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Elle Whittington Sep 2019
As Hamilton once said,
"I imagine death so much
it feels more like a memory."
The thoughts come often,
images of the ways I could **** myself
flashing in my mind.
I walk by a busy road
and I imagine jumping into it.
I stand on top of a building,
and I imagine falling off of it.
I see a bottle of pills,
and I wonder how many it would take to overdose
My mind,
constantly looking for ways out,
searching for the end result of death.
My body has decided to shut off all emotions.
Just cold calculations.
My mind has started to drift away
from my body,
as if I am not of myself anymore.
I don't want to die,
and that is my biggest problem.
It seems as if my mind and my body
want me dead,
but I want me alive.
I can't hurt anyone else,
and I am too much of a coward
to go into the unknowns of the next world.
So I stay here,
trapped in my mind,
trapped in my memories,
trapped with the thoughts and calculations,
of death.
Vic Aug 2019
I'm a general,
WhHhHHheEEeeeeEeee
A "poem" every day
Kay-Rosa Apr 2019
Focused on this tim'd delay,
Never knowing what to say,
Figuring out what might remain,
My ****** sky became,
And it spelled my name
It started insane,
Golden rain,
Passenger train,
Aquitane could be home.
But, inside my brain
There's a charlemagne,
A superficial middle cerebral vein,
Pounding and pulsating, keeping things in their lane
Constantly trying to ruin my game,
Crushing my whispering campaign,
But between my ruffed feathers, is my vibrissae
My bristl'd down, my come-in-and-stay,
My soft spot just for you,
"You set my heart aflame,
Every part aflame,
This is not a game."
You say,
trying my patience, pushing the timeframe
Carv'd in the window frame,
That premature hall of fame,
is our name.
All the voices and their claims,
"We'll always be there,
just beneath your vibrissae."
This is pretty much stream of consciousness.
Leia Spencer Feb 2019
When I was young
I would spend hours
Braiding and undoing
My thick golden hair
Now that I’ve grown
I pull strands of sunlight
Out of the sky
To braid the golden strings
Into a crown
And claim my rightful place
After all, I wasn’t named Leia for nothing
-waiting to be recognized as a general instead of a princess
It was all practice for the real deal
Will Bittner Nov 2018
Hamilton tickets...
Body parts you don't need?
I can sell an arm...
It's a haiku. Deal with it.
CK Baker Apr 2017
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls

Army bands prepare for march
(their trench members filling packs with canister and cane)
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle

Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms

Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues

Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from their perch
an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare

It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****)
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
are a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland
Nicole Louise Jun 2018
Out stretching
Out reaching
The callused, bleeding hands
Of tightly gripping on.

The permantly furrowed brow,
Weathering a face which has seen too much.
The innocent eyes try,
But are clouded over.

His everyday grows like a plane
flying over
Dunkirk dawn
Guns drawn.

His green home
Of west is best
And his voice would flow
With a carefree blow

which has blown
to fragments.

His streets turned red
When in November they would tred
To remember
Those who bled
Now they are only spotted

Every year dearer
Washing away.
Based on a photograph of a veteran.

With a little Hamilton inspiration...
Jey Blu Dec 2017
Why does time pass more slowly when we want it to go faster?
Dripping like molasses
Flowing like tar
Sinking
slower
s l o w e r
s   l   o   w   e   r
STOP
Time freezes
"No beat, no melody"
As they say in that famous play
Hamilton never stopped
Until that bullet made him
Sometimes I wish Aaron Burr would shoot me in the same way
Time is killing me
But not fast enough
It's the waiting that does it
But what am I waiting for?
A reason to be dead?
A reason to be alive?
A reason to have a reason?
A reason.
That's what we're waiting for.
I wonder what mine is.
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