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Zane Smith Sep 2019
what to think
I want to write
my brain won't
poems like before.
this is ******
what a pity.
I think
I'm trying to hard
i sit down to write but nothing flows
I guess my feelings
don't want to show
btp Jun 2019
Flying high, flying low
Falling hard, falling slow
saffronne Jun 2019
a butterfly;
look but don’t touch.
a moth;
look but don’t touch.

now tell me, you had to touch either,
knowing no matter which one you chose,
it would still be killed,
tell me,
why did you choose the moth?
pretty creatures get to live,
it’s a hard time to be a moth.
Karen M Jun 2019
Down to the end of a wooden dock
That sticks out a good way into the water,
She sat legs crisscrossed in a knot, hunched over
With her elbows to her knees, head resting
In her palms. She tries controlling her breathing,
But holding her breath makes her throat expand
Like it is croaking. Saliva pools in the lower corners
Of her mouth under her tongue, and she barely has time

To adjust herself as the bile climbs out of her throat
And down the front of her yellow crop top, dripping
Onto her stomach and crossed legs. Tears are forced
From her ducts as her stomach convulses. Capillaries
Around her eyes are popping from strain. Feeling weak,
She falls to the left on her side and curls into a trembling ball

But she wants to get the ***** off her
As soon as possible. Her shaking palms
Press against the splintering deck, pushing
To her knees to feel what was once in her stomach squish
Between her fingers making her stomach spasm;
She scrambles to her feet as fast as she can
When her only source of lighting is dying
From the wind. Before righting her balance, she slips

Backwards in the bile and tumbles into the blackened lake. Her head
Plunges first and water came rushing into her nose. It burns
Her nasal cavities as her eyes tear open in fear. She’s disoriented
From the alcohol in her system and the water is too strong
Against her weakened limbs. She tries to position herself
Up right, but the more she moves, the deeper she sinks.
She holds her breath and tries

To ignore the burning sensation up her nose and on
The surface of her eyes in her head and she can’t
Hold on. Oxygen isn’t going where it needs to and the edges
Of her vision darken. As a last attempt to fight, she reaches
Forward to grasp at anything she can get ahold of. Her fingertips
Stretch and curl only to move through the murky prison. Her vision

Is almost completely blackened out as she surrenders
Her losing fight. There’s a burn in her chest that grows
As the rhythm behind it slows. Her body,
Like the water, is still, cold, and tinted blue.
Not very fond of this poem. It's a take on a short story I wrote about a girl getting wasted at a lake house party and drowning. Posted for editing purposes, so comment what you think needs correcting.
Tim Garemore Apr 2019
I've a particular bias
against words that don't conform to the way
that appears beautiful to me

Works that are right-justified
or unjustified
or rhyme too much (or little)
even just using bold or italics

I'm amazed at how I call what I make poems
and therefore myself a poet
and find nearly no pleasure in most poetry
I'm so picky about poems I read yet so unwilling to critically evaluate what I write myself.
William Woods Apr 2019
My lips sink into their tubular cavern
crunch, crunch
Two bites... I take
I scan the concurrent matter that surrounds me, feverishly.
I begin to feel it set in
The drag
The pull
bump, bump
He goes...
"No, no, no" I hear my psyche mutter... I resist.
But my internal efforts, are fruitless.
The externality begins to disentegrate.
The internality crashes, wailing, screaming into oneself.
The futile attempts force me to face the inward infinite.
It rips me apart
Shredding every fiber of my being, until I am absolutely nothing.
All that's left, is simple consciousness, floating through the abyss.
Nothing, but my internal hiss, is noted.

I'm alone
I'll always be alone
In this eternal internal "playground"
It's what they reserved
It's what I deserve.
muna Jan 2019
i have to admit
i'm pretty unimpressed
with life so far
don't ask me how today's going
i'm not even looking forward
to tomorrow
nothing new here..
Passing days
Passing months
What kind of ideas you have
Turn to grey
Turn to dust
You’ll get better
Things get better
The comment of the year
No action
No outcome
If you really aren’t here
So what’s really wrong

It’s the light inside your head
That never shunned
I’m tired, but y’all know the grind is never over.
anotherken Jul 2018
What if I had said nothing?
What if you said anything?
At all?
At all?
Would they be gone,
Would you be gone?
Would I be afraid
Of the future up ahead?

What if I had always believed,
What if I didn't see
Your cries and your touch.
What if I had been blind
To your kisses and shouts.
What if I never knew
What was in you?

If I wanted to,
I could turn away.
I could've been there.
But I was too scared.
Too afraid of you.
Too afraid that I might break apart.
Too afraid that we might break apart.
To this unforgiving, unrelenting world.

It would've been easier to live and forget,
but I chose to go on.
For you, for me.
For spring and summer.
For it to fall and for winter to come
To challenge the ideals
We have made.
"I still want to hold your hand."
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