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Once you were inspiration

for thousand creation

now a mistake I shouldn’t have made.
Stan Jan 30
School used to be a fun place
A place I’d meet with my friends
And we would have a good good laugh
Until the day and week ends

In school we used to have sports or PE
And the changing rooms, small and smelly
And I was scared for them to see
My big big belly

To that point were we close
And as best friends is how others would see us
But to make fun of me they chose
“Laugh with them and hold back your tears”

Now you ask why I would try to hide it
And not want to go to the pool
Well, they made me suffer and provided
For my lifetime depression, such fools

Only if you knew that I was skinny years ago
You would have thought I had no parents to feed me
But I got ill, and medicine changed me
So imperfect to you, but perfect

Years later and love is lying next to me
Saying “I love you, my bear”
I’m imperfect but perfect for love
Only if you knew, my dear
MontyPie Dec 2019
All these people..
i'm too far down the..
where they'll catch Me.
But by then
They will see
just how late
These are a beginning to a song I may or may not write. I've been battling deviancy versus the mind.
Mari Dec 2019
You made the stars
I scattered them in the sky.
c Nov 2019
We are falling in love with ourselves
The way we are imperfectly perfect
And how we are made
for something bigger than this moment
blushing prince Nov 2019
i met you in the middle of august
during the death of summer
but the birth of my life
the leaves were just beginning to turn
the shade of mustard
of my favorite yellow
the specks of gold inside the dog of my childhood
and you were a melancholy prince
a monsoon of everything I was always too busy looking elsewhere for
always on the cusp
now before my eyes it was terrifying  
I was too busy in my own sadness
always teetering on the verge of the roof
more mosquito bite than girl
when they asked why I was always writing
what could I write about if I wasn't ever talking to people
no sensory experiences but the ones I imagined
a shyness of a body
a flushing fever of a person
how could I explain
spill onto the kitchen sink gripping strangers' shoulders
crying I was in love with everything
and could that be such a bad thing
I didn't want to be a wound
but there we were
stealing groceries from the store and never sleeping
inside a romantic cocoon
I would go anywhere with you
be your favorite friend
a favored nervousness inside the pit of your amygdala
if you wanted me to
classical music playing while we make dinner with the food we took without asking always being more with less
Masha Yurkevich Nov 2019

You opened my eyes

                                            and made me see

that there is a future                      
                                     of you and me.

May that future await...
Ken Pepiton Sep 2019
Old notes, from before

what they did was imagine a future
the future using a memory (meme) locken in their DNA to cognize


Defragmenting your mind
disassociate certain ideas from mis conceptions

cost of living, reap what you sow

Lost and know it, is there a way

What if the show (the trial) is a series of phone calls--
listener hears both sides

--- but never speaks--
When is the reward for not doing ever as great as
the reward for done?

A riddle for the robber jailed for doing?
A query for the poet who never wrote?
The singer who never sang, an audition in silence?

Eaking, painful words that say see, soundlessly

and fifteen years passed by
I must say
I know the answer there
I must say
I see farther now than then

Suffer it to be so now. See the music
Sufficient unto the day (no more)

Sop with me, come and dine.

-- Ask the guest to say grace

gracefully, the guest rises to full height,

tears the heel from the loaf,
slowly sops it in the cup of Mogen David,
provisioned by the host,
slowly lifts the soppy bread to lips open
for a bite,

taken, then chewed gently, and swallowed,

Amen. The guest sits and tucks
and gracefully scoops his portion of
a side of beef and three old hens who ceased to lay.

Grace for grace, he mutters, in his own gluttonous way.
as all the tucker's tucked into him.

Smallest child asks, who invited that?

Oh, that.
That's a metaphor. A parable. You see as if that hapt,

you remember it oh so well,
then the story ended and you woke here with memories of never beens.

Not every efforting word makes ineffable sense, some must be heard
to be spoken, other wise they lie

idle, idling like dragons spewing ashes in micro bits of death,
in their slumber atop the horded
answer to all things,

money. the real thing. the idea from which it formed.

A time trading scheme.
Back in the day, we were paid for our attention to reality, then

something changed at the DNA level, down in the core of where we come from,
effortlessly, until

air, whoosh squeeze that back outa me
breathe, old man,

old notes, like we should
honest-account the smell of Dehli
diesel idling in clogs of mopeds and vespas and honda fifties
like Saigon outside Than Son Nhut when the Americans were there

such idle words as these, left lying asif believed
now as when they flowed from a steel nib pen in some era of errors past
parsing sensibly

like old photos in a family album, with no recognizable faces or places

longer lasting than our carbon foot print,
longer than the thread to Silicon Beach sewing stiches before the skein
ripped with the receding tide of couldabeens,

before there was a fast lane, a 56 K modem was a rocket ship, too slow

here come ol' Flattop, Junior, **** Tracey's cutting edge hacker,
Flatop Jones, Junior,
cruisin' Route 66, in 1956, while the Hungarian Freedom Fighter was
grasping at
a dream,

The Yanks are coming, but
they didn't.
I found my personal task spiral binder from the expansion of the silicon bubble into the internet through to the MyTechPeople rollout after the IPO that never hapt. A historical note.
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