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A Simillacrum Oct 2018
Grind you up into portions.
Serve you up to the horde.
What was
temporarily
yours,
will feed
the meat
of
the future seed.
Sure enough
the scene
before the
excited mind,
the silent mouth,
shall
seemingly go
completely
unnoticed
til the matter mounts.
MicMag Aug 2018
Looks like somebody's got a case of
Something sinister, with not a trace of
That weekend high, like you just erased it
And filled up on Monday's existential dread

Nah, no way it's all just in your head
From the moment you dragged yourself out of bed
Leaving dreams behind, choosing real world instead
To face up to Monday's lack of appeal

No, I proclaim, this syndrome is real
It's something that some weeks all of us feel
As weekly the world attempts to steal
Our joy and our souls with its Mondays
The Monday struggle is real...
MicMag Aug 2018
Life as poetry
Poetry as life:

A slow steady grind
Working stubbornly
Against monotony
And seizing
Those fleeting
Sparks of inspiration
Taking their wild ride
Wherever they lead
As the momentum
Carries us through
When we're back to the grind
Writing of all forms is a blend of hard work and inspiration. When creativity strikes it leads us forward in bursts but the craft is honed even more in the absence of such inspiration.

Life is pretty much the same, wouldn't you say?
Diangelo Tyler Feb 2018
Never let anyone get you off your grind
YOU BE YOU
Politic your own state of mind
Govern your own hopes
Rally around your own dreams
Lift your heart up with both hands
Raise your own self esteem
Stand upright behind the podium
State your life mission loud and proud
And let them know your purpose
Is firmly planted on solid ground
Not up in the clouds
A Wegner Feb 2018
Paradise of the mind
A precarious place to be,
The jungle of sleep.
Wake. Sleep.
A cyclical smile arises
Easing societal surprises,
You’ve got them at your feet
Child.
All you’re doing is counting,
And everyone can sleep.
Run sand run.
Sleep sloth sleep.
Sporadically blitz,
Contrasting brain blip
Turn your head
And sleep.
‘We will be there soon’
And you show them your
Ticket.
Can you smile?
Just for fun
I hear a conversation running
Simultaneously.

Similarly
Rhythmically

Potatoes
Same as last week.
Staring at those peas
Counting the –
Components and compartments,
To fit your
Flesh and bone things.
Caught up in the monotony of it all, will I stumble? Will I fall?
A Alexander Jan 2018
I stand along the brick wall, eyes closed, feeling the sun and the cool breeze against my cheeks and think of how sweet and grateful I am for this life.
In such a short instance, time has stopped for me to appreciate it.
I couldn't help but write about how beautiful it was having stepped outside and away from work. Feel free to contribute to this write, love hearing from others perspectives on little moments that capture us!
jas Jan 2018
lately
searching for a way
working on myself
night by night, day by day

on a search to the promised land
where my dreams end and reality begins
true happiness exists
day 24of 365
Cameron Boyd Jul 2016
I’ve got a song in my head
I don’t know what it’s called,
I don’t believe it has a name.
It’s catchy and I hate it.

It’s infectious, insidious,
It’s claws in deep, it’s wretched.
I’ll tap my foot while on the bus,
Slowly,
Amidst rows of other people,
Ticking their fingers,
Clicking their tongues,
To different beats of different songs,
Which they’ve all got stuck too.

I wonder if they’ve ever noticed
That some rattle out the same rhythm.

Every now and then
I’ll notice a face across the way,
Blinking,
To my toe taps.
Like this one girl,
There’s no way she could have heard me.
It was interesting.
Like a nervous tick she sat there,
Rapidly shutting the world out momentarily,
Desperately trying to forget the rhythm,
To think of another song,
Any other tune.
At least,
I imagine.

I saw another at the bar,
Prattling out the chorus with his knuckles
Against an empty glass,
Only briefly,
Before asking for another.

Every.
Day.
It’s the same ****** song.

One, two, six, eight, thirty seven, nine.
I’ve begun to make up words for it.
Eat, sleep, go to work, gotta be on time.
Seventeen, two, ten, fifty, thirty four.
See the screen, watch the ads,
Instill the fear of being poor.

