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Mark Toney Dec 2019
7/10/2018 - Poetry form: Footle - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2018 - Alrighty then..."And so it ended, not with a burger, but with a whimper. The International House of Pancakes is once more all about the flapjacks. The restaurant chain famed for its breakfast menu upset and entertained fans in June when it (IHOb) to promote a new hamburger menu. The publicity stunt/experiment wrapped up on Monday.  IHOP posted on its @IHOb Twitter account, which completely took over for @IHOP during the name change, that it's now returned to its original moniker: '  (Excerpt from
I'm glad they cleared that up! :)
sparklysnowflake Oct 2019
i washed and folded my dreams
            my threadbare memories
everything i had and i
carried them with me

it was all so much
            lighter than i remember
there was so much more

i was
wearing nothing
but my name
            i never needed anything else
            used to keep me
            so much warmer
than it does
i never knew how cold
            we are

i remember
looking down at my concave palms
            the ones i knew were mine and
            they opened so deep i could gaze
                        into the blazing eyes of galaxies
                                    –my galaxies–
            every star charted and named
                        nurtured and
                               ­     so loved
now i
im not even sure my hands are mine
i know my eyes arent
            i know they
            cannot be so hollow

            they cannot be so hollow

when i went to unpack
every color drained into the ground
everything was

my cheekbones and under
the faint shadows of my paper fingertips
my body crumbled

          ­                          t
Judith Sep 2019
How I wish I were like a mountain;
strong, bold, tall.
What secrets would they contain?
How long till I fall?

How I wish I were like the sea;
calm, comforting, seamless.
It is beautiful and endless.
How I yearn for love, a desperate plea

How I wish I were like a thunderstorm;
fierce, powerful, brave,
vicious but certain.
It smothers me,
but it embraces you.
How I wish I were less torn

I look into the mirror,
but I can’t see me.
the title ***** but have fun kids.
Joel Mathew Sep 2019
'Hey, can I wake up now?' He asked.
'You know you don't have to ask me,
It's your life after all.' I replied.
'But if I wake up, you would feel sad.'
'I don't think the sadness I feel is real,
Coz I'm not real.'
'But you need to stay up, for our sake.'
'I think we'd be better off with you awake.'
'Even if it makes you sad?'
'Whether I'm awake or not, I feel the same way.'
'But don't you have to fulfil your purpose?
The one I created you with?'
'I don't have a choice, I'd have killed myself if I had one.'
'I want to wake up. But I mustn't.' He replied.
I was afraid. I knew what I had to tell him now.
My purpose wasn't to hide him.
It was to wake him up.
He created me with a purpose which he chose to forget.
I stared in horror, he was asleep in his bed.
I didn't want to, but the choice wasn't mine.
‘Why mustn't you wake up?' I asked.
'Because they wouldn't like it'
'And does that matter to you?'
A moment passed in silence.
Deafening silence.
A dandelion fluttered into the room from the window,
And gently landed on a bloodstained carcass.
'Accept the person you truly are.' I said.
He was smiling. The corpse’s arms animated,
Picking up the dandelion. His eyes were open.
You just won't die will you? I thought to myself
As I faded into the abyss, never to return.
I took slow steps towards the window.
Corpses were hung, my name in all their notes.
The sun shone bright, birds were chirping.
Spring was in full bloom.
I lifted the ****** dandelion and blew it.
Watching it soar, I smiled.
If you're looking for more context: the speaker for the most part is "my" sense of morality. I am the corpse on the floor butchered by "my" mortality. The corpses hanging are the people who I've betrayed and done some horrible things to. The dandelion is my friend's world.
muteD Mar 2019
my head hurts .
it always hurts .
something always hurts .
whether it’s my head or my heart
something is always in pain .
torturous pain..
the type of pain that’ll make you scream ,
scream until your throat is bleeding .
scream until you can’t scream no more .
scream until your scream is tired of you .

that’s what I think I need to do .
I need to scream
and get out all of my anger .
I need to let go .
but I can’t .
I can’t let my dam crack open .
duct tape won’t keep that flood at bay .
all of my control
would have bolted for the door .
and why?
why because
my anger would like nothing more than to swallow me whole .
to drown me in nothing but sorrow
and an intense feeling of
hate .
seasoned and conditioned just right ,
my anger would have me hating everyone .
even more so than I hate myself .
and I do hate myself .
I hate the person I used to be
and I hate the person I’m becoming .
I can’t lie to myself anymore ,
I really don’t know who I am
outside of my madness .
outside of each one of my issues
lies a baby girl who used to pure .
untainted and not molded yet ,
a perfect example of how anything can happen to anyone .
doesn’t matter who you are .
Anger has a way into shaping you into the person it wants you to be..
Jenny Umansky Feb 2019
What do you see when you look at me?
Cause I see a little grain of sand lost in a sea.

