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Unknown Sep 12
Searching for your love
but for what?
For you to put me down into the depths of your soul?
For you to wreak havoc
Oh but it was nothing old
For every compliment there was an insult
Was I really all that there was for you?
A doll for you to poke and ****
Just some gum under your shoe?
I must've been a hindrance for you
even in the end, I wanted you to love me
was that too much to ask for?
To search for me the way I did for you
But the loss of your ego was too much for you to bare
so you broke a piece of mine too to make something new
to keep it
Just for you
"There are a few good men like you", she says.
"Men out there are gods, born to be worshipped
they were told good women aren't created with tongues to talk back
Men out there are tyrants in their kingdoms
they are broken and their women die trying to mend them
blinded by ambition they can't see what's in front of them
and have seen terrible things happen to men like you so they don't believe.
Men out there are burdened by expectations,
they shoulder the shattering weight of society's pressure,
Lost in their minds, they forget to be present...
They're a civil war and the battle sometimes returns with them
fights lost resolved using the punching bag they married at home...
Every step forward, they're pulled five steps back,
Entangled in a web of a perceptions they can't unpack.
Men out there, like caged birds do long to be free,
Yet the bars of expectations deny them the key.
They're deafened by their own silent screams but they refuse
to lean on anyone, after all, growing up they were told big boys don't cry."
Ashley S Sep 8
Forgotten child, all alone.
An accessory in her own home.
Given love when she had something to give.
Ignored once she chose how to live.

An inconvenience to the way things are.
Disrupting the illusion much too far.
The black sheep for speaking too much truth.
Why won't she comply like she used to do?

And so I am and must be
To the ones I call my family.
Walking down my road with them behind
Hoping someday we'll be of one mind.
Elena Sep 7
I miss my family
or maybe I miss the abuse
I miss my family
or maybe
I miss the smell of alcohol
Coming from my fathers mouth
I miss my family
or maybe
I miss all the screaming
I miss my family
Because I do not know any different
Because trauma lives inside of me
They ruined me
A small child
Yet I still miss them
I just want to be loved
Bruce Adams Jul 2019
She collected lolly sticks,
        The ones with jokes on them:
        Why did the chicken cross the road?-type stuff,
Which she stained brown and used as floorboards
in her magnum opus.

The Tudor house was the best one.
It had servants’ quarters
And a kitchen with little hessian potato sacks made
of something or other she salvaged from
somewhere or other;
And the floorboards looked so real:
        painted lolly sticks
        but almost evoking the smell of varnish,
        layers of polish on a floor trodden by centuries
        in perfect miniature;

This was the last of the three
                                                or four
                                                        doll­s’ houses she built;
The devil’s work for her idle widow’s hands.
She built this one while you were entering your final
that doomed dance that sits so permanently
on your conscience
like a sack of compost
full of water.
        (I choose this simile only because
        I found this in my garden yesterday,
        and it was ******* heavy.)
On paper it was simple:
        You gave her your house,
        She gave you hers.

And so her house shrunk around her and
became a dolls’ house of your own making,
                        she saw your god-hands reaching in
to manipulate and
extort her.

She was wrong, of course.

You were making good on your promise.
You would come through for her in her frailty.
You did – but

it was a promise you made more to yourself than her,
And she let her illogical mind
        never analytical to begin with
        now razed and blinded by grief and loneliness
                        (there was nothing to work with)
poison your good deed,
you were both dolls now.

Eight years later she died lovelessly.

She retreated into her sitting room
        the only part of the house that stayed the same
        after you moved in –
                the walls closed in to contain it
                constrict it
a hospital bed and vinyl chair with commode,
and the brown laminate floor
        just like
        her lolly sticks.

You administered painkillers
Admitted the nurses
Negotiated with your estranged brother.

but her paranoia rotted everything
and your hands cared with compassion but not love.

Gone, now,
the dolls’ houses remain.
An inheritance of clutter
in a house you bought.

You answer the phone
      ­                                  aggressively.
You have been heaving the big one up the stairs
        that sack of compost
        that heavy conscience of yours.

You will be heaving those ******* dolls’ houses around
until I have to buy your house and care for you.
But I am telling you now:
        I am putting them in a skip
        the moment I have the chance.

They are not imbued with the joy they gave her
any more than
                        by keeping them safe from landfill
                        you can imbue them with the love you withheld.

They are painted lolly sticks and sewn hessian.
They don’t contain any more of her
than the bits of paper she kept
        passwords and bank balances
        dates and instructions for the Sky box
There is nothing left of her to protect now.

Open up the hinged false front,
                tip out the miniatures
                let the little figures be free,
                                be landfill
                                (isn’t that what dying is anyway?)
all the tangible things she touched and loved
are not avatars for her touch and her love.

The past is not present through the preservation of objects.
The past is not erased by the advancement of time
                nor can it be undone by corrective action.

Now she is on the other side of the road,
        (why did the chicken
She has no further use for the things she left behind.
Lacey Clark Sep 5
On my journey to my grandmother’s, the landscape holds my attention with subtleties.
Muted hues of soft lavender, pale brown, and ashy green painted outside the dashboard. Everything peeking out from a gentle coat of dust.
Yellow weeds and thistles dot the golden hills.

This corner of the country feels like a cherished family heirloom. The color palette resonates with my only sense of familiarity. Maybe it is my fixation on the colors themselves that buffer any sense of grief I carry towards instability.  None of us in my family have claimed permanency in structure. Yet, my grandmother’s home is a sanctuary.
this house has recently been demolished
I'm a friend,
a family member,
a healer,
a net,
a sponge

I'm here to be dragged across the world
Through the dirt, the water, the skies
Wash it through me

Try to cleanse out the filth
So I can be used again
There's more work to do

After all the water is washed
After all the sponges are used
We can all be thrown away, no more after, we did our job, we got through

And if we fail, we'll overflow the bin.
And we can all drown.
Man Aug 28
Laissez-faire and free,
Nothing bothers me in
Bohemian living.

Fruit fresh plucked,
On the grass with the bees
Relaxing and eating.

Read a play, finish a novel
See what's up with sister
See what's up with father

Laissez-faire and free,
Why are you so worried
That I'm not worrying?
Man Aug 28
Vestal shores of youth,
Life! -Render once forth
Coasts, before every home.
Turn castles to glass,
Liken ivory to stone.
Our long mass, come to close-
Hunger no more.
What is achieved, at last;
The peace found within,
Begins to unfold.
Carlo C Gomez Aug 28
The first-ever satellite images of you

Stranded upon pain inflicted desolation

The process of coming to pieces:

Nocturnal carnivorous planetoid

Moon in your mouth

They hint at remarkably renewed unfriendliness

It’s the same face we all see

Precious and cracked

Your isolated body orbiting

In its bitter ******

Where no sunlight ripples through

The string dangling between your legs

All the children hidden underneath your navel

Have fled down to Earth

To live or die in documented nightmares of their own
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