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xiixxxcix Mar 2015
I like to think that when you left me, you went straight to church. you listened to the sermon, but you couldn't stand up when the congregation sang.
I like to think that someday you'll stop trying to wash my scriptures off your hands with holy water.
I like to think that I'm that old mattress you had when you were ten; you always said it held the same familiarity as falling in love with a stranger.
the mattress' holes from falling asleep with lit cigarettes match up perfectly with my alibi.

I'm not to be trusted. I'm an angry human.
I grew up with broken glass in my lungs and cracked ribs.
something inside me snaps even further when the sun shapes your body into a shadow on my bedroom wall.

I want to redefine the word 'fire' with your name, and light candles with you. I want to make my walls sweat. I want you to burn up my ****** clothes. I want you to set my books ablaze. I want you to realize the hardest part is never letting go, but forgetting you ever had a handle.

you can't be the flame and the wick.
you need to leave me to burn down, like the altar candles in the front of the sanctuary, for everyone to see.

sometimes I think god hates me; I'm just a pawn in his and satan's chess game.
small and insignificant in value - I almost want satan to win.

after all,
if you are fire,
hell will feel like home.

but then I remember that I'm tired of controlled burns and scrubbing your soot off of my hands.

so I like to think that when you left me, you went straight to church. you listened to the sermon, but you couldn't stand up when the congregation sang.

and I like to think that Saint Jude called me out of your blaze, and that I left you there with all of your confessions and your communions in your own personal hell.

either way, it's not my cross to bear anymore.
LilyAle Dec 2021
I am the mentally ill daughter of a mentally ill daughter.
This is my birth right.
Along with skin that begs to be picked, bags that drag, and attitude given the name
Gifted eyes that stay red even after it's been hours.
We have been doomed from the start.
I think we've known this from the start.
Maybe thats why we are so angry.
neth jones Aug 2021
with a throated frog
  i re-digest
    my sickness' exhume

(a thing i did
  when piloting
   a conversation
    most polite)
Jay M Jun 2021
Turning in this day
Turning over in dismay
For here, as I lay,
Comforted in these sheets
A chill turns to a burning blaze
My mind trapped in a dizzying haze

Aching muscle and raspy tone
Weakness cripples every bone
Shallow comes each breath
That escapes my parched lips
To countless others it foretold death
Filmed in countless clips

But, not for I
Not in this day, not this time
Not in this peculiar rhyme
For here I shall not die

To recover
To grow stronger
Prepare for what may come
The war is not yet over
With hope, it won't be much longer
For this great disease we shall overcome.

- Jay M
June 3rd, 2021
I'm fully vaccinated now, but have been experiencing the side effects of the vaccine since last night. I'll be okay by the end of the day, and back to my healthy self.
neth jones May 2021
sense heavy
  i plough at the day slurred
  pushing putty steps
aching and unfocused
  going about chores
  tackling things
...have i been delivered head trauma?

unbearable attention is drawn by my visible condition
pain inducing communications are fired at me
inquiry that i bat at and parry pathetic

Can I lumber onward
nauseated i
and be
in anyway productive ?
muscular suffering
this astronaut
this deep sea explorer
receiving a poor mix of gases

neth jones Mar 2021
I discharge ;
   a laugh without kindle
(not from the origin of tune
         and mastication)  
from an orifice of wound

a hack of mushroomy dry fleck :
the taste touches the back of the airways
  and takes to the brain in an ail

    ideas slurry
my actions blur
I fumble about my living space
my balance
        pained ears
fall to floor
      an ug at the back my throat
I laugh from all fours
    vision reddens
unhinged at the jaw
      my neck
shoulder muscles punting
my logged and leaden head lolling
   a laugh of hurt
a ******* of saliva
        detonates on the carpet
is there blood in that  ?
sickness on the verge
                 of being brutally provided

"So dramatic !"
my wife passes me a glass of fruit juice
                             and an aspirin
         preventing the transformation
                a gentle chiding
original version ....

[a laugh without kindle
from a wound not an orifice
a mastication of ills and soothes
a not quite mushroom smell
pained ears
an ug at the back of the throat]
Brumous Feb 2021
Another day passes by,
With me not knowing why.

A grin is plastered on my face,
Like a maniac running from something he hates;
yet I still enjoy the feeling of the chase.

The tension made it an ill-looking smile;
then the idea was washed over me.
I feel this way because...

I was useless.

I was useless yet did nothing to solve this problem.
I'll idly do something as I remember all the things that should've been done,

It haunts me

every second,


and hour.

I was a menace,
A menace to myself and everyone;
Felt like an actor reading a script.

But then again, someone said that life and all is like a play
And the world is a stage.

It makes everything feel surreal,
Like a living dream.
"Sometimes people are clouds,
they pass by without saying goodbye"
rgz Jan 2021
A man tired from the waking day
hangs his keys on the beaded hook,
lets the hat off his grateful head.
He places himself in front of the table
where he laid down his papers,
his skins and his skin.
He put on the table, the day's characters,
mulled them over in the electronic hum of Aleph and coffee flavoured eyes,
rolled them up tight with tomorrow's fears
and set them alight.
He put there a glass ashtray to catch the embers of regret.
He put on the table his dear friend, Old Man Wibble,
the bedlamite seer,
drunken oracle,
"liquid Jesus, straight from the bottle"
and longed for a glass to raise.
He put there the smoke from his exasperated lungs
and the wistful music of his tired throat,
he put there every last syllable and every letter left lingering on a lost lovers lips.
He put hope on the table,
for the weight might crush him as he sat
but not the table,
solid under this load,
to bear weight is what a table must do
and tomorrow will always bring another pile.

an exercise in growing a poem
sick and crumbling from sweated sheets onto the ground
i don't want to be found like this, don't want to be seen
cause my body's giving up, my weakness, it's so lame
keeling over in pain and illness, i say

"go away"
but i don't want you to go away
i'm afraid to die alone... hey
mark soltero Sep 2020
i don’t want to lie
even if im embarrassed
im beginning to see the truth
it resides in your eyes

the reflection of myself
it’s beginning to lose power over me
i can’t tell you why exactly

the power you’ve given me
it seems to have rusted your soul
oh what id give
to go back and change that

my soul is drowning
grasping on to what it can to float
freezing slowly as it inches closer to the edge
to shield me from the wrongs within myself

your warmth protects me
it exposes the purity from inside
but how i wish i could protect you too
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