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Trefild Sep 8
‣ If u were a human, & if I would have an opportunity to bury u alive
‣ I would be more than pleased to do so, no doubt
‣ the only thing I would let u take with u is a cheap pocket knife
‣ but it's not to help u make it out (it's unable to help)
‣ 'cause the casket would be the metal one & its lid would be sealed
‣ this would be the ending of ur story
‣ get dead naturally or get killed
‣ I don't think I would ever regret or feel sorry
Trefild Aug 26
‣ the late weekend night he/she decided to go for a walk
‣ he/she didn't wanna stay home
‣ actually, he/she was just avoiding doing some housework
‣ he/she is a procrastinator to the bone
‣ wandering the streets of the ****thole he/she still languishes in
‣ while got himself/herself sent into the music realm by putting his/her earphones on
‣ he/she has been thinking about what does his/her existing mean
‣ accompanying it with the thought of the fear of being gone
‣ getting closer to this frightening edge with every year
‣ feeling low at the sight of younger ones
‣ he/she often finds himself/herself thinking "what am I even doing here?"
‣ while the time that never slows down comes
‣ he/she doesn't become better over time
‣ he/she got nothing to offer to the world
‣ he/she realizes it's not fine
‣ the purpose of his/her existing still remains untold
‣ all of this makes him/her quite restless
‣ he/she is on the point of burnout
‣ it's like there is barbed wire on him/her as a necklace
‣ he/she is seeking for inner peace that can't seem to be found
Trefild Aug 26
‣ roses are red
‣ but they are dead
‣ violets are blue
‣ but they are dead too
‣ stop reading this kind of ****t & better start doing something useful instead
‣ or u got nothing better to do❓
‣ roses are not only red as well as violets are not only blue, for ur information [who would have thought...]
‣ but let people make their cookie-cutter rhymes while not taking it into consideration
‣ if I had to choose roses, well, then I would prefer the black ones
‣ not to mention that I think they would have looked sick engraved on some firearms
‣ as for violets, they are not really my type
‣ but maybe to somebody else they set some kind of vibe
Trefild Aug 26
‣ there is one place a certain someone has to go to
‣ that place is unbearable, it's like a human zoo
‣ being have to be for several hours every weakday there is a pretty ****tty case
‣ there are so many wasted days spent in that ****** place
‣ that certain someone wants to burn that ******* place down
‣ and get the hell away from the town
‣ get the hell away from the lushing degeneration
‣ and here was supposed to be the end of this lamespiration
‣ but I came up with a few more needless lines
‣ and seems like all I'm capable of is just to cling on to rhymes
‣ think I'm just wasting my time
‣ me & poetry are those parts of the universe that are better not to combine
‣ somebody is perhaps even gonna think this bullsh!t writing had been concocted in the st8 of being high
‣ don't know if this is even worth being read, but anyway, u are free to just pass by
"lushing degeneration" - Russian Federation
Emily Jo Sep 5
I only seem to write poetry
About love, heartbreak and pain
And no matter how many i write
The emotions stay swirling in my brain

I try to write about life and happiness
Of moving forward and contentment

But it seems
I can only
About love.
And pain.

Maybe when i love again,
I can flush the swirls out of my brain.
Until then please bear with me
With my sappy heart melodies
Coupled with gut wrenching pain.

Ken Pepiton Aug 30
Wonder this today, what if
We are
existent in ever only in the life we leave
graffiti to prove we examined and proved it worthy.

We swore
to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth
vicariously a thousand times,
because Pop watched Perry Mason,

we were on the bench being waited for,
endurance is encouraged for the same reason faith

is evident.

"Mortgage the farm, Pop, I got G.I. life insurance."
Uncle's last letter, afore he was made sacred

for our own American Dream, it seems, now.

Mortal tyranny
finds little worth in the 20th percentile signed
away in
death pledges held in banks of money
multipliers, who take our thousand and lend me ten

to deposit at interest less than I pay,

this we learned, is the way of thrift
in 1928, then in 1985, then in 2008
after that enough is enough

old men should not
spend no time to find
the purpose of each breath…

we're here to find the reason war is tolerated here.

The days of fewer humans, past now in haps,
left lies formed from living words
in old Sybline rants simple subtle
sublime, impulse urge
twisted in slang to become science
when only insiders are conscious of using
writing to lock meaning in unutterable names

Ha. That lie. The unspeakable name game,
perverted priests have played
with passion,
proud, puffed up butchers,
heirs of
Moses guessing, fingers crossed, a word
to the wise is enough.

Say I am,
How long will that be funny?

Timing is perceivable as everything, but so long as

eternity and infinity and twisted paths along the surface
of myelinated axioms,
slick as snot,
it's not.
here we be. Redeemed. Useless mutterings picked up
in passant

considering the ant, scouting, marking, remaining in the dark
of the tiled counter-top, aware of being brown on sterile
white ceramic surfaces
intensified florescent reflecting high gloss,
-- good god--

ah, Tender-eyed Leah meet Rhea impulsive creative dia
metrically opposed - as
to randomness on any level.
We square?
This, I think, is why war is thought tolerated here.

Right angle messages tweaked, to fit
fractures from the days when only evil was imagined
shapeless, having form in
no shape, save some old wives tales all fused with spite
expressed in rhymey verse
or, worse, glossolalia
its inverse, aha, wordplay, verse-ification

springs hope eternal, spits in the dust, fine-ground red
ochre clay from far away

brought to our place in time on muddy iron feet

A voice arose,
shake the clay from your feet,
-- the feet of them who buried thy lying sack o'
-- those clay clad feet, did I read, at the door, stood they…
-- some translation of Ananias and Saphira,

Uri, Uri! Libsi libsi
Uz zek Sigh-own

libsi big de tipart-tech, ye ru say limnal
agent of
Isaiah 57: 2 for the Jesus freaque
frequency of
calm in confusion's unpacking, fission
as the firstborn under the cloud of unknowing
emerge afraid to lie.

Nurses whisper, listener listen
emulate Socrates
in knowing
Plato could carry quite a load. But listen,

who admits to knowing nothing? be real, this takes time…

The spit in the clay, rub that in yer eye?
men, like trees… yeh, some say they see that here.
Phonetic Hebrew from Strong's Pre-computer era concordance of every word in the KJV. A grimoire of the benefucent sort for sure. Aitia proof.
Avery Jul 6
Poems I write
Nothing but alright
Average and lame
Everything's the same
faye Jul 3
And the epiphany of it all was when we looked into each others eyes and I saw galaxies in yours while you saw nothing in mine.
thanks, love.
mal frost Mar 10
i'm pretty tired of it all
the drudgery, the work
the amusement, the rest
it's just a bit- tedious?
like a chore, day after day,
routines slipping into the folds of space and time,
stitching my existence together -
just a bit too tightly

i really should do something new,
but nothing's really fresh anymore
it's all been said and done, after all
except in my dreams- but even those are getting a bit tiring

you can never really have enough of those things, can you?
dreams, I mean-
they just kind of fade, which sorta ***** if you think about
we remember some pretty boring ****,
and yet when we really live, really feel, really light up like a firework-
we can't even remember it.

maybe that's why boring stuff is, well... boring
we can remember it perfectly.
and maybe those blurred nights, those surreal scenes, and those
vivid dreams
are only so because they fade, leaving us with just a scent of
to chase.
just let my thoughts flow
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