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K Balachandran Feb 2019
a distraught sparrow,
tries to dodge the arrows of heat,
mother nature's ire!
Chris Feb 2019
If I wrote a poem for every ******* who I should've killed cold dead,
but I didn't
I would have written a thousand poems.

If I killed every ******* who I should have,
I wouldn't be writing poems,
I'd be happy.
Emma Feb 2019
I stab you in the face.
I strangle you to death.
I slap, hit, and kick you over and over again.
I blow up your house.
I put water in your gas tank, and then blow up your car anyway.
I steal your identity, and embarrass you when you have to have her pay for all your dates.
I tie you to a chair, attach your ******* to a car battery via clamps painful on their own, and then proceed to electrocute you.
I steal your dog, and she likes me better anyway.
I turn your sister into a lesbian.
I recruit four horsemen to pull you limb from limb between them.
I burn you to the ******* ground, and force-feed your ashes to someone you hate, so you're always a part of them.
I slice you open from taint to ******* and stuff you with cheese as rancid as your soul before sewing you back up and sealing it with a kiss.
I feed you **** pie.
It doesn't really matter though; my fury never dies.
Slightly Lovely Oct 2018
I’m from Late night movies, goodnight phone calls, and reading till morning.

I’m from dragonfly walls, lost sleepovers, and 3am hot-tubbing.

I’m from spadolini sauce, moonpies, peach rings, and truffle popcorn.

I’m from my struggles that made me strong, my joy that propelled me through life, and my friends who taught me the beauty of the broken hearted.

I’m from the lyrics of Oh wonder, Lily Ire, and Elizaveta.

I’m from the movement of air past my face, the spinning of limbs through silk, and the taut of my muscles before I fly.

I’m from my mom with her comforting touch, and my Dad with his sweet humor.

I’m From Driving through tunnels of green - darkness all around -hand out the window, music blasting-  And My brother sitting next to me, singing like an angel...
This is a project for school, but i learned a lot about myself in the process. Pls enjoy
fiachra breac Aug 2018
oh to sink into the earth!
sodden and rancid with rain;
sagging under the weight
of too much
after too long. Drowning,
under more of the same
I inspire
I won’t expire
I transcend
I won’t descend
Aspire to transpire
Make pages
In His Story
Make a name
That won’t fade
Through the ages
And paint your images
With full colors
That time can’t erase
Mount your fears
And they will take you far
Like a feather
Blown by the wind
Fear is the weakness
It cripples your mind
And weakens your faith
Random
Brian McDonagh Jun 2018
Get out!
Stop ruining my life!
Your words, they destroy my future,
Like a bullet, bomb, knife.
In other words
Shut up
Ever want to tell somebody a similar verbalization yet keep it to yourself?
shiv May 2018
you spite the gods
because who else would dare do such a thing.

you spite the gods
because nothing makes you feel more alive
then to imagine what their ire feels off.
please lemme know and honestly profess
if profusion of words create a lingual Loch Ness
(when hens canst come home to roost
   especially, encountering
   the following conglomeration
   in matthew scott harris patois).

He readily admits writing inventive
   attempts usually ten tubby a literary mess,
thus finding innocent cyber cruisers
   Angle fishing for Saxony fundamental fluidity
   courtesy of Freudian stream of consciousness,
   gabbling gibberish, muck not done on purpose
   and certainly less
to impress.

Gnome hatter intent toward
   cogency, fancy ingenuity,
   levity, the inevitable
   resultant wrought gobbledygook
   fascination for Lingua Franca
   feeble endeavor splutters, splinters,
   and splatters Asia Yukon guess.

Paramour status analogous with twenty six letters,
   sans En gull Lush Mother tongue confluence
   finds me submerged (as an Arctic Monkey)
   swimmingly enervated
   via ****** laced sentiments
   perhaps finds bravely daring soul madly
   hollering, gesticulating floundering,
   (in close proximity to Davey Jones's locker)
   to avoid drowning at sea
   perchance comprehending passionate influence.

   Upon espying a signature poem of mine
   forces one pre ponder ring lurking predilection
   tib hush anonymous re:
   dears (dares) adventuresome mettle
   taking him/her to the brainy
   (briny) deep brink
   Icon fess

this (NON FAKE) pretense, why
   aye metaphorically express
(via medium of ordinary Anglophile
   alphabetic wanton soup,
   or figurative egg drop bub
   bling broth (el) doth brew)

   pronouns Sibyl affectation
   affliction sans plethora,
   where each ladle full adrip with
   richly flavor Verdana Font lee
   and sincerely textured vocabulary.

   Pluperfect mortals beings undoubtedly feel
   (blindsided, how this hunger stricken author
   suffers said sesquipedalian syndrome
   particularly expectorating flashy

   hoping tum bark on successful literary quest)
   hyper aware aspiring paperback writers wannabe
   might stoop to conquer, cheat, cadge
   vis a vis plagiarize plethora
  amidst storied plentiful English droppings.

Rather than succumb pretense feigning paucity
   temptation to bask exultantly,
   professed glorious unrequited love
   announcing required sworn vow,
(el lye ding) avowed consonant covenant.
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