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you forgot to take it
to the curb
you forgot to empty it
your mind had been full
overflowing with the memories of us
it sat there for awhile
you wanted to keep them but
they began to
decompose
perish
rot to their cores
and the smell lingered
you started to bag it all up
one by one you put pieces of us
in a jet black
plastic bag
with a twist tie
and walked us to the curb
Max Mar 13
If I we're a garbage man, then I had had a reason to pick you up again.
Meanie ******
CL Fjell Mar 2
Rot
Illness from within.
Still I wish to end
This rotting of my corpse.
If not with sheer force,
Let nature take course.

Aching and bleeding inside,
There's nowhere to hide.
All the yelling and screaming,
With feeble meaning,
It's taking its toll
On my fragile soul.

Dark is all I see.
Longing liberty
For the sight of Sun,
What's done is now done.
an0nym0us Feb 25
Such beauty,
But empty...
Such pity,
Little missy.

A fake diamond.
So pretty...
So shiny!
But all synthetic...
all face but no brains...
Shame Feb 14
Suddenly, from a distant past,
my eyes flash with recollection:
I've been here before --
Not to say another life, but,
another moment in time.

How do I defeat the enemy,
when the pattern -- mistake,
ownership, and growth --
keeps repeating?

Do I keep emulating
this useless thing,
when the distance I see,
or at least seek, shows
no signs of an enemy?

***** nilly sillies
point flagrantly
at every happy clown,
wagging finger, dismayed,
sending to wind "For shame"s.

Historians have always known,
you could always leap frog
the copy/pasted placement
of seasons as if to say
we're changing.

One person's happiness
is the next one's disaster.

Think other thoughts.
You're a master.
Laiyn Davis Jan 31
Everyone beautiful is eventually meant to fall,
So I’ll just stick to being an abnormal oddball,
Won’t see me played out on piano keys,
Or executed, on my knees.
Because I’m not beautiful, I’m just me…
So what can a peon like that, ever truly be?

When I was a child, I wished to be famous,
And actually have the patience to deal with every ignoramus,
That walked up, and questioned, who the **** I was,
Without pointing a gun, and yelling “Was-sup, ***?”.
But that's just me.

Putting, pen to paper, is so **** difficult,
But writing your first anything makes you feel like you joined a cult!
Higher power, soon enough you might get your platinum card.
But if come out alive, you’ll be battle-scarred.

So what is it then? Ms. Left or Right?
Can you be happy in darkness, or do you need a little light?
Is insanity intelligence, just an unexplored part of the brain?
Or for for simply saying that, am I myself insane?
Is life as i see it, just a silly child’s game?
I don't know.

Putting pen to paper is so **** difficult,
But writing is beautiful, and now you understand the cult,
So cry not my child, I will protect you through the night.
And when day hits, we shan’t exist, but i will still hold your hand.

I feel so inconsistent, why does the page stare at me with such distaste?
I'm sorry, lately I've been different, distant, I don’t want to leave a mark on its face.
I'm hearing thing, your silence. Your still stuck in the choir.
Choir of oh so similar voices, that sing of the burning of the pyre!
And i swear i need some kind of medication, for the pain.
That doesn’t even exist, half the time, like when it rains.
It’s so quiet, and i'm found, flying on Nefarious Wings.
And your choir of voices sings, yes it does.

Alarm ringing, maybe that should be my inspiration,
Because it’s so hard to find something in this generation.
Lotta lackey’s, giving other kids flack.
I gave up on these loser, might as well call me a quack.
Because, pretend to know em, through and through.
Truth is, I know a million other kiddies just like you.
That walk like you, talk like you. They might as well just be you.
It’s OK that your confused. What I'm saying is that you need a break through.

Putting, pen to paper, is so **** difficult,
But you’ve written your life away, say bye bye to the cult!
You thought we were the realist there were ever gonna be.
But now your like Biggie, lying dead up on the streets.

And all your old so called friends, they laugh at ya,
How did ya die, who even knows, probably lynch law!
Because this industry more viscous than a ******* honey badger,  
And you weren’t **** yet to be talking how ya did, just an adder.
It’s like the old saying, “Ain't over till the fat man sings…”
Song sang, ya done, now lifting you to ****, on Nefarious Wings!
Today I am no longer very happy with myself
It seems excuses that I've made are damaging my health
The daily life; Can't make the grade
Each time anew, repeats the same
Don't know what's wrong inside my brain
Though breathing air, I'm in a grave
Sleep walking while I am awake
Feel like I am a big mistake
I'm bitter, angry, filled with hate
It always points to the same place

An arrow pointing back at me
Digging its way inside
To all the blackened anger
and the worthlessness I hide
The outer layers show the world
the talents I possess
But also show I **** things up
and make my life a mess
I always seem to give myself
lots of unneeded stress
I stack on extra burden
Adding mountains of duress

If only poltergeists or demons
took me and possessed
But no such luck, instead I live
a fate that's worse than death

These words aren't new; Placed down before
with pencil and paper
And yet I live a life unchanged
For reasons I'm not sure

Complain and pout or ***** and whine
I'm getting better at
Instead of making real effort
To get what I've lost back

A statement to the reader
Something I want to confess
One simple reason to explain
Why my life is a mess

The actions and the choices
that I make from day to day
It's all of this and only this
Why my life is this way

So here I stand at fated fork
Two choices here for me
Can make the choice to make a change
or give up and repeat

But either way there is one thing
from this day I won't do
No more will I write my complaints
and feed that **** to you
Written: October 26, 2018

All rights reserved.
Lost Jan 20
I like being wrapped in blankets
And hiding in small spaces
I think it makes me feel more secure

I trash my living spaces and fill them up
It’s like the presence of empty space
Represents the uncertainty in my life
So I eliminate any openness
To ensure that anxiety can’t hide
Behind furniture or under the bed

I occupy my space with a protective layer
Of garbage and disorganization

It’s not on purpose

I don’t like it

The clutter of my room or my car
Often reflects the clutter in my mind

I think I do it
So I can feel
Hidden and safe
Piles and piles of garbage
Everywhere
In my room
In my brain
Clutter
In my mind
I'm too busy sitting in it
To do any spring cleaning
Anna Dec 2018
The small hands of a child
Are innocent
Reaching for fake animals
Or candy bars.
But his mother
Says he shouldn’t have been here
His father
Never kisses him.
He has nothing to reach for.
A child can be born without innocence.
Small hands can do more
Than reach for fake animals
Or candy bars.
A tiny killer, he is.
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