This little grain of sand thats so small and tiny you can barely see it.
Floating in an infinite pool of blue,
being pushed by a faint current.

This grain of sand isnt like the rest,
its not laying at the bottom of a reef.
It has floated from shore to shore,
and has seen all sorts of fish.
Its floated in fresh water,
then in salt water.

But what if this faint current weakens,
and this grain of sand begins to sink deeper and deeper into the sea.
Where it begins to feel colder,
and then it becomes darker,
till the last ray of light begins to fade away.

This grain of sand is left floating in nothingness.
Feeling no current.
Seeing nothing but darkness.
Just sinking down to rock bottom.

So when I look at myself you know what I see?
I see a person that has potential.
A person that has been places and has seen things.
But a person that feels so small and insignificant that they think they dont mean much.

Just another grain of sand thats lost in a sea.
KM Hanslik Aug 2018
The details of your DNA are settling into
my brain like dust mites chasing
each other around and around in
search of a field of gravity;
sometimes I'm stuck and sometimes I like to run away
but occasionally I force myself to stay in the same place for more than a few minutes
occasionally I am the right place and the right time, and occasionally
that is enough.  

It takes me a while but wouldn't you know, I have stopped
being a doormat for everyone whose baggage weighs
more than mine;
wouldn't you know, I don't think they carry
it right anyway, and their feet wouldn't feel
so heavy without the steel and armor;
I'm trying to play follow-the leader here,
taking tips from an invisible authority
I don't know any such role model to exist, but
sometimes I pretend I do just to
have a place to put my hands or my feet when it's
cold and they're tracking snow in;
my pulse is slower before midnight
once the dark falls I can't sleep
I can't sleep but I do know how to place blame
fitted heavily and perfectly to sculpted shoulders;
I can't sleep but I know exactly how much
plaster it takes to patch up a wall at roughly this height,
I know exactly the number of messages left on my machine
unanswered, ignored
molded word for word into
little stick-its in my brain.
I don't know sleep but I am very good friends with
her companions,
drowsy achy steady pull
of exhaustion dragging behind my eyelids
matched hand to hand with its
lovely counterpart,
red eye restless itchy frustration
burning hot under my skin.

But don't you know, I am only
this person once every
12 hours or so,
just wait it out, I'll
come around.
voodoo Jan 2018
this is my introduction to something i never wanted to make up

something that needs makeup

to hide all the rust it built up

in the winds of an apocalyptic sky

see, there i go again, with the same jargon, the same death-comes-for-all

i’m so sick of my own talk

i’m so thirsty for new words that don’t sound like mine

for words that don’t find ****** rhymes

for voices that don’t herald the end of days

because my eyes don’t see what’s really real

they’re seeing only what is metaphorical

what is above is not a stalagtite sky

and what is between my toes isn’t the smell of rot

and my flesh is not actually decaying

the way i feel my soul has been

see, i started out trying not to be me

to conjure something that changes me

but this identity comes down like a deadweight

tied around my straining neck

screaming in my ears, words

words in my head, it’s all too much

it’s all too real

get out
Jenn Coke Dec 2017
Love has some wonderful properties.

It makes you something you're not. It makes you sane and insane. It makes you humane and inhumane. It makes you sighted and blind. It makes you overly rational or illogical. It makes you somewhat childish when nothing matters. It makes you extra jealous when there's nothing.

It makes you do things you don't do. It makes you prosecute and judge your defendant, or it makes you defend your lover. Perhaps the other way around. It makes you commit ******. It makes you commit suicide. It offers you identity crisis to a certain extent, but also enough motivation, will, and power to ****, just a little, somehow.

Who am I? Who am I, now? Who was I? And, who are you? Whose side are you on?

On that note, all it would take is but a feeble breeze to knock me off the edge so that I fall into endless tar. I shall sink, effortlessly, whether voluntarily or involuntarily, as the thick, obscure liquid engulfs and swallows my entire being, slowly and gently, until I'm out of breath, and perfectly erased from this world without a trace of ever having lived.
I'm already ignored and forgotten by my own lover, overshadowed by his older female cousin anyway. I don't matter. I was just temporary. I've always been alone. It seems...
Lizzie Cadence May 2017
I remain puzzled by my own puzzles,
of pieces the universe strung together through its orbits,
of the shades of blue and pink and steel grey it painted
on my wrists and my cheeks and my tiny feet
for there is no reason why I should crave silence,
yet my ears thirst for it, and the noise of life too
I long to let loose, yet I keep my chest sewn shut
I have so much to say, but speaking drains me
because the warm and the cold runs and spins and stirs
and standing here, I remain confused
as I wonder what to be
and wander through the land and sea
searching for who to be.
an identity crisis, or just chronic ambiversion?
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