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Aisha 1d
As flies buzzing around rotting flesh,
the sound of loneliness remains.
Incessantly,
surrounding me.

Alone.

Afraid of everything.
Afraid of myself
and the thoughts inside my head.
Afraid of being alone and afraid of not being alone.
A constant paradox which I can't rid myself of

People hurt you.
expectations hurt you.

There is a scream trapped in my throat.
A scream for help,
scared of coming out.
Better off kept away, safe from the world,
as its owner suffers in silence.
Timber Jan 30
Sticky, molding floors,
Flies buzzing around the sink,
Not a single paper towel in sight.

The busy, hussle and bussle,
The shines and glares coming from everything in site,
No space,
No feeling,
No compassion.

You’re ears are bleeding
Mine are too
Freshman band *****
Honors is okay
something to write
something to fight

at the end, i find
the world laughs

the roses open
the flies appear

the world changes
the world dances

when i see your eyes
the sun smiles

the morning comes
with the birds songs

for what?
i see your brilliant
love help us to suffer every worst
David Hutton Dec 2018
It has been there for days, wasting away.
Bugs are summoned by the smell of decay.
Furry growth in a moist state,
Flies regurgitate.
Buzz, buzz, buzz all over the Charolais.
Brynn S Nov 2018
Ringing
Burst of nothingness
Fallen into mind
They scream
They bleat
Falling silently
Nothing to fleat
The flies swarm
They fleat
The tombs hide
Continue to eat
Gasp and cry
Buried inside
Beneith
alexis Nov 2018
the sugar bowl rests on the table, anchoring the vinyl tablecloth patterned with bowls of fruits that never became famous.

flies orbit around it like the sun, blissfully unaware of the fly paper hanging in the corner,
looming like God over the room.

a ceiling cemetery,
a paper paradise.

i look at the mummified insects and i wince.

my fingertips trace the rim of your mouth
and my skin pebbles.
i wet my finger and indulge in you again.

a fly trap awaits me.
inspired by a passage in “aqua viva” by clarice lispector.
John McCove Nov 2018
My comrade P. is slightly outraged
The knife is honed and spilled with blood
I dance with fairy-mushrooms on the stage
My wooden horses lined-up at the start

And flies together with black crows 
Float through the heavens getting nuts
I feel like hundred-year corpse
I feed meat-hasher with my guts

My ******* fatherland in red
Is getting mossy day by day
I look at it from high above my head
While comrade P. is turning into clay
J Oaks Sep 2018
I woke up in a glade of gray
Littered fingers and threads of grass flay
Moistened hair, a dampened glare
An enameled heart that stings
Scattered birds have yet to sing
Will it ever matter?
The soft brown dirt pushes down as I rise up
The light rain has filled my old tin cup
Ridges rusted and my eyes are dusted
My wrist-watch is broken and can't be trusted
Fire flies in a jar, they won't get far
lighted my night as my cigarettes tarred
my weakened lungs but elevated my strung-
out manners
It's getting lighter as my skin gets tighter
The clouds shift as the sun gets brighter
I miss the moon, but I know that soon
the day will pass but I won't see noon
How blue
Blue
Temporal Fugue Sep 2018
I wonder what would happen
if flames shot out my ****

I ponder, would that be
a gastro-logistic farce?

What if and whatever
when and where and why

What might be or mightn't
a complex do, or die

Something to examine
perhaps, too analyze

The what's the if's the maybe's
and the gatherings
of flies
Hmmmm wandering a touch morbid today.
pondering the portents, speculating woes
meditating excrement's
and things between
my toes ;D
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