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Quinn Jan 2018
What are you laughing at?
I once asked the spider.

He told me, not much...
...
Just the look on victim's faces
when they stick in my trap
...
and admire the view.
Stefania S Jan 2018
a silent cry
followed by violent shouts
sullen coves
darkened funeral spouts

the undertaker dressed in black
eyes of coal
he never looks back

widow (maker)
spun around
her dresses long
her feelings down

empty shoals
crowned in blue
legs of scars
moon, new

hear her cry
head thrown back
sobbing swallowed
coughing hack

skin transluscent
soft yet untouched
nocturnal creature
fallow of *****

withdraw the bow
pull the sword
unappreciated spied my lord

empty cages open and shut
downward spiral
a violent cuck

harrowed adventure
blighted by (sh)fame
ignorant ties
hollow frame

guilty no more
follow on back
open your mouth
scream from of the lack

trust embellished
overly surmised
internal wicking
her sad lonesome eyes
Quinn Jan 2018
I miss shaving his neck in the shower.
It was my favorite thing to do because
a shaved neck
smoothed my canvas
of kisses and
bruises.

It was my favorite thing to do because
he was vulnerable.
He naked stripped
shamelessley
bare for me only,

until the day he made me realize something.
I was vulnerable in the shower too.

That morning his hand just wasn't enough.
Fresh wetted face from shower droplets
tears
and him

shoved me to the shower floor
subjected waterboarding, I thought
love was me shaving his neck in the
shower.

But love,
is me,
cowering,
on the bathroom floor,
casually offering my
inner chest's key
to his griping hand,
and his moaning throat.
still my favorite thing to do though
Taylor Ganger Jan 2018
My hands are way too cold
I haven't written a word
I should do something else
I should
Just
Find some time
I should drink tonight
And sleep twelve hours
Or play that saxophone
It gathered so much dust
I can smoke cigarettes and sing songs
Drive to the country to see the stars
Paint my feelings
Watch movies
Tell stories
Write

Gah!
But if only I had the time!
Mark Wanless Dec 2017
"The Rhythm"


The rhythm patterned daily grows and is
The conscious now replete
With shades and hues of legion feathered touch
As universe existent ill or good
The end is not a valid thought to think
Beginning spirals back in timeless forms
Of cause vibrating co-dependent atoms
Bump and bump no space between
Called here or there
Wise and deep and calm the ocean lives
Among us is us to the bone degree
Of what we guess we are
Words are spoken and mistaken
To be valid firmities
So walk we do up in the air of self
And dream we tread a ground eternal
Day by day with closed eyes fearful
Of the image in the mirror
Yet there is a way that stills
The shaped confusion foaming
Vast and brilliant in the heavens
Of the mind we share and share alike
That cannot truly be in darkness for
Inherent is a constellation
Casting light in ten directions
Every corner that is but a name
Illumined
Stefania S Nov 2017
flying, soaring
fields below
flowers and trees
freedom

spread open
wide
waiting for reception
withheld moments

gliding mindlessly
numbing
doubtful
the sun bellows from above

clicking and tapping
claws measuring
distance
timing not scheduled for flight

moon dancing
echoing night
shadowless wings
winter ignites

below they cry
look from there
above your head
it's everywhere
Stefania S Nov 2017
the draw
five cards
three
maybe just the one

i don't flinch
empty cups
nothing new
laughter, empty

paths of green
ivy and oaks
sumac i hear
i listen

sparse in other woods
sparser than here
webs catching passerby
my eyes watch

in the distance i see the melting
heated
a wanderer's corpse floating
swim upstream the message declares
Uka Nov 2017
I can stick a gun in my mouth and it will jam. I can cut myself and miss. If I set myself on fire; it will rain to put me out. I can work up an appetite and not eat. If I stick my face to the wind; I won’t burn my skin. The world spins and I stay still. I can hear bombs from miles and crush rocks to sand. Give life to what is dead. I can move a hill to mountains’ domain and they won’t argue. I can throw the world into chaos and be praised. When I sit long enough; it is art. A mind can be set for this outcome. A person can image great future and greed. We have this power to march for one. We have this power to march for all. An unmovable object walks into a room. Does the room move with it? Or does it still stay? An unstoppable object steps on dry land. Does it crack? Or does it stay together? We are not malleable for a reason. But we can be broken with such few spaces. Such small and uneasy movements from across the world. It can be miles; but next to us. It’s impossible to march if no one knows how to dance. To waltz into trouble is easier than a solution’s dream. It is elegant and depressing as the same. We can compare scars but stay clothed and masked for others. We sometimes don’t miss when we cut. Sometimes the gun goes off. When a fire burns; it won’t be put out quick enough. This is real. This is life. But words mean more. Word mean more than actions because words are forever. A page can be lost and found. Paper can be cut and burned. But it’s still there in the mind of the writer. It’s still there in the mind of the poet. We as humans have the ability to move the hills. Move the world. But we care to not join. We, as many others, keep straight. We fall into the lines given ease. Giving the ease a way into the mindset of strength. Too much hate. Too much greed. Too much misunderstood points and confusion. We want to identify as something else to make us special. We want to be different than the person better than us. We worry about who said this and what they had done today. We look at horrifying things all day and change a picture to match it. We are numb. We are ignorant. We are invincible. And that’s sad.
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