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Isabel Levy Aug 2018
Sometimes I feel incomplete, as if my two hands clasped aren't enough to hold,
As if my body heat needs to be supplemented somehow, or encouraged;
I don't feel enough pressure on my skin throughout the day, and though I'm not six years old,
I decide to touch everything I see, everyone, so we aren't all discouraged.

I only know my position of mind, any other I've barely grazed through,
Since I was born and raised with this head, my mind has developed it's own ways...
But I'll always glance over, when I'm not being beheld, to take a look at you,
And study your habits, expressions, even your name, until my focus is swayed.

And this is what I do with myself, how I fill up my time and my brain.
I daydream with my head down and refuse to see the sun,
The blinding light doesn't see me as an herb, but simply something to drain.
Burn my eyes with your excellence, your independence has won,

And I, laying face down in the soil, feel your burning influence upon my back.
Swelter my skin, I don't have to ask. Are you who I want to be?
An unstoppable force in someone's sky that can both comfort and attack?
Is that what I'll have? A sun of a man to hold? One who both loves and harms me?

However, it may be my own fault, as the harm is inevitable here,
Staying out without protecting myself from the ball of light in the sky.
The earth against my forehead is cool and rich, making my head clear,
It takes each whimper, each tear that falls, and absorbs every cry.

I bury my face into the dirt, squeezing my eyes shut so tight,
I taste the sediment, the clay, the plant remains, but I don't mind.
It feels just fine. Cool on my skin, dark and soft, it feels just right.
So much so that I forget about the sun that looms right behind.
Oy vey
Bansi Adroja Aug 2018
I feel it on my skin when you touch me
sometimes its the only thing
as you breathe on my neck
so close
as you push further
holding me in place
while pushing me further away
as if I'm not the same
drowning in a feeling I can never place
A Poem a Day : Five
Damon Beckemeyer Aug 2018
Thanks for the drop
So Seemingly accidental
Kicked like a pebble along this gravel-road time line

I turn and glance a mirror
How introspective.

My ***** cragged shell
My thoughts tainted by my odious flesh
Mississippi catfish have seen better days

I can only swim backward if I’ve  finally seen the danger
And the warning signs come a flooding
Crawdads taught me well.

A clam diving headlong into the sludge
Detritus never felt so comforting

Sand in my eyes
Sand in my eyes
Exfoliate your corneas boy!

Rotten fruit never tasted so good
Spoiled milk and flies
A dog to its own *****

Thanks for the shock collar
The pound
The castration
Hand that feeds
How sweet and tender-hearted
You cherish your convenience

I am a cursed man
Born dead
Alive and dead once again
As time is slowly ticking

I gasp for air
Salt water
Light to relieve me of crippling water pressure
It’s too dark down here

Why is the end of the tunnel above the surface?
I can’t breathe up there

Throw me a line
Yank me away
To an abrasive serenity at the hand of a fisherman in the kitchen sink

A plastic ring will do nicely
Might as well sink and feed my brothers
Might as well think to myself
Rather than lead others

Might as well smudge my words so that no one can read what I wrote
With the needle in my side

My thorns are innate
Yet I wield them as stripes
My fillet is laid
Across the plate at the last supper

My time as a bottom feeder is through
Sharon Talbot Jul 2018
How do you tell if she’s a lady,
When she’s turning eighty five?
She doesn’t wear much jewelry
No furs or fancy styles.

She doesn’t play croquet,
But likes to root instead through dirt.
Her uniform’s a crumpled hat,
Old shoes and a muddy shirt.

You can find her on any sunny day,
Outside in all weather,
Stacking stone and hauling hay.
Collecting white stones & robin feathers.

But don’t dare swear or she’ll object!
Don’t watch **** TV or
She’ll tell you what to do instead:
“Rake some leaves or sweep this floor!”


She might strike you as old Rose Sayer,
Prim, proper and cold.
And to God each night she’ll say a prayer,
“Jesus please, don’t let me get old!”

Dedicated to Mom, Who Believes in Living Forever
Mom is 91 now and bed-ridden, sadly, but she had, as they say, a good innings, using most of it up on yard work which made her feel good (for some odd reason)...
Myrrdin Jul 2018
You are small
But you will grow
The grass will not always
Look like a forest to you
You will forget to relish the feeling
Of dirt between your toes
Your alarm will go off one morning
And you will make your way to work
And you will crush grass beneath your feet
Absent mindedly
Instead of eyeing it with wonder
And wondering what magic
Placed it there for you to play in
You will mow your lawn, and I'm sure
That you will ***** about it too
You are small, but you will grow
And the grass and I will miss you
A Simillacrum Jul 2018
What would you call the home which sits,
simple, in reverence of fiction, sits in reverence,
on two knees and a nose sniffing ***** bones?
What would you call a thing which makes,
a thing which creates meaning, much less,
than it ***** 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.
Tamera Pierce Jul 2018
I'm ***** once again.
Grime that was once scrubbed away
has crawled back onto my skin
and made itself at home.
As if it never left.
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