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Brumous May 7
I tell the made-up stories of raconteurs
pouring their hearts out on empty paper

I help people learn, love, and laugh;
They dream with others as a source of
happiness, hope n' stuff

'your name' appears in books
that makes people cry

I am somehow a sanctuary of
people with dreams that remain fruitless
They use my name to fantasize about the times
they can never fully feel;

I, y/n.
Y/n is used in books called 'x readers,' y/n is an abbreviation of 'your name';
I wrote this from the perspective of y/n but, it isn't in the pov of the reader.

Y/n can be anyone, honestly.
i’d cross through burning bridges
and swim through boiling seas
if that's what you want of me.

i'll trudge through ice and glaciers,
climb so high i cannot breathe
is that you want from me?

i can play your game to lose
i'll let you win, guaranteed
what more do you want from me?

if you want my life, have it
i'd let you **** me with glee
there can't be more you want from me?

i'll do anything alright
just promise me one thing please
please oh please,
keep your paws off my poetry
Do it well, do it fully,
give in, forget the past,
you’ve done no wrong,
write everything little poet,
this isn’t motivation, just write,
be better than any love.
Be the ideal
stillhuman Mar 15
Through yellowing pages
I've travelled many places
And tasted pastries from that baker
And held a man when he was crying
And seen the sun when it was raining
And fell in love when I was hurting

To trees now gone to create
a contrast strong in black and white
I feel thankful for creating life
Who knew paper could be so magical?
All the forgotten lawns, and far apart, and monsters in the darks.
The cross country farms, some kids are playing on.
Thus, our liberation falls, a soldier dies, a family cries.
See dropping blood! Oh Hallelujah! Oh Jesus Christ!
All waters are iced, and the bread smells of rot. And ghosts knocking at the door, right? For its the wicked king's payments time!
We are like Wilber
The pig in Charlottes web
Needing help from
A friend when
Needing to prove ones worth

We are like shade silver wing
The tiny bat
That has to use his wit
DIY to save his friends
And family
We all have a purpose and duty
And brains
And are lovable
If we put our minds to it
Or work together.
Thomas W Case Feb 19
I'm back in the psyche ward again.
It's my home away from home,
next to jail and the emergency room.
I sat under the bridge the other night.
It was January, and extremely cold.
I was jonesing for a drink—I knew what I had to do.
I had only been out of jail for a
couple of days for another public intox.
I narrowly avoided going back to the can today.
My nut-job girlfriend said,
"Why don't you get us some wine? " "Sure, " I said.
Shaking and sick, I walked a mile to
my favorite store that I steal ***** from.
I arrived, and had a bad feeling, but I
don't pay much attention to feelings anymore.
In and out is always the plan.
A bottle of chardonnay down the front
of the pants, and one in the coat.
I thought I had it. I was wrong.
A customer saw me and snitched me off.
I went with the manager to his office.
A cop showed up shortly afterwards.
I engaged the store-guy with talk of literature.
It turned out he was an
English major.
I wrote down the title of my book,
and slipped it to him. He put the paper
in his wallet. He told the cop that I was very cooperative.
Instead of taking me to jail,
the cop gave me a citation with a
court date on it, and let me go.
Sometimes, providence smiles on me.
On my way back to the apartment,
I was already planning the next store to hit,
I needed a drink.
The cop, from the store, pulled up along side of me,
and said,
"Your girlfriend called, she said she didn't
want you at her place anymore.
All your stuff is in front of her door."
I felt like I'd been run over by a rhino.
The cop said,
"I'll give you a lift, jump in."
When I arrived, there were two loosely
packed bags of clothes weighing around 100 pounds.
There was no way in hell that I could
have carried all that crap eight miles to Iowa City.
I grabbed a back pack, and stuffed it with a pair
of jeans, two shirts, my writing, and a copy of Don Quixote.
I went outside and waved to the cop, then headed towards town.
I finally made it back to the bridge.
I waited to get the nerve to make
my next move—steal wine.
I did it, and with no cork *****,
I opened it with a broken ink pen.
I'm not complaining, it was the needed elixir
and it went down like nectar of the gods.
I drank it quick, it was three degrees out.
Life had to change.
This was getting real old.
Here's an older one revamped.
Thomas W Case Feb 17
I sit at my window and look out at the
snowflakes; they fall vertically, horizontally under
the grey black sky. I watch the dog break open the
bone and lick the marrow out. I watch the
big white cat sleep, snore, maybe dreaming of
a fat sparrow in his mouth. I think of taking
a bite of the sunset, living in a cave; the way
a marimba sounds when I’m haunted,
how Hamsun took bites of his hand in hunger.
My mind drifts to Van Gogh’s potato eaters,
the ***** that rejected his ear, Lautrec’s withered
legs and beautiful heart. I think of the falcon in
the city, the stranger in the mirror, the brutality
of man and the wonder in the doe’s eyes.

Anything but algebra, I took the compass test for
college, 99% in writing, reading and 17% in math.
I have to retake the math and score a 25% or better.
I despise math, my girlfriend says, “You love math, it
gets you loans and grants.”
My brain bleeds with numbers and equations,
but she’s right,
I like loans and grants.

So I’m back at it, like a kid to
the dentist, and math does its job,
it pushes me back to
the word, the line, my dirt road
through the madness.
I am a no literary person
Studied no literature
I don't know what's poetry
Yet I write poetry
I don't know
What's is meter
What's haiku
What's sonnet
Yet I write poems
I have heard words
Elegy, Limerick, villanelle
I don't understand
What they are
Literary jargon passes
Over my head
Yet I write poetry
I write whatever
Comes to my mind
Whatever time tells
Me to write
I write
No poet's poetry
It's called!
A poet in contradiction. No poet is a poet qualified by 'no'. A no literary person may be a literary person.
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