter forest

Is it those excessively long words?
The loquacious ramblings
Of an insecure mind aspiring
To authentic intellect?

Is it perhaps...
     the "creativity"
               of      varied      spacing
  or...    could it be..... the lack
                              of capitalization
               the loathsome little letters
               screaming out
                         hey, look at us!
         ... or maybe it's
               the punctuation marks,
     littered, haphazardly
          through the text
                    (whether used correctly)
               or, theyre not?!
     despite worrds mispeled
          and a grammar might is broken
   can these tricks increase interest
        though miswritten or misspoken?

Is the trick alliteration
Whose bite brightly bids us
To center on the snappy sounds?
Although all along
     unvoiced underneath
Ideas idle in the isles
   (or perhaps the aisles)
Of the mind
To meld and craft and bind
Our thorough thoughts
And worthy words
Into lines
Which
Heard by herds
Raise the
                  Praise for which we
                  Privately, desperately
                  Pray

Maybe it's a magical mix
Of splendid in-your-head rhythm
Marvelous meter that perfectly clicks
Flowing smoothly without schism

Well-spaced stanzas
Well-used time
Well-crafted phrases
Well-thought-out rhymes

Well, maybe not...
     those gems are often ignored
     cast-aside, unclicked, abhorred

Why?

Because the modern world
doesn't need your rules
your restrictions
your regulations
your misguided boundaries
your oppression
your antiquated ideas
   of "the right way"
   to write
   to speak
   to act
   to live
   to (fill in the blank)

No, what the modern world needs
is
Negation!
Contradiction!
Resistance!
Revolt!

And poetry whose words
Say the same thing
Repeat the same meaning
Echo the same lyrics
Rephrase the same thoughts
But in an ever-so-slightly
Different
Varied
Changed up way
Line
After line
Of synonyms
          over
               and
                    over
                         again

-----

What's it take
These days

To not give in
To narcissism's spiral?

But more importantly:
What's it take

To make my poem go viral?
Only halfway cynically written, I swear!
AvengingPoet Jul 2018
I don’t matter
But that’s alright
Just another speck
On this pale blue dot
Filled with infinite content
And I laugh and laugh and be entertained
Christ, is this all there really is?
Does any of this matter?
I don’t matter

I feel drained
Another day
Can’t even focus on the coffee cup
The only thing keeping me going
Is the falseness of this American Dream
Oh man I’m already a debt *****
But I’ll get through it
When I’m 50
I feel drained

But there’s no cause for concern
We wouldn’t wanna upset the status quo
Get a good job pay those debts
Can you breathe yet?
Probably not
No alarms and no surprises
The true American Dream
As you drown in the poison
But there’s no cause for concern

One last time for the people in the back
I’m having a heart attack but I made it to 50
I ate like **** and it’s my time to die
But I got my quiet suburban home
And a wife that I love
And 2 beautiful children
And a job I hate
One last time for the people in the back

Maybe I’m being too cynical
It’s not that bad
There’s tragic flaws surrounding the great US of A
But I’ve gotta be me, I’ve gotta function
Even if I don’t matter
I can breathe and that’s a relief
Maybe I’m just being too cynical...

Does any of this matter?
MicMag Jul 2018
Toss myself out of bed
Peel myself off the floor
Drag myself out of the house
Push myself to the job I hate
Force myself to face the world
Command myself to not melt into a puddle that oozes through the pores of the couch cushions to become a useless incompetent waste of my own **** self

Demand more of myself
To keep myself myself
Just want to lay here and do nothing

Must. Do. Things!
The sconce on the wall
for crackling torches left burning for a returning
resents the assumption of infinite patience.
She's attached to an old brick wall;
not by affection, but by habit
and tools of the trade of attachment.
Occasionally-replaced simple screws worked into the bracket.
The wall is as dusty to touch, as divisive
as a tome of records, of laws of old.
The sconce respects history-- wishes more would become antiquity.
Knowing every flame left ardently lit, eventually burns out.
While here she stays.
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