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Mikayla Smith Apr 2017
Like diamonds, we sleep in a soft repose,
Where we dream of slipping past the wandering souls;
Numbing our swollen hearts in glass and stone,
No more clothes, no more clothes

Making love with the stillness of the night
As the stars overhead flicker so, so bright;
Tracing the pattern of my spine,
Running out of time, running out of time

The sun pops from the sky,
Scanning the field of dreams where our love lies;
Written in the imprinted lines,
Saying goodbye, saying goodbye
A monotetra in honor of National Poetry Month.
PSR Apr 2017
Once a five oclock shadow, now an unkempt beard
This reflecting familiar looks a little weird
My straggly hair, my unwashed clothes
My lack of self confidence grows and grows.
A lack of interest, no get up and go
My personal hygiene at an all time low
So many plans I have lodged in my head
If only I could turf myself out of this bed
Zero Nine Mar 2017
I thought you were my friend
we shared herb and spirits
with an addict in recovery
I've never really left this town like you
I broke my new tablet
while watching ducks from rocks
This ***** river bank
This ***** city may
Be the only ocean for me
...
Johnnyqu33r Mar 2017
Desire is only funny,
When it's gone.
Diluted to only water,
Where when tasted,
You feel refreshed,
and not disgusted.

My desires remain,
and when rage boiled,
They didn't evaporate,
But turned into syrup...
Concentrated,
And gross to taste.

Gross to talk about,
***** to remember,
And painful to the tongue,
Where once you were,
Essence sitting,
And I swallowed...

More than once.
Xoaquín Oznian Feb 2017
****....
I need your body here right now
Pressed against me in the moonlight
I know you want it
You know I want it
I need to strip you down to nakedness
I need to lay you down
Upon the soft, soothing sheets of this bed
I need to release this emotional attachment
I need this pleasure
I need the pleasure of me between your legs
I need the pleasure of your legs wrapping tightly around my back
I need the pleasure of your ****** massaging my ***** while you moan your deepest ****** fantasies into the wild jungle that is the night
Into the wild jungle that is our ****** desire
I need you ******* my ears with your sweet, *****, enticing whispers.
I need you to cloud my entire functionality with ***
To relieve me of my painful reality
Drown everything out with ***
Let the music of our mouths be the soundtrack for tonight
Don't let me down
Don't let me feel any pain
Touch me anywhere
Kiss me everywhere
I'll cry like a newborn
Because every time you make me feel like I've been rebirthed
****** nature never felt so arousing
****** nature never felt so pleasurable
****** nature never sounded so beautiful
****** nature never tasted so pleasant
****** nature never made me... *** so hard...
Oh baby... Make me ***, ***, ***
Over and over until I can't feel anything
Until I am numb
Because I don't want to feel nothing but your body
Because I don't want to feel nothing but your ***
Brett Palmero Mar 2017
I begin to write in a diary
My life in of itself
My day to day series
Of what I think of myself

One day the page is bleak
I write of no light
Of pain it reeks
A day of complete blight

I look at it after I'm done
My sorrow in black
It makes me want to run
And never look back

But then I go to bed
Before I make an emotional cage
The next day I awake
And turn the page
Kelsey
This idea literally came from my friend stepping on her notebook and complaining the page was *****.
Poetic T Feb 2017
They whisper incoherent visualizations upon yourself;
clinging upon you like spider webs, viscous  and transparent.

A wanting of cleanliness urges you to look away from
the apparent vocalization that is perceived with their
                         glaring pockets of empty sight...

*"A look speaks a volume of intentions,
Julie Grenness Jan 2017
There's a pattern in our days,
Drifting through the stage,
Some women get mixed up
With all the wrong people, tough,
It's called ***** dancing,
So-called romancing,
Their credibility zero,
Don't know no urban hero.....l
Feedback welcome.
Dawn Treader Jan 2017
She will never understand
Fundamentalist Christianity’s demand
To maintain a perfect flower
Solely for a husband to devour

Robbed of her innocence
She begs in the form of repentance
For acceptance and forgiveness
The entire congregation a witness

To victim shame is to victim blame
Even innocent children aren’t immune
Ten past noon on a sunny day in June
A girl’s ***** was breached
A sin in the eyes of the lord, the goodly preacher preached

An unmarried non-****** is a ***** and nothing more
A defiled child, her name reviled

She is blamed, she is shamed
By her own flesh and blood
Silenced was the little lamb
To hell she will be ******

Keep up the facade
Just smile and nod
Pretend to love the church
Cross necklace, bible, and long skirt
C’mon show your love! Buy that Jesus merch!

Wanting to shed her skin
A prison she’s trapped in
The most perfect of little girls
Except she lost her white pearls

A bitter pill to swallow
The Lord Jesus she must follow
Knowing her body’s imperfect
Understanding she’ll never be worth it

So with the congregation’s nod, the goodly preacher preached:
"For in the eyes of God,
A ***** which is breached
On a girl without a ring
Is worth nothing but a fling"
The aftermath of another poem (see Blood and Cigarettes). Often victims of assault are blamed, even small children. It is somehow our fault.
JR Rhine Dec 2016
Vast, empty, midnight hour,
hunchbacked lampposts glaring over parasitic black earth
choking its host.

A parking lot,
an ecosystem’s blemish—
hot tar seeping into the pores of the earth
like a stubborn blackhead in a lip line.

When no cars burrow into the blackened hide
like lice
the great absence of life
is an atrocity.

I imagine myself skateboarding across the tier
as the small town cops
watch languidly with vague interest—

A skateboarder’s paradise
where wheels and accomplice minds roll across celestial barriers
blasting infinite pulses
into the microcosm.

What greasy punks have their mother’s van parked here,
huddling by the heat vents
and jerking off into a Pringle’s can?

Empty parking lot
looks like a cemetery
filled to the brim
where headstones meld
over a mass grave—

delineated by white lines,
the apparitions of vehicles and their hosts
haunt the frozen space.

Another horrible excuse
to waste land,
a wasteland in and of itself
where Tom Eliot saunters aimlessly
and buries the dead.

The saddest sight to behold,
this vacuous parking lot
littered with stray shopping carts,
phantasmal plastic bags,
gum splotches,
***** stains,
candy wrappers,
cigarette butts,
used condoms,
lonely cops
and patient drug dealers,
ambulant skaters,
tired punks,
bored teenagers,
somnambulists,
stumbling drunks,
hunchbacked ***** lights
prying for life beneath its sallow gaze—

The air encapsulated within the perdition
stifling,
the pavement below stifling,
a constriction only visible
when emptied of its contents.

A cop wakes from their choking nightmare gasping
to find themselves trapped,
****** in this parking lot
where the walkie-talkie buzzes
with the weeping and gnashing of teeth.

The warehouse store
looming above the waiting room
lifeless, silent, dark countenance—
Big Brother sees all in the gaping maw.

Cascading before me,
stretching towards the highway passing by,
waiting for the panorama to finish scrolling,
the treadmill to cease its cycle—
all the while lamenting life’s absence
and reveling in the potentiality it possesses.
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