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Chicken Feb 10
The deleterious presence of his breath, is not missed,
He is not missed.

He spent our days talking *******, raiding expensive alcohol,
From the fridge.

He decided that he was most important of all,
Above any creation of thine.

He assumed that he could work to remove every worth,
All value, to dull thy shine.

See, he was fairly foolish,
In his delusional

He truly believed that the foolish one, that the deluded party,
Was me.

He had no idea of his death breath, and his unattractive

He did not have the slightest idea that I was bored shitless,
By his chosen, daily grind.

So you can call this a poem,
Because this is not
a song.

Written just to get it out,
So I can fly, cross the water,
Move on.

See, I don’t sing for *******,
Not no more,
This bird is free.

And through it all no person, no man, nobody can shake me
From this tree.

If you seek him, you shall find him at his address, No. 1,
Futility Mews.

A barren place where there are no changes, nothing matures, and
Pissy tea brews.

You can take all the lessons, you may climb and
You will grow.

That is what these ******* are for, that is all, and they
Don’t even know.
This is an epic purging poem, maybe a bit of a story. It’s not very nice in part, though neither was he... and in heavier doses. I learned a lot.

Can’t be on the love songs too much :-).

Take away consideration: does pointlessness exist?
Everything, and everyone has purpose. Everyone has value.
Everything withers, e’en leaves of a tree,
Lush and full of life, verdant canopy.
The years take their toll, brittle death sets in,
The floor greets darkness the bare tree lets in.

The living have their time, then fade away,
Life lasts a moment, death years and a day.
We perish, and the preserved go rotten,
What we did, who we were, long forgotten.

Our long days belie our shortness of years,
The ground remains dry, unchanged by our tears.
Nothing yet lives that won’t see its last dawn,
There is no forever; all will be gone.

Plants return to earth, and us back to dust,
We live in denial; should we adjust?
Everything withers, e’en leaves of a tree.
I know this, yet, I am compelled to be.
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Matthew Jan 16
When I was young enough to know that I did not fit in.
I proposed that I was an angel
that fell from the heavens and lost their wings.
All I had to do to make friends was find them.

So I spent the next day frantically searching for my wings.
Sobbing with despair when I never found them,
and looking at the sunset only slightly out of reach.

Even now, I never found my wings.
But I did find other fallen angels.
A rare poem of hope.  I really like this one. Do you know what that means? I don't know.
Xallan Jan 15
I have been halted
My potential has been dismissed.
Halfway through puberty, my thyroid stilled
Dependent on daily doses of artifice
Taking vitamins, supplements, medications
For all my unnatural natural disorders

Already bloated with self-hatred, I dream, yes-
I wish and hope for impossibilities
Denied me by my biological construction
Dreaming, wishing, hoping is futile.

I am forever limited.
My frame is weak and small and pathetic
I am swollen with disgrace, I work
I act and I cause with no effect
I cannot speak to my reflection in the mirror
Working, acting, causing is futile.

I will always be held back.
My body will release blood and tears instead
My flank makes my figure obvious
Hidden, buried,
I don't desire to resemble a perfect muse
I desire the average, out of reach
The mean. The median. The mode.

I deceive myself with mindless motivations
Persistence, Perseverance, and Patience
All lies, the real truth is time ends all.
All my hopes, all my joys, all my pains, and yet
I see in the tea leaves in the dredges of despair
I perceive the hopeless reality
Time will end my life.
Edward Dec 2018
I must go.
As I turn, I see,
Hidden by my eye,
A blossom.
A beautiful, fragile blossom.
But the tree is dying.
I must go.
hello my name is Nov 2018
I've been trying to write poetry
I think I just need to go back to therapy
I've never been good at explaining how I feel
I thought putting it on paper would help
But the thoughts in my head move too fast for me to dictate
Maybe I should learn shorthand
Or maybe I could start kickboxing
I'm trying to find a way to get all of this **** out of my head
But it's sticking to the inside of my brain like tar in lungs
I'd scream, but I'm afraid nothing would come out.
TD Oct 2018
Try as I may
I embody futility.

Ghosties slander my memories,
playing the misleading exclamation points
to introductory regrets.
Arianna Oct 2018
Je pense aux rideaux de pluie argentés
Qui tombent
En automne du ciel gris,

Du ciel sombre

Qui me regarde de lointain
Dans les rues sous ses ombres.

De Paris à Prague:
C’est la même mélodie
De la même mélancolie;

C’est la même valse,
Dont je connais trop bien les pas.

À Saint-Pétersbourg:
C’est le même ennui.

Ce qui m’accompagne
À travers ce monde:

C’est partout la même pluie.
A writing attempt in French prompted by memories of rainy evening wanders while traveling, particularly while visiting Saint Petersburg. :-) The rain always fell so gently there; between the cool temperatures, the baroque and neoclassical architecture, and pastel hues of the buildings, one has a peculiar feeling of walking through a whimsical, film noir Impressionist twilight zone. :)
JP Goss Sep 2018
As you flick the wand, one more time
Again in a 360 rotation, around,
From wall to door
Her lean torso serpentine coils, her mind cocked to spin
Memories she hasn’t felt since ancestors past
Nor this hunger for the hunt
Crouched low against the carpet fibers
Peeking through the lattice squares
The gaze, the stare, the pause
Of the dining chairs
The hunch, the pounce, the ****,
The finishing blow.
Grace and ferocity beyond what even Discovery could say
It’s all a game, illusion:
To catch is to win, but to catch will end the game
To chase is to win the excitement, but to lose?
But, ah, all is but frustrated
To lose, is the essence of the game
Chasing quantum excitations
Like that chance for a mouthful of pride
In pursuit
But a ghast, fleet of foot myth
She says in the semaphores of her midair leap
With delusions comes laughter,
I am the uninhibited one
Dancing for beasts.
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