Four hundred forty four trillion
Six hundred thirty six billion
Nine hundred eighty nine million
Forty six thousand and change.

I know I won’t ever be famous
I try but I’ll never be shameless
The direction I’m going is aimless
With all of my dreams out of range.

I see others, heads hung low,
Dragging a foot every other step,
Tapping their pockets in time.
It’s plain to see on some,
How long they’ve heard these sounds,
How many celebrations have been
Narrated by this drone...

Twenty two, thirty one,
Take forty five, sixty eight,
Two three four seventeen hundred wife?

I see some have given up,
Given in to resignation,
Heads bruised, walls dented,
Some mumbled sums falling through their yellowed teeth.

I see others that think it’s funny,
laughing at how it can be so bothersome.
I’ve seen them too, broken,
When a punchline didn’t come.

I saw something today though-
It frightened me.

Crossing the street,
Grinding out a slow bridge
Between my teeth,
A rock in someone’s tire tread
Providing a convenient click,
I saw a window open
And a man was there.
Or what used to be one.
As if he could hear my molars rolling
Heavily on one another,
He bobbed his head from left to right.

When he fell there was no moment of second thought in his actions.
He did not wait to be fully outside,
Presenting himself to the world
Before making a show of his decision.
It was as though,
Rather than crawling over the sill
He was crawling to the street below.
It looked so smooth,
So purposeful.
If it wasn’t for his calm demeanor
It might have looked as though he fell,
Having tripped over something in the room,
And was entirely accidental.

I think it would be more appropriate to say
He fell
A long time ago.

Possibly when he got home.
He fell in the doorway,
losing his boots by the door,
And into the kitchen.
Jacket catching itself,
Hanging neatly on a chair,
He fell towards the fridge,
where he accidentally knocked a fifth of *****
Into his mouth.
And he kept falling,
Towards his cat,
Spilling food into her bowl,
Then up the stairs he fell,
Plummeting down the hallway,
Knocking doors shut behind him as he went.
And in his room he fell so fast
His clothes flew off of him
And in the gust of wind he brought
Clean clothes were swept up
And he fell into those too,
Before,
Finally,
Gently falling out his window.

Maybe he fell before then,
When his job was automated.
Or before then,
When a judge ruled no custody.
Maybe he tripped over the body of a friend in highschool
And just never found his balance again.

I don’t know.

Paramedics were there quickly,
Vancouver’s best.
They must have been just down the street.

Still,
Before they got there
I got there.

His shoulder wasn’t where it was supposed to be,
And his elbow had popped across the sidewalk.

Still,
He was mumbling.

“Zero one double O ten zero zero,
O eleven hundred one zero zero,
Zero one one zero one one zero zero,
Zero triple one quadruple zero.
Double O one hundred thousand,
Zero one ten eleven zero one,
O eleven double O one zero one,
Zero zero one one triple one zero.”


I wish he fell farther.
Today is my 25th birthday.
Mario Cervantes Jun 2016
You can walk a mile in my shoes
But can you walk a mile with Jesús
Can u choose to change your views
Wake up and refuse to hit the snooze
Grind as if you had nothing left to lose
Can you put down the juice as an excuse
To defuse and soothes but never smooths
Cuz at night my street turn into Zoos
The loose screws confuse us on the news
While u indulge in pleasure instead of truths
That only proves abuse when you ******
So I ask are those ***** really balloons
Are those jules worth the abuse
You bump and bruise who's to accuse
Tell me before the wounds turn into tombs
Jesús on the second line is pronounced in Spanish (Hey-soos)
Max Watt May 2016
They say that psychologically we all got triggers,
but they're just part of the guns to our heads.
A day job requires you to hit certain figures
and in that regard those triggers are all pulled

simultaneously

I don't say it lightly, the lot of us are simply doomed
if we stay here. And truthfully that's what I dread.
The fact that we never move from this ******* room
is a constant testament to our nature.

our divine comedy

Have we become futile? To tell you the truth, probably.
Who did that? Them or us? Who tossed away the toast
and handed us the dry, hi vis laden crusting?
You, my friend. You who tripped. You whose mind

is stripped away
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