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They say mow the lawn…
Sever the sick…
They are the poor…
We are the rich…

They say **** us dandelions…
Live within their lines…
We say they’re out of time…
They say watch it tick…

They say tame that topiary…
of children’s dismembered dreams
We say you’re not meant to be here like this…
They don’t like the smell of cut grass biting back -
Like they don’t like the smell of blood in the streets - so they say keep it strict -
Make sure you’ve choked the weeds
with rotten fish, and poisoned seed…
They never hold a tight fist, but point a finger,
regal, stiff…

Our thick fragrant odour, frightens them much deeper…
And places a hand where the heart cannot beat…
This is why they don’t want us growing in peace, why they don’t want branches climbing their tall seats…

Because the alter they tokened is faltering cheaply, so they’re panicking and grabbing at every last leaf, in the strive to not be swallowed by the swamp of their own iniquity…
I dismembered myself
trying to find
which parts aren't loveable
which parts made everyone leave
ogdiddynash Jun 2020
you write of dismembered leaves,
pains too sweet,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
quiet rain, droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
tastes that burn eyelids colored in
blood stained mustard yellow,
the gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,

really?

dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and others, more weirder too,
wonderfully inexplicable,
other jimmy olsonian beauties,
non-lexical non-commonsensical
ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries,
and then you wonder why,

PEOPLE ******* HATE POETRY?

— The End —