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You were a warm, weighted blanket,
You comforted me when I was alone.
You made me feel safe and well,
You quickly became my home.
Your embrace was warm and welcoming,
But soon became too hot.
I tried to kick you off of me,
I fought with all I’ve got.
Your hold was now too tight,
Sometimes I couldn’t breathe.
I swore I’d never touch you again,
But I’m truth, I couldn’t leave.
You were all I never wanted,
This thing, sewn to my bed,
But I couldn’t ask a soul for help,
So I clung to you instead.
People soon began to worry,
If I was doing alright.
I missed work, events, and meals,
Just to sleep with you at night.
I thought that I could manage you,
That I could pick and choose…
“An evening here, an evening there”
But it’s a game that I would lose.
One night you suffocated me,
Made me sleep for “one last time”.
But someone cut you off of me,
And brought me back to life.
I really thought I loved you,
But I should have known better.
I should have known you’d almost **** me…
I should have bought a sweater.
Goodbye ******. You’ll never have me again.
James Sep 2021
II
junk torrents of suffering
pollute dream pools
and reek of putrefaction

dead fingers dance
down trails of deviant memories

Life’s spectral scream
               ‘I am, but why????’
fills the firmament

frail needs
fragmented desires
mutilated faith
plastic fears

Television static from an infernal midnight

The shells of eternity

       Penetrating,
             Leaving, blind, bound and broken
                     the children of midday sun
Zoe Mae Aug 2021
I wish I could write a great piece and then chill for a few

Instead of scrounging each day to create something new

Every poem I write literally makes me jones for more

Is it the poet or the addict in me?
I really can't be sure
Zoe Mae Jul 2021
Don't forget to do your wakeup
It's just like doing your makeup
It covers the scars
And makes you feel like a star
Just hope when you fall you land face up
With trembling knees, I took my position. The stage was set.
Before me sat a school of eyes: transfixed, gazing with anticipation. Piercing the silence with an unfurling of paper, I stepped forwards, my mouth pressed to the microphone.
A kick of adrenaline, engaging of breath and I began.
“My inspiration.”
Humble Houghton MBE; centre-half, captain, Man City.
A lioness leader, Durham born and raised.
With writing and wit, I’ll heap the praise.

England debut at just 17.
Free-kick expert, living the dream.
Old-school-gritty-no-nonsense defender.
An accurate passer - return to sender.

A right-footed shot to burst the net.
Dedicating her life, she doesn’t forget: school teams, amateur level, Sunderland weekends.

A cup final beckons: the star of the show, the women’s game - she’s watched it grow.
Now girls put on their boots, their shinnies and smile.
Aiming to go that extra mile.

The right to play football, the right to be free,
Raising awareness of MND,  
Best of the best, who can it be?
Stephanie Jayne Houghton MBE.

Stepping away from the microphone the applause raining down, I knew I’d made an impression on people. Just like Steph had on me.
Written for a poetry competition. The theme was 'inspirational women'. Despite it being unsuccessful, I'm really pleased with what I managed to create.
A B Perales Jun 2021
It kept me
numb
and numb was the
only feeling I
was searching
for.

I used enough
in those days
to avoid
feeling any
type of emotion
for too long.

And when I
cried,
it was mostly
over a memory
of a time when
I should
have cried
but
was too numb
to care.
from the archives
A B Perales Jun 2021
I had almost mastered the art of making my way through life without making too much noise.

I had spent the last 6 years mostly alone.
Concentrated all my efforts on trying to stay out of prison.
Worked on the writing and the poetry.
And doing all I could to just be forgotten.

I had kicked up enough dust in my early years to spend the majority of my adult life behind bars.
Came home with more tattoos, another strike and a
Monkey on my back.
I was home with greying hair, a bullet in my hand that hurt like hell, an ex wife who hated me, kids who didn't know me and friends who had forgotten all about me.

I move as low to the ground as possible now days.
I went out only when I had to.
I was just trying not to be noticed.
Hoping that maybe they'll forget about all the bad I had done
and just let me grow old in silence.

