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Left Foot Poet Oct 2017
the sighs in our chest that emanate from a different kind of
breast cancer*

wrote these words prior,
then, certainly uncertain of the exactitude of their meaning,
clearly unclear of their useable intention,
yet the too real wrathful sensations
that inspired their caesarian creation,
the sigh's very own exhalations,
floatations devices for the interned-no-longer emotions,
escapees via the crevasses of chest ribs splitting open,
return to glory thanking me for freedom given

let posterior eloquence suffice, let brevity guide
my self's interior diagramming,
lengthy explications and deep analytics, I leave to you,
the astonished medical examiner and the horrified mortician

chest ripped, my hand reinserted, the blighted scourges,
the abscessed cancers, the obsessive relentless cankers,
asking shamelessly why have I returned to the crime scene

the sighs are air-borne, ready for air plucking,
all cloud seeded, deeded for poets to seize and commence,
to plant and invent, a mountain top trickle to a mighty
river of poems to be recovered and discovered,
unrehearsed and unleashed

but you and I have unwished, unfinished business,
as of yet unwritten, one last poem to honor our
mutually assured destruction,
for this day will be
rewritten differently
this one, a simple script, a written pyramid,
built by an Israelite, who by command, perforce
mustn't but does write prophecies
that may or may not come to being,
poem pyramids,
surely none will not survive Darius's desert sandstorms
ravaging kisses of time's forgetting
Mikayla Smith Feb 2017
Peace never seems to know my name.
Hatred never seems to escape my heart.
It’s these things that people blame
When their worlds are falling apart.

Life is so strange as an experience;
Within itself there is always something new.
A medallion to behold
Or someone as precious as you.

No one can take away what you feel
Or invalidate every single one of your thoughts.
What you say is just as real
As every penny in the fountain caught.

Serenity only comes once in a lifetime.
Choose and pick your battles wisely.
Be who you want to be
And make sure you fully live your life.
Written when I was younger, but it still holds sentimental value to me.
Trinity Jones Feb 2015
As the days get deeper
So does the hole

People start losing their unique ****** qualities
The objects in your house become dull clutter
Monday morphs into Tuesday and Tuesday morphs into Wednesday and Wednesday morphs into Thursday and
All of a sudden you don’t know what day it is.

The only thing that doesn’t lose its edge
Are the words that pump out from your lung,
to vibrate from your vocal cords,
then are fine tuned from your larynx,
and emanate from your articulators.
Those are the words that stuff me deeper into the hole.

Sometimes it’s not words
but actions
That burry me under and into the darkness.

This hole I speak of,
***** you in and won’t let you out
Until you’ve admitted defeat
And hell,
You’ll never live to see the day that

I, Admit Defeat.

— The End —