A pessimistic outlook on this blue planet
is the only way I can trudge through my shallow, pitiful existence.
Pear pressure digging a hole in my peace
and tossing the dirt to the side like it means nothing.
The brooding pitter patter of earth against earth turning me into an empty shell.
The quiet sobbing of the girl I used to be echoing loudly from within this now vacant space.
Each and every word that spills from between my lips wilting with my cancerous mind.
Tumors swelling in my hippocampus causing me to both never forget, and always forget all at once.
The diseases within my corpse-like body sinking my eye sockets
and leaving my heart for dead.
I might as well be a zombie
everybody would rather have me dead
then deal with my ugly face and diseased flesh.
What would you call the home which sits,
simple, in reverence of fiction, sits in reverence,
on two knees and a nose sniffing pubic bones?
What would you call a thing which makes,
a thing which creates meaning, much less,
than it sucks the meaning away?

The past ushers futures inside that my parents
made, and their parents made, and their parents,
it seems I'm younger than I think. B o r n,
i n t o a w o r l d o f d e t r i t u s . b o r n,
into a
worldoftrash.

Happy. Happy. Happy.
My body will carry use
once I am dead. I
think I taste the dirt.

Happiness in head.
KM Hanslik Jul 2
Keep your eyes soft and your dreams
up on the highest shelf so you won't take them down too early;
keep everything that you spill in the dark locked
behind your teeth during the day, don't bring it out before dusk;
like secrets we drip over sidewalk cracks
from cotton-candy sticky fingers and leave our names
dissolved under each other's tongues, the warmth of you is keeping me company
as I try to crawl out of my blood again, they told you to leave
a bread-crumb trail in case your heart becomes too watered down by just visiting
to even remember the vacation at all; you carry
kisses on the knuckles of amputated arms,
driving through parking lots with your seatbelts on,
collections of constellations growing
in the bruises on the insides of your thighs, reminders
of salt & the whites of your eyes;
she tells you not to worry- "we'll all be dead someday"
you tell her to carry a map around and mark the spot
where her heart rolled away
from her dirty fingers and fell
into the grave dug open by
daily misadventures and old habits of always keeping
your tongue tied up between your teeth -
you'd best remember which aisle you kept
your dreams in now.
I'm dirty once again.
Grime that was once scrubbed away
has crawled back onto my skin
and made itself at home.
As if it never left.
KM Hanslik Jun 21
So many straws to grasp for, but I always choose the ones
that try to kill me
the ones that pound in my head, the ones that tear
holes in my stomach from the anxiety, so much air to breathe but mine is all
tainted with poisons
that make their home in my lungs and keep my breathing
staggered and shallow, I think roots are growing
where the soil is at its worst and what's emerging is stunted
and riddled with abnormalities; I know my body is charred
from throwing myself into the fire & I know my hands
may never stop shaking and they may know better
how to maim than heal, but I am trying
(they don't believe me)
I am desperately trying
to clear this air, to kill these weeds
seeding themselves through my skull,
it's just that my weapons are broken & my eyes are bloodshot
but I'll keep raking my hands through this soil
keep trying to uproot what is growing here
what is growing so tangled & gnarly,
the sun hasn't shined for a while and I wonder how it has the chance to live
in all this darkness, but I guess
some things are better left in the shade
I guess maybe I am one of those things,
I guess I haven't seen the sun for a long time.
My hands will be warm again,
just not right now
but I'm still waiting.
Pete McIntire Jun 17
I heard that if you gaze into a fire
That it will begin to gaze back into you

So locked inside a cell
I picked up a book
& proved that theory to be true.

///

I also heard that where you die
Depends on the floor
in which you crawled

However this I’ve proved is false
My first steps were in a home
With roaches on the walls
Pete McIntire
1/3.5
@RedLightWriting
Gray Jun 16
I scooped up a shovel full of dark brown dirt.
The midday sun beats down causing sweat to drench my t-shirt.

Soon this will be all over, right?
I guess i’ll feel more at ease when it becomes night.

Another scoop of thick hard soil.
With each motion i feel my burning arms recoil.

I cannot believe i got myself into this.
This is something I’ll definitely never be able to dismiss.

Is it wrong that I am barely feeling guilty?
I think i’m more concerned how my clothes are so filthy.

I roughly once again dig deep into the earth with a large amount of force.
Perhaps there will be one day where i’ll finally feel remorse.

Finally the hole is covered.
Fingers crossed that it doesn’t ever get discovered
I can wash off
the dirt stuck on me
on the way home.
I can wash off
the sweat
caused by the fear
and I can make
all the memories
disappear.

But fingerprints can't
be washed away.
And your scent
I'm sure it could leave
but I've been making
it stay.
Aa Harvey May 7
Slipping


Broken TV, phone line cut off;
Electric meter empty, friends have been lost.
Bottles all drunken, food beginning to rot;
Clothes torn and fading, all hope is gone.


Money all spent to pay the rent and the debts;
Eye sight fading, nothing left.
Body decaying, love life non-existent;
Pity and mercy are not forthcoming,
Everything is lost in an instant.


Dirt on the skirting boards and on the walls,
Ambition without power.
Green water in the vase underneath the dead flowers;
One minute past happy hour, the milk tastes sour.


Laughter not possible, arms too weak;
Broken are the sandals that slip beneath my feet.


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Steve Page May 4
I live by daily participating
and not by distant gesticulating.

I live by putting love into action,
not by singing for holy intervention.

I live by getting both hands soiled,
not sanitised and kept unspoiled.

If you want to follow the Nazarene
you can't keep your hands wet wipe clean.

This is life as he envisaged -
living like we're one big village.

Roll up your sleeves to each elbow,
let's serve together and not alone.

This is life as Jesus did it -
all hands-on, with dirt and spit!
A stolen idea from a open mike night: Jesus worked with dirt and spit. John 9:6.
Thanks Andy Freeman.
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