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Planejane2 Dec 2018
I didn't say what I was thinking,
I let you have the last word.

I bit down on my tongue and let that awkward
silence get the best of me.
And you one upped me.

I gave you the strings & let you pull them.
I handed you the controller & you played me.
When things got out of hand, I placed them in your palms & let you get a grip on them.
I was fishing for the words to convey what I was trying to say, so I used my hands, but you told me to sit on them.


And I followed suit.


I didn't question it out loud,
But my body ached, my mind replayed the incident over & over.
My stomach turned.


I became deaf to what i was saying, and held onto your every word.
Turning a blind eye to anything that was wrong.
Brent Kincaid Apr 2018
Our beloved Aunt Bertha.
She didn’t see pixies and elves
She saw ******* and jerks
With no obvious perqs!
That's the breaks of being someone
That, all by themselves,
Can have arguments and fights
And even though it wasn’t right
That is who she was, unique;
Immune to other people’s pique,
Surrounded by unseen creeps.

But she loved us kids, she did.
And found us when we hid
And cooked cakes and pies.
The love in her eyes spoke clearly
And nearly bowled me over
Because it was not deluded.
Yes, her quirks intruded on us
But we let her cuss and rail
At invisible fools. Those the rules.
She couldn’t help herself a bit
And that was the end of it.

So, we listened covertly
And overtly smiled at her a lot
Knowing what we had got
Was the dotty aunt they put
In the attic in the old days
In less loving times and ways.
But we loved her and wanted
A place not haunted by wardens,
And nasty nurses robbing purses,
Where she could live her life.

She liked to sing and dance
And every time I got the chance
I danced with her, as thin as a zipper
I guided this middled aged aunt
And when she started to pant
We changed the music to slow
And right back she would go.
She sang the tunes from the war
And more from movies and shows.
Can anyone know how great it is
To share with someone impaired
And know the gift you have shared?
Brent Kincaid Apr 2017
I used to be lysexic
But I’m betting getter.
I sometimes get letters
All gangled up totether.
I often lose tontrol
Of the taction of my ung
I had this tind of krubble
Sever yince I was sung.

I backed things saidward
It muzz wore than embarrassing.
It got me picked lot upon
Subjected to hate grarrassing.
Sometimes wumbers nould
Lood just like wetters
Back when I was lysdexic
But I am betting getter.

Not just lysdexic am me
But I Spoonerise tum soo.
And unce that sets started
There is lo sittle I can do.
It get’s ard to understand me
And it isses some eeple poff
I really bish I could weegin
To **** to stalk like a toff.

I used to be lysexic
But I’m betting getter.
I sometimes get letters
All gangled up totether.
I often lose tontrol
Of the taction of my ung
I had this kind of rubble
Sever yince I was sung.
(Actually, I am still a bit dyslexic still, but apparently I learned a lot of tricks back when being dyslexic could get you punished and shamed. As I say here, I’m betting getter.)
Take off your mask
Take off your blinders
Take off your fallacies
I want the real you
I want everything in the world to be real again.
Everything feels so fake, i want to leave this nightmare
Catch me if you dare
My memory becomes impaired
Thinking about what it used to be.
Stuck in the past, but still looking foward
Hopefully the past will come alive in the past iteration
Monica Abigail Feb 2015
On ******* nights
she chased her lines
with feverish kisses
and ******* during the come down.

On acid nights
she played Animal Collective
while she searched for galaxies
in my eyes.
We would kiss through laughter
and **** like goddesses.

On whiskey nights
her kisses felt like punches
and we ****** like it was ******.

We rarely had sober nights.
Sobriety has never suited me
and she looked so ******* dead
when she wasn't flooding her brain
with fake emotions
and impaired *******.

— The End —