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Poetic T Aug 26
Life is a suicide

For when you die,

                Everyone reads

your last words..

My last vocals read by anothet would

       All those I hate.
Just to tell those greedy **** losers

          "*******, your broke,

#money grabbing mother *******...

Then those I love those I respect would be watching it live,
       Giggling thinking dark sense of
                        Humoured ******....

I love you all, but those hyena *******

      Can choke on my ashes...
Aa Harvey Jun 2018
Monkey, Monkey : Part One

Monkey, monkey, climbing up a tree,
Eating a banana, or laughing at your friends ***.
Monkey, monkey, with your friends and family.
Monkey, monkey, you’re so happy and free.

Monkey, monkey, chewing on a leaf.
Monkey, monkey, swinging through the trees.
Monkey, monkey, your so hairy.
Monkey, monkey, you live in bliss.

Monkey, monkey, you look so funny;
Monkey, monkey, you’ve got such a happy grin.
Monkey, monkey, you’re so cheeky;
But now little monkey, you’ve been caught by me.

Monkey, monkey, don’t fear me;
Monkey, monkey, stop screaming!
Monkey, monkey, worried about losing your family;
Monkey, monkey, you’re no longer free.

Monkey, monkey, welcome to the zoo, your sanctuary;
Monkey, monkey, imprisoned by me.
Monkey, monkey, you will make me wealthy;
Monkey, monkey, you will make me happy.

Monkey, monkey, you’re there for them to see;
Monkey, monkey, behind bars sat in your tire swing.
Monkey, monkey, why aren’t you happy?
Monkey, monkey, do something!

(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Elle H Mar 2018
Hunter of women burns to show their skill,
Yet when the panting prize has been caught
Mere force of habit drives them to the ****:
The soft flesh is less savory than their sport.
Marco Benitez Mar 2018
I am jealous of spiders
Those small, poisonous creatures

They don't care how small they are
Or how weak they are
They fight for their life despite the conditions

They hunt their prey without hesitation
Without pity
Without fear

They can enter any room
They don't need your permission

They all know their purpose
They all fight for their purpose

They catch or become food

They can create their world however they want
No one tells them how to connect their strings

They are clever
That's what makes them deadly
They are small
That's what extends their limits
They are selfish
That's what helps them survive

Their tiny-dark eyes
Those small marbles that extend their vision to places the human eye could never reach

Their infestation of twisted legs
Those agile limbs that move them with surprising speed and balance through any kind of frictional surface

They exist in every corner
Creep through every opening

They could crawl up your skin,
Plant their deadly kiss under the tissues of your outer layers,
Leading you to an agonizing swell of chemicals that tare and torture your nerves and muscles

The aftereffects are as countless as the number of their species

And if you are lucky enough,

You could have one of these
You could have all of these
They don't care

They are spiders,

And for them

You are a their predator

And their next victim
This might sound like a threat. Sorry for that. This is just a small picture of what goes through my head when I see a spider. You will be their next victim...
5 layers of wool
can keep your heat
from fleeing for a
few moments

The branches are
heavy as your feet
with snow

The world is at
your back and
before you and
the white world
unseen will pass
as time takes her

The white world
is at your frigid feet
and steps must be

The cold
it burns

You're burned and
you keep burning
This poem is named for "The Hunters in the Snow," a 1565 oil-on-wood painting by Pieter Brueghel the Elder.
over the past weeks
a gentle autumn sun
has painted colored leaves
upon the ground
and thinned
the bright abundance
of the wooded ranges

most of the harvest
is securely stored by now
or sold at morning markets
by weathered men and women
in country garbs

vintners are busy with their lots
fermenting grapes
and entertaining those
who see their visit
as pleasant pastime and escape
from daily urban chores

hunters and lumbermen
are waking up
to shoot and mark

schools by this time
have settled into the new year
teachers are happy still to share
the knowledge of our world
with students still inclined
to listen

remembering their vacations
on the Bahamas or in Saint Tropez
step sprightly into offices
womanned by secretaries dreaming secretly
of beautiful Mallorca summers
and of those never-ending nights
on the Algarve

I guess it is a human thing
to find a new beginning
and do best
when nature’s breath goes easy
to collect the strength
for yet another fruitful year

or were it better
that we also took a rest?

           * *
Oh, there you are...

Each mourning
I am taken aback
as I meet an array
of night time travelers
Lined up by size
Field Mouse, Seal Black Mole,
****** Chipmunk
piece de resistance...Grey Squirrel

Relieved of warm
tummies and hearts
(delectable within certain circles)
you have been gathered and
laid out with great
pride. Gifts by our
hunters of the dark

A moment as I honor each one
last rites whispered
I gently scoop you all up
timing critical
for the changing of the guards
three boasting cats come in...

three eager dogs going out...
Their anticipation thwarted
discovering that this
veritable feast has once
again been removed

Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.
liz Jun 2015
The amount of eraser shavings I have tucked away in my night stand could fill up twelve pencil boxes.
Words have been erasing from my paper like hunters beating down trails for homeless, bony foxes.
And I'm afraid of all the words that I'm going to forget as I'm running blind, straight ahead.
My unclipped claws are scratching the dirt in a race that won't settle anything- that won't lay the hunters to bed.
The night couldn't get anymore viscous as it calls in the boisterous wind to erase everything that I have to say like a merciless king.
The hunters don't know there is no pack leader, that I'm alone, and the tracks I leave behind are the words that sting.
I've lost sight of my pages in this cold, lightless wood; rendered breathless and afraid.
I'm trying to speak, but all that's coming out of my mouth are eraser shavings and the hunters have already took their first bullet to invade.
So, the drawer beside my cold bed is composed of red, crumbled pieces of rubber full of words I'll never know.
As I lay beneath the menacing branches, waiting for the hunters to pass,  I watch with crackling, shaking bones everything
that was once a friend to me, dissolve like white snow.
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