I spent  my 43rd birthday in a coin-op laundromat that reminded me of a crude jail house day-room.
Concrete floors, metal picnic tables with a large tv bolted to the wall .
Nothing was made for comfort and everything had some type of a lock on it.

She walked up carrying what looked like everything she owned.
She struggled with the door and the laundry in her arms.
I quickly stood up from my seat on the cold steel bench and offered to relieve her of some of her burden, to which she shyly obliged.
She was far to pretty to be alone and I was half waiting on a boyfriend to appear.

Nobody ever taught her how to be polite.
She didn't know what being gracious even meant until she met me.

She'd say " Don't blame me I wasn't raised right", it was our lil joke but a joke that was far  to real.

It was her beauty that saved her.
Her body was what most women would never have.
Men felt a burning desire at the sight of her.
Which she used to her advantage when needed.
It's what helped her get by during the roughest of times.

She wasn't a ***** but they didn't know that.
By the time they had realized she wasn't giving what they wanted she would have already packed her things and left for good.

Men would promise her almost everything when all she really wanted was something to call her own.

Her front tooth was chipped from a fight with an ex boyfriend.
The minor flaw only added to her rare type of natural beauty.
Light freckles across the bridge of her nose.
She had scared up boney knuckles and always wore thick silver rings on 4 of her fingers.
Naturally long eyelashes and acne scared cheeks she'd hide with cover up.

What she knew of the world was almost comical, she hadn't been anywhere and wasn't planning on going anywhere any time soon.
What she lacked in social skills couldn't compare to what she knew how to do in bed.

I gave her a safe place to rest without having to worry.
She gave me reason to shower in the morning and comb my hair before bed.

We played chess which was a surprise to me when she asked me if I played.

I introduced her to  Bukowski, Dante and Virgil.
She brought a strange type of warmth to my otherwise cold lonely apartment .
Our time was a break from the isolation and a reminder of how it was to be with another.
She brought back memories I had long ago forced
myself to forget.

Her only rule was that I never asked about her past.
What she wanted me to know she would share on her own.
My only request was that she never asked me to stop using
and when she felt it was time to move on ,she wouldn't take the time to say goodbye.
For "D" Knock'em dead sweetheart.
Blackenedfigs Dec 2020
The local convenience store dealers lean on glass windows with ****** pupils scanning the parking lot for any takers. I pump my gas on station four and spy from afar. Don’t make eye contact or that means you’re interested. No buyers yet. What do you suppose is on the menu for today? Judging from the amount of zombies I’ve seen pushing stolen shopping carts a block away from here, I’d say smack. Tar. Black. ******. Whatever they call it where you’re from. Welfare bodies withered down to just flesh hanging from bone, wandering around aimlessly for their next fix. I’ve only ever tried it once; I was curious and sad and it was there—in Violet’s hand and then in my lungs. Do you think my mother would cry out in those disgusting sobs of snot and heaves of not-being-able-to-breathe-tears if she knew? Do you think my sister would look at me with that glare of judgmental disapproval because yet again, here’s an example of why I’m the family ****-up? Do you think my father would smack me upside the head and call me a *******? Probably. And do you think my third and sixth grade teachers who told me I should one day do something with my writing would be gasping in disappointment? Definitely. The gas pump clicks off. A potential customer staggers across asphalt to meet his makers and I am no better than he is at this very moment.
A lesson in prose poems.
sankavi Jul 2020
I do not like you
I do not love you
I am addicted to you

no not like "you're so cute I want to be with you forever" kind of sweet innocent addiction
no, not at all

******, you are like ****** to me

when I am with you I feel warm, fuzzy, euphoric.
without, I am throwing up, dizzy, unable to get myself out of bed

I get over you, I don't see you for days, weeks, months

I'm clean.

though I'm clean now, you are still always on my mind.

you are not good for me
you are killing me
yet still
I need you so bad


relapse.
Maniacal Escape Jul 2020
Silly goose. Hide and beek.
Play the herion, strong and free.
Expensive easy life.
Such a good ride though.
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