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Jeremy Betts Dec 2020
I can't trust my mind or my heart like you can't trust a post laxative ****
Seems like they've both been plotting against me from the start, planning to steal this soulful art
Like they know when it comes to the afterlife, reincarnation plays a big part
And with the knowledge and comfort of that truth they're ready to scrap me now like bad art
A defective throw away product that seems to have been bought at a dollar general corner mart
Then pushed around in a stolen grocery cart till interest fades and goes dark
I have to find the right end with no place to start, close my eyes and toss a dart
Then keep the blindfold on and let you tell me the score, not smart
Last time I trusted either of you ya fed me the equivalent of a week old shart
Through a feeding tube that I didn't need according to my hospital chart
Neglecting real issues when there's endorphins to bogart, losing my mind, watching my soul depart
I've lost and broken the both of you yet you still torment me, not even phased by my rampart
I never stood a chance, oblivious to the warning siren like Mozart, silent as I'm pulled apart
No one will think back on me but if they do I'll just be seen as another failed upstart

©2020
Chelsea Quigley Nov 2023
I am useless,
Clueless,
Naive
And foolish.

I am a child
Of chance.
A night of romance.

I am an early-morning
Call,
A surprise to all,

Aren't I, mother?

One that can use no tool.
A waste to the teacher,
Within a school.

Aren't I, father?

A child
'Out of control'.
Seemingly 'too old'
To be consoled.

But alas,
You wish for connection.
How should I know of it?

I am prone to rejection.

Subjection,
To your own mistake.
A choice you made.

The icing on the cake.

But now I am far
Away from your pain.
For I live in worth,

As you live in shame.
Anais Vionet Oct 2023
Thrice about the cauldron go
and answer me, if it be known.

Untie the words and give them form,
dissect the ingredients of ******’s charm.

A new tradition has traction gained,
a tradition of alienated masculine pain.

Where insults demand their due in blood,
in schools, stores and quiet neighborhoods.
Chelsea Quigley Oct 2023
We are
Born and bred
Into a life of dread.
We are oblivious
To concept,
Shaken by
Small upset.

We rely
On a human touch,
To feel at ease,
A pure ecstasy
To us.

A gentle hold,
Small movement
To and fro.
Whispers of gold,
From the depths
Of a human soul.

But we grow
And learn of self
Love,
Yet still yearn
For human touch.

But some
Do not recieve.
They must suffer
Neglect,
Lack of affection,
As one to another
Is hurt by rejection.

How purity
Is seen as weak,
Bleak,
And tossed by authority.

A desire so
Ravenous,
Brushed away
By whom we thought
Established us.

For one cannot live
In this manner of such,
As a soul becomes empty
Without the human touch.
Chelsea Quigley Oct 2023
Creative,
Joyous,
Carefree.

A life of a child
Is nothing but a mix of the three.

For when a child grows
And speak from their souls,
Connection is lost,
Becoming unknown.
Leaving the child to bear alone.

We mimic tradition,
Refuse to listen,
To the little ones who
See us as reason.

And as your little child cries,
You spew great lies;

'You have no place here in this family!'

You have abandoned them,
And Ridiculed them
To the highest of degree.

But all for reason,
That they are not the vision
you wish for them to be.
Carlo C Gomez Jun 2023
Boy meets girl.
Girl marries boy.
Baby comes nine months later
— blessed little killjoy.

Boy neglects girl.
Girl henpecks boy.
There'll be hell to pay
for slighting Helen of Troy.

Such an elegant fear,
this alliance, and yet,
when it's held in selfish hands
it merrily dissolves,
turning as tedious
and drab as Shakespeare.

Boy annoys girl.
Girl leaves boy.
It takes a special kind of madness
in building to simply then destroy.

Turn the other cheek
and Judas will kiss that one too,
reduce the bairn's fever
by visiting daddy's igloo.

Weekends are pay toilets
and happy meals,
frustration is a word all too real.
When did antipathy begin to rule?
About the time diplomacy was forced
into playing the fool.

The good times no one catalogues,
this life has gone straight to the dogs.
The Iditarod Trail extends
from Seward to Nome.
Run the race and make believe
the kids are tucked in safe at home.

According to Dorothy
there's no place like it.
Another draft "prisoner" set free...
yāsha Jun 2023
my mother shoved words into my mouth
she fed me whenever i cried
and as the obedient kid that i was,
i learned to nibble on every word
and swallowed them as i should.
now that i'm older,
my stomach has ran acid
ーit burns my chest and i would still feel them
foam inside my mouth as if
every word were told just yesterday.
how can i truly love my mother
if she couldn't feed me
when i was hungry for something else?
i cried again with my heart wide open
as my knees wobble in fear
of how exposed i was in front of her.
but this time,
i guess she couldn't hear me enough.
it was silentーshe couldn't feed me anything,
for not a single word left her mouth.
she watched me intently
as i detach the cord from both of our bodies.
     i wasn't the daughter she loved anymore,
     but she was still the mother i loved.
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