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Empire May 30
Let’s play a game
It hisses in my head
What will you believe today?

Are you depressed?
Or
Does life just really ****?
Flip a coin.

Do you need to change your meds?
Or
Is this what normal people feel like?
Flip a coin.

Are you still hurting?
Or
Are you just a drama queen?
Flip a coin.

Do you deserve a little binge?
Or
Is your stomach getting bigger?
Flip a coin.

Are you sane?
Or
Are you falling from reality?
Flip a coin.
When i was young,
I would’ve have given my mother the world.
Every mothers day, i would paint
My very best picture,
And I would walk to my grandmother's garden
To pick the tallest Easter lilies
That had bloomed weeks before.
Her front yard boasted
the most beautiful flowers
That fill my memories.
But like the colorful bloom,
My mothers love disappeared with time.
And sloppy paintings and roughly cut stems
Would never be good enough for her.
Poem to my mother who fuels a chronic depression.
a vitamin
no duet
soggy chanty
she gleefully
abet her
set in
bloom with
her trigger
hole fillet
in juice
now feverishly
the vamp
played this
orchestral piece
of mind
there with
her white
chaparral fleece
a favor
in law
reaches its
nihilistic while
cows grain
these matters
that suppose
this arbitration
wasn't theirs
but this
trench would
hide the
horror of
waywardness with
their cultivation
in grazing
upon licorice
a note on arbitration
Clyde Feb 2018
Dawn, disappointingly,
shines through my window
sheets are cold, but
my bed is warm
those are the only sensations
I fell, if only for an instant,
just enough to realise I'm still here
but not long enough to appreciate my life
then, they come
in force, one after the other
a non-stop battery
of cures
insultes
illogical and supportive thoughts
permanently fixed in their unsuportiveness
always negative, relentless
to the point of numbing
the bliss of feeling nothing
overwhelmed by the information given
to tired to process it all

Getting out from under there is hard
the monuments challenge that I,
after years of training, still find hard
and so, out I go
slowly, dragging
like a phone on constant low battery
my legs dance beneath me for balance
my mind in a haze
then, I face
someone I know
from my past or present
and I, out of fear, disappointment,
and cause that's all I've know
engage my auto-pilot
and just like that, it works
because it's believable
because it's as face value
because in our hectic life where we're raised to consider ourselves
and put ourselves at the highest of peaks
because every sacrifice has a price
because no one wants to cut deep enough
because everyone's scared to make the first step
because add the end of the day
people only really care about themselves
taking the quickest route
of minimalist of effort,
but the highest of gain
cause it's easy, it's safer
because being comfortable is so safe
cause that way, you save yourself
and not get contaminated
though misery loves company
it's the poet's muse after all
yet lending an ear
it the equivalent of a ****:
a warning is given, but
no one wants to stay around to smell it

So now, when night comes again,
after a day of fakenes
of routine, drilling though
just another day
where nothing changes and everything remains the same
I'm exhausted, drained
too much to process
too dishearted by these thoughts
to move, to feel, or love
with so much going on
that my mind jams
my back stiffens, shoulders tense
the cold sheets becomes welcoming suffering
unchanging, present, stable
the only consistency I've known
for so many years

And as I close my eyes,
they play their evil tune
all over again a-new
and I pray for them to go away
I shout, I scream, I cry, I beg
I fight with everything I have
but with reserves depleted,
it's not enough.

So I drift into a comfortable numbness
waiting, hoping, praying
that tomorrow
never comes.
Seanathon Jun 2017
Soft is the wind ere the trees
And rough is my voice running through each
As are flowers in the month of June, so beautiful
And yet cursed by the coming fall
As after which, above the earth, all else will fall
Until the clouds and morning dew have meld in, above the heath
Ungrown as I am in the mind of you
But it would not be so, if you would see me through
*smile without speech*
Sweet is the peace that touches me to you
that look that pierces my soul
as health is in me divining
and your face is white in winter as milk fresh in the air falling
I hear the voice of the wild again
bleak bellowing clouds forming over the fell
here in the north
It speaks of wisdom
but does not know it
Italy my sweet mother
you are breaking your heart
wreaked by the cracking sounds beneath us
we left for the movement of you
emotions rocking here and there
talk to her sister gently and she can calm down a bit '.
Bright lights in my eyes flicker and flit,
the snow,
dogs barking in the bitter cold night,
as though they see but they do not
blind ,
the stars,
they do not see,
tortellini and the drops of tears ,
dead cats,
desires in jars,
and dead ends in the system,
Porca Madonna!
Right now let's treasure
in England and see
mirrors shattered and made up again with flour and water
and we saw so much in the ice cracked puddles
skies racing over the heavens
and we danced in it already
Sweet Is the Peace
I say to you dear
Sweet is the peace that runs free in all things
That's when I saw it
right there in your eye,
wonderland,
hand in hand,
that big brass Munich band,
the lamp stand,
moorland walks ,
night talks while all else are sleeping.
Pass through the kissing gate .
I am waiting.
That's the beauty of this life.
~ Poet Ella May
I hear the voice of the wild again
bleak bellowing clouds forming over the fell
here in the north
It speaks of wisdom
Alisha Vabba Sep 2015
Prickly fir tree
The smell of salt taunts me,
The air is still
And I am stuck.

My wet hair sticks,
Resin pearls on my back.
Prickly fir tree
I wish I could peel

Off the pain
And the heat
That stick to my gut
On this stiff summer night.

Ghastly faces regard me,
Distorted and sweaty;
Levonorgestrel
Bombards my ovaries.

The air is still.

I am heavy
as a hippo, and real.
I was orange and purple
and now I am stale.

Fleshy red eels
Squish me to mush.
My insides are mouldy –
I suffocate, I rust.

The air is still
And I am stuck.

I cannot ****, I cannot ****
This empty shrine
Of flesh, of flesh.
I’m no Ophelia

And death isn’t pretty.
The smell of decay haunts me,
The smell of salt taunts me.
Intoxicating thoughts

Of binaries and wars:
To ****, to create –
My enemy, my love;
Controlled clarity or deadly insanity?

I cannot ****, I cannot ****:

An extension of me
Or a monster in herself.
Fascinating and deadly,
I am golden and immortal.
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