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Joseph Rice Sep 19
Torrential downpours of raw
Regret swirls with loss into
Whirlpools of rage, desire, and hopelessness.

Smiles guile miles between isles
of disconnected people.
Eyes see ******* butts ***** and big *****….
Missing hearts….
Missing the empty arms of long alone longing.
Reasons and reasons, seasons and seasons.
The flow continues and we cannot stop for what's missed.
Wrote this on a rainy day.
Baylee Kaye Feb 22
am I a drag, a bore?
what do I even try for?
all my hopes and dreams of loving,
have hit a snag.
things to work through
i can still smell the pungent air of
my old shoes on your two feet
and see the boulder on your
shoulder—hence the welcoming,
open door.

never mind my silence, see those
bottles you sent knocking me into
a soldier in a warzone, fighting for
my sealed freedom.

i am breathing fine and well within
the confines of my room walls and
warm blankets, and i will not beg
anew a soft, suede-covered

i yearn a bow—a salute
to the space now.
i've had enough unwanted attention, case closed.
Matterhorn Feb 8
Walking into the building:
Cold parking lot,
****** music blaring from that lifted truck,
People honking;

Glass doors,
Short, insufficient eye contact,
"Good morning!" from the lady who guards the door
With a laptop and a forced smile;

Quick strides,
A pinball-like dance,
Yelling, screaming, arguing, sometimes fighting,
Fake greetings and meaningful silences;

A tiny bubble of social-media-manufactured society,
Without the trials and tribulations
That make one human
Or the experience that makes one sensible;

I can't ******* wait to graduate.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Cough! Cough!Cough!
Try this cough syrup,
In no time you will be up.
No infection, no inflammation, no allergen,
In a jiffy, everything gone.
My onion sugar cough syrup is better,
All you need is an onion and sugar,
And a jar.
Cut the onion into round slices
Round rings, not tiny pieces,
Place an onion ring in a jar,
Cover it with sugar,
Place a second slice on top,
Cover the same with sugar on top,
Till you are done.
Close the jar tight,
Leave it overnight.
The next day, your honey coloured cough syrup is ready,
Wish your recovery is speedy.
Keiya Tasire Dec 2018
The question rings as a rattle on my cage.
"I am writing poetry" I answered.

He mumbled, "I thought you were playing Mahjong."

I exhaled hard, "I was. I won two games. " I said  with a little aggravation.

"Hum..." he said, then all fell silent.
I did not respond.

Only the sound of my fingers typing on the keyboard continued
Until he could not stand it anymore, "There's news today. The USA is pulling out of Syria."

"Hum, that's good." I said.

He said, "I am sure the families of the soldiers that are coming home are happy."

"Yeah, they probably are." I said halfheartedly as I continued to write.

"Israel is still worried about their borders."

Sarcastically I replied, "Maybe they will build  a wall."
The sounds of tap-tap-tap on the keyboard, continuing...

He said, "Yeah, maybe Trump will help them."
I stopped typing.
We laughed and I continued to write.

It was quiet for just a moment.
Then he said, "What'cha doing now?
We both laughed out loud!!!
And I finished this writing.
Humor goes a long ways in soothing rough edges.
Elizabeth Brown Oct 2018
Stop me if you've heard this before
but I feel this feeling fleeting,
running opposite me
to lands unknown
where lost dreams go to die.
Why are words so fickle? Leaving at the lightest touch,
the barest hint of anything new.
A world, undiscovered,
lies within a place I can reach only when I am most bare.
My purest form of self,
mewling and screaming,
pulls from me this insatiable insanity.
Yet with the slightest digression my sleeves roll themselves down
and it's gone again.
I am lost into reality like some suited being,
honking at the other monkeys in futile attempts to make up for lost time.
Was it worth it?
Is that loss of captivation worth an ounce of conversation?
Bring me back to that place.
I want to feel the pen warming between my fingers again.
That smooth ink feel on dead, life-giving friends.
Is this the closest I can get to holiness?
Em MacKenzie Sep 2018
The talking heads used to sing a lullaby
now everyone dreads when they even sigh.
Creating static that no hands could hope to block out
hiding in the attic but the sealing’s peeled and so has the grout.

I can’t bear to hear another word
of resentment that is undeserved,
even the slightest breath of air
is a kin to irritation I can’t compare.

The talking heads used to compose magic
but now their frowns illuminate something tragic.
A life that pushes me out of place,
my skin, my heart and soul; a waste.

If you’re questioning what these words mean
while you’re reading them on an LED screen
you’ve yet to experience silence’s bliss,
when you do you’ll see it’s something to miss.
Noise cancellation fails the trial,
cars honk and phones dial,
I remember the sound of just the breeze
of damp grass and brushing knees.

The talking heads trapped in my ear
never seem to want to stop.
Telling me all I don’t want to hear,
I beg and plead but each topic they won’t drop

I can’t bear to hear another word
of resentment that is undeserved,
even the slightest hint of a sigh
is too much of an attempt to pry.
Wish it could be about the band, but it isn’t.
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