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Elyon Sep 2018
Transfixing mushrooms wide
into soil where it spreads like jelly
congealed of teary elephant trunks,
where upon raves of reviewing waves
widened with staves of sonic craze,
like spores into you, like you!

Across Africa, truly truly –
not one country. All through chutneys,
it is poetry and Aphrodite’s ivories
where blood drowns in Lake Loch’s
scabs of **** of Ella’s contrast
back into square dancing acts
and somehow, somehow –
esta no es mi lengua
why did you ever come out?

Crumbling inwards as in space,
individual supernovae, quite a chase
I do hope Woodrow dies a boy.
PoserPersona Jul 2018
O why, O why, O why was I born in this non-laternlit world?
No!
O why, O why, O why was I born in this non-torchlit world.
What woe!
And try, and try, and try I do, to fulfill myself, all others, too!
And try, and try, and try I do, to remind myself, all others, too:

That it is not man's devices that light the darkness,
but the sun's brightness…
Adele Jun 2018
‘April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain...’

The chilly wind entered the dark room,
lamp post flickered outside
as he closed the window,
a gush made the feathered pen tumble as the ink splattered on his white crumpled paper

she opened her eyes and said, ‘Go to sleep...’ but he kept writing and she dozed off

the remnants of his past became an ash...

He found a title ‘The Burial of The Dead’

the candle was blown by the wind, he just stared at the dark sky, the waves from the coast was angry and his head needed the fragments to come altogether
his heart, knocking on silence, crying
it’s official! TS Eliot’s The Waste Land is now my favourite piece of all time!
Tarik Jun 2018
The smoke of my death certificate fades into the ether of the night
It is not my first.
It is not my last.
The beacon amplifies the smoke
It dances in the gleam of the incandescence
To track its path is to count the sands of the Sahara
It waltzes like a paranoid ghost showering upwards
Shimmying like an epileptic schizoid on a carousel
Jostling in an undefined constraint
Heather May 2018
I knock on the door
You dont let me in
Praying you will accept me
You chose to Reject Me
(Is that love?)
Change after change
I am still not enough  
You treat me like a useless puppet
You throw me away
(is that love?)
Daddy daddy
Stranger stranger
For God has given me to you
For thou has “cursed” you  
I ask for love
You give me Pain
I ask for your presence
You hand me resentment on a silver platter
Daddy Daddy
Is that love?
Sander S Vatn Mar 2018
On my teachers desk
There is a spoon
It is right besides the stapler
I can see it so easily
Why the hell is it there?
And why is it not a fork?
A translation of a poem i wrote in my Norwegian class
ConnectHook Feb 2018
Lines break
              weirdly

white   space   is   r a c i s t

repetition emotes imagery

crypt  ic  ally / intention ally

dull erudition . . .
pompous verbosity

              rhymeless atrocity
                      lines / break
Weirdly-spaced lines
Of cryptic observations
Doth not a poem make . . .
blushing prince Jun 2017
It’s no longer burn the witch
it’s drown the ******
purity only attainable when it’s served
as a death dessert, martyr Mary
do you understand TV dinners
made the housewife go extinct
or berserk, I think that’s how it goes
catching their heads in ovens as protest
but listening came in through the door
as a catcall, festering on ottoman chairs
smoking that new cigarette with a cautionary
tale at bedtime
the ends  being ground, like the beef
that we’re all guilty of starting between
sighs, or the coffee beans blistered
trying to come up with an excuse as to why
high heels won’t break that man’s spine,
and it won’t in that new suit he’s so possessive of
because he paid for it with the sweat of his back
as the gaggle of his fellow businessmen
scuffle over who gets to lick the perspiration
that earned him that respect, that bought
the privilege of feeling like a man that stands out
from the wolves in offices, waiting at midnight
for the froth to begin to foam and to
claw at reasons why the bed is always empty
when he’s everything everyone wants to be
and I think you begin to sympathize,
I think you begin to understand why
balancing a ballpoint pen between your
forefinger and thumb is equally as
drinking the cup half full
the modern man with his chiseled teeth
and overt way of speaking throws
up at the American Dream, standing
naked in the glory of publicity fame
there’s too much lights, the makeup
is too intense
the crown of jezebels
Belongs to the hardworking man
with the unkempt lawn, and the
natural features of a god
it’s no longer burn the witch
it’s freeze the *****
while they stand flirting
with the boondocks trapping
fireflies and weak Christians
in their hair
and will you listen to me now?
as the hordes of provoked
believers stand in crowded
bars and in your own home
******* themselves mentally
as they chew and spit
into each other’s mouth
what they’ve always wanted to hear
and the pleasure comes from
not knowing and not wanting to know
and will you touch me now?
that the fantasy is created in your own image
and will you worship me now?
that I agree with these shackles
telling me that they were always meant to be there
that ******* is next to holiness
and will you accept me now?
that the book has been rewritten
and the villain is not you nor me
but the refrigerator with the lizard
that tempted humankind and
banished them from ever entering paradise again
and will you **** me now?
that comedy is only worth in whoever
has the longest tongue
in order to understand you must first listen.
Jasmina Jan 2017
If we could write a motion memento
Just a couple of sentences long.

Just long enough for people to stop and live
the moment along.

If we could stop and tell the world the point of it all,
many eyes of disguise would laugh as they think they already know.

How could we forget and loose our point along the way,
And keep on walking breathlessly, as if the secret has never been told away.

We share our memories and our tears
We live in an irrational emotional fears.

If we could write a motion memento
Just a couple of sentences long

just long enough to catch attention
in this fast living world.

Just long enough to remind you
that all you have is NOW.
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