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Diving in with blinkered eyes, I find
a growth that crawls across my skin and sinks.
It swims and smirks at demons planted young
enough to draw a blank on valid roots.
Doubt nourishes delusions ‘til they bloom
in clear distortion. ****** boundaries
blurring in the glass that could be used
to feed an urgent withheld fantasy.
To bind my view on bare skin: agony.
The kind where breath escapes the reach of lungs
and bones could shatter pain-free, senses numbed
by visions of strict moulds and goals to hit
in light of realisation: I don't fit.
Salmabanu Hatim Jun 2019
Cockroach,  Cockroach , what are you doing in my soup,
In the kitchen I was playing hoop la hoop,
And I fell in you soup mister,
It's hot and I am getting blisters,
Scoop me with your spoon,
Before I swoon.
Please don't shout or scream,
I will be thrown out of the kitchen of my dream,
Filthy and messy,
With rotten fish, slimy and smelly,
Red meat in blood,
And fungi on sauces and salads with mould,
Never scrubbed,the kitchen,
For thousands of us it's heaven.
Be a pal,
Go away with your gal,
At least I did you a favour,
Not eating in this yucky place forever.
Poetic T May 2019
I think the moulds were broken with humanity,
for if we were perfect
there wouldn't be so many faults
                                    in the mould.

But we learnt to smooth over the  cracks
                      and realise
                                            that we aren't perfect
but together we can mould a better future together.
Simone13 Aug 2018
Like an aberration
A colossal of ways  
Is when the moonlight
Meets the sun raise  

                                           Time-lined asphalt
                              Orb shadowing the dawn
                          Avoiding flickering wounds
                                                   By moving on

Like a neighbor
A wall mould to clay
That is the burden
Between night and day
Jon Thenes Jul 2018
right hand - cack hand
an inebriant
a heat of intoxicants
'Recover Your Presence Of Mind'
i don't even have my mattress raised
from upon the floor
spilled drinks
and pages soaked to the boarding
snoring in spores
infested with messages
in nest with it all
best to withdraw
the artist
the 'madder than'
the inebriant
right ?
can one practice as a sober ?
I've never wanted to create more or been this capable before...or are the results missing something ?
something splayed
hellish even ?
is it the reader ?
will we not be pleased with the results without some evidence of a soul in suffering
and numbing isolation?
Donna Jun 2018
Once upon time
there was a shampoo bottle
called Miss Strawberry

All day long she sat
on edge of bath just staring
at washed out tiles

Then one day when she
woke up she notice a white
bottle of shampoo

Hi there strawberry
I'm a conditioner , my
name is Coconut

Together they laughed
and made bubbles and even
had fun foam parties

They both loved water
Sometimes there slide down plug hole
Into a tunnel

Then they went splish splash
into the drain , but really
it's a water park

full of slides and fun
tunnels , lots of drain people
lived down there too , there

was a shaver called
Razors , he was like a dog
And barked all day long!!

And lots of hair dudes
and hair women , they carried
a net to catch hair

to make more hairy
people , they all supervised
the fun water park

Strawberry blew fun
bubbles whilst coconut made chilled out smoothie drinks

When the day came to
an end , strawberry went to sleep
feeling neatly sweet

And as for Mr
Coconut he hula danced
and sang lovely songs

to cheer up Edith
the tap , who cried every night
But by morning light

her tears had dried up :-))
I was inspired with little story I cleaned bathroom today and my imagination had fun and I just let it all go and it was fun x ;, hope u all well and thank u to those who sent me lovely messages I so appreciate very much <3
It's hard to stay away from hp as I love to write but this one got the better of me as it was fun fun fun  , have  lovely weekend all <3 x
open letters left to gather mould
but i'll still lick the glue on the
underside of the envelope when i
muster up enough guts to send my reply.
then i'll write to you
about the fungus that grows in my lungs
and the days that i've been coughing up blood
because if you're worried about my health
you're sure to write back soon.
i resort to dead flesh and scarlet chests
to get the slightest hint of affection,
sometimes it works and it's worrying
because you really shouldn't care about me.
you're the picture of perfect mental health
sitting askew or swinging on a loose nail on the wall of your childhood bedroom
the ceiling fan still spins. throwing mould spores
in every direction. the wallpaper
patterns have faded and its skin's started peeling.
but your room is breathing.
the pipes whistle and wheeze,
steam comes screaming from the boiler. the radiator broke years ago but cripples can't shiver. so it's still.
you're the picture of perfect mental health
behind a cracked glass case inside a splintered wooden frame
which will all come falling to the floor one day.
Zeeshan Aug 2017
never will I ever try to fit myself,
in a predefined mould of perfection,

until the day comes,
all of our fingerprints are the same.
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