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Poetic T Jul 2014
I pulled them, I snipped them off,
She loves me, she loves me not,
With each pull a muffled scream
Then the snip,
Deep terrified Agonizing scream
Then its thrown on the floor,
One of many, not many more to go,
"Do you love me"
"She loves me not"
Another one broken, then left till
The next one is snipped off,
She thinks is she the only one?
Looks behind,
To see jars labelled loved me not,
So many before, the same question
"Do you love me"
"No you do not"
He called them his petals,
But where was the stem they had come from,
He came to find her still,
The question asked
"Do you love me"
"She loves me,"
"She loves me not"
A petal did not fall upon the floor
He looked with head at an angle,
You love me?
After what I have done,
She smiles through the pain,
I always did love you,
I needed to see how far you would go,
With that he slowly undid the straps,
A bandage for her digits missing
Now lying blooded on the floor,
She had seen it behind,
He had give her a drink,
"She was so close to being free,"
He had a look in his eye,
As she turned  
She heard a different rhyme
"Miss Polly had a dolly"
"Fell off"
Last words spoke, as no digits removed
"Instead a head rolls along the floor"
A stem lies bleeding
The face frozen in shock
As the head added to the heads  **fell off jars,
Martin Narrod May 2014
The clock gets me.
It comes to me in the middle of the night
Pulls back the sheets and says, "Hey fucko."
Then it lifts open my sobby wet sand-encrusted lids,
It knows when I'm trying at sleep, pumping quarters
Like I was swallowing yawns, sometimes I try to squint
Harder and take a dream to the next level, whatever
The next level is. It's like Friday night when I wanted to go
Out to do something, whatever something is.
Because I know that if I don't I'll miss that thing that's so
Important that if I were to miss it the clock wouldn't come for me

And on Tuesday's when I'm knotting a dream around 2 o' clock
In the morning, my web-footed adventure, say, killing your

Boyfriend, say
Fighting the Nazis, say,
Rediscovering that you sent nudie pics to
That rando guy we met in that club that lives
in Prague-
I throw the clock at the ******* wall.

Because who knows, I make the bed wrong
Or maybe I don't cook right, or look right, or
Smile the right way at the right

Time. And you start thinking that I have to die.
The bane of my existence is an imagined feat in your
Walnut-sized brain, slowly numbing us while we're
Supposed to be, say

Listening to the rich, Oxford voice of
David Attenborough.

Instead you're thumbing through that index
of CVS cashiers, just trying to find a scruffy face
To flip your digits to, your homemade justification. It becomes
A feat, an unjust cause of mine to

Get it right, that imaginative and artificial bit you've
Been sewing up Monday twilight.

That's when I go out and jaw your sister, somewhere between
A smirk on your face and a bit of anger at the end of your sentences.

— The End —