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Emmanuella Jun 28
"Peek and retreat
is the term for it.
Is the term for what I do."

"Treating the world to a prime game,
a fine game of classic peek-a-boo."
Lilli Sutton May 9
That summer in West Virginia:
washing myself clean
with brown water
from the Ohio river.
I saw gar sunning themselves
near the surface: fish with a thousand teeth,
fisherman’s nuisance. Like me:
take the bait and sink.

Matt takes us to the woods
and promises a surprise.
We slash brush for miles,
and I bleed. Thorns cut up and down
my skin. So easy to get lost out here –
multiflora rose so thick you can’t see
the sky. Crawl back to where you came from.
Plants move so slow, but I have patience.

Back when I could tell the birds apart
I held a dead wood thrush
in my hand
and it felt like air.
Eyes closed and tilted to the side –
because of the window, because a bird’s eyes
are not adapted to see glass. I wanted to bury it,
but instead I laid it in the grass.
For the worms: because we are all going.

We find the magnolias. No one is quite sure
how they ended up here, but they look exotic,
different from the pawpaws and oaks
with their shiny leaves and white flowers.
To be a bird in the magnolias – hermit thrush,
singing in a language too old to understand.
Voice of god calling out to say: come home.
If only I knew how to listen.
Merope Angel Jan 30
I'm dancing lonely
Short distances in my head
I've grown tired of dreaming and
It's nearly 5am

When I'm done spinning
I know no one will be around
To catch my dizzy fall

None that do not care
None that are unable

Simply none
Will hear my call

I’m dancing lonely
And the blood will spill for all
A Simillacrum Dec 2018
not only is beauty supposedly
in the eye of the beholder, it
also reportedly emerges from
an intangible depth within

okay, then, so that means ugliness
comes similarly from within,
or doesn't it, baby?

so then, ugliness must begin and end
in the pit of your stomach, and in
the words that pass the tongue
on the exit from your **** mouth

so then, ugliness must begin and end
in the nerves buried in sleeves, and in
the actions that slip the heart
sneaking past the brain, and vice versa.

on the grab from your dead hands.
on the grab from your dead hands.

not only does it tend to work
unlike the excitable pretend it works,
the implication is, that half of your
worthiness is linked to the mercy

of the mass effect.
as for a thought, a dream,
an intent, an outcome,
a vision, a nightmare,
a hermit knows the good folk
permit attractiveness to good lines.
4 gibs. take it and do some super artsy dook on it!
girl gonzo Oct 2018
under the algae
beneath the sedimentary substance of a sentimental
there resides the need to put everything into categories
organizing it by numbers on the top corner of crisp sun yellow manila folders with the messy scrawl of someone punctual but seldom in time for things

in the absence of sunlight i took to you like a lamp
the one with a warm glow and dust collecting on the folds of your body of ceramic
the more i got close the more i could feel myself burning from the inside like a watermelon containing meat fruit or the inside of a pumpkin spilling out onto your counter with audaciousness
sticking your finger in the warm gooey center only to dispose of the carcass without indulging

sometimes the left side of my chest hurts and i immediately think of heart attacks and a blue face

sometimes it's flood season and i see the bottom of bridges puffy with overflowing water and i immediately think of five years ago when i thought that if i laid down i could sleep forever and never wake up
my body slowly un-recognizing how to be the human condition

but then my lungs still move in my rib cage rhythmically
my chest expanding and contracting
the repetition of comfort inside my abdomen
and i know it's not heart disease but the fluttering of panic slowly dancing on the bottom of my collarbones

but then i get up from my bed and fix my hair into a braid
my hands remembering a pattern i don't have to think about
fingers nimbly trembling beneath handfuls of hair
and i know that despite everything

i would continue through and through
i would continue
a poem about a fuzzy head and moody weather
Jabin Jun 2018
The love I hold, tempered by my anger.
I see so much, and yet I cannot take.
Ears they burst from never ending clangor.
The smile I show is oh so very fake.

The care I clench forced me as a hermit.
Buried within this pristine outer shell.
Hatred abound, and the news confirm it.
Would not show my face till the devil fell.

For wishing someone would come to save me,
I love the world. Alas, I hate myself.
The world outside seems to be so crazy.
That’s why I leave the Bible on the shelf.

Oh, God! Oh, God! I pray for your guidance.
But I’ve become cozy with your silence.
Hayley May 2018
This time I'm going to do the hermit thing right
Inner-work and self-love from morning to night  
Awareness of all my woes and insecurities  
Connecting with universal flows and obscurities
Going into my depths, no human interference
Focusing on my soul, not my appearance
Transmuting all my deep pain into sweet pleasure
While turning these dark coals into beautiful treasure
This focus and expansion is serving me well
Returning to my inner heaven, away from this hell
Tom Mar 2018
hauled up with a cavernous protector
far away from the dawn light
loss of distinction, morn and night
departed from those you love

casting a thought
to before you were a passenger
laid bare in this damp shelter
waiting for the walls to cave in

the days you took pleasure
in the meaningless endeavour
of the artificial existence
are replaced by days

so broken by monotony
and the plight of the many
so you sook a life most solitary
where your thoughts weigh heavy

each day you think of them
their optimism and naivety
as you draft another letter
destined for nowhere

as years take their toll
and the days feel like weeks
and your joints ache with growing ferver
you draft another letter
The hermit in this little tale is tired of the structure of everyday life, and has escaped to a place where he can live on his own terms.
I Suppose Mar 2018
More and more loved ones
Appearing on the news
I stopped leaving my house
I fear the outdoors
They tell me it's beautiful
But I must be blind
All I see are walking corpses
They look so unhappy
So woefully sad and lonely
They hate their jobs
Their Wives
Their kids
Their lives
Once they cant take it anymore
I see their face on the news
They all look the same
Needles in their eyes
Their chests hollowed out by lava
They must have had the same dream as me
And that is why I stay indoors
Poem number 6 in the Untitled Series. Surely by now you know these are all linked. Put them in order and you'll see the full picture
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