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Marya123 Oct 2019
There once was a poet who moved
With words as a crutch, through the days
He knew where to get a new one
To support him through life, always.

But the time came that he was lost
In a forest, hungry and tired
He couldn't find the way back home
His word of the day had expired.

And so he lay in wait till dawn
So he'd have a clearer mind
He resolved to visit the store
For an anchor that sounded kind.

Month after month, year after year
Passed slowly as he searched in vain
Until he couldn't walk a step
So then he crawled, wailing in pain.

He'd known this would happen to him
'Writer's block', a feared condition
That attacked those forged from language
There was no cure for this affliction.

And soon the town forgot their names
The woods became haunted in grief
Of poetic ghosts that long for words
In damnation without relief.
Nonsensical poem that tells a story that might be true. Let's never ever stop writing when we get stuck. We owe it to history.
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2019
The narcissistic urge flips eggs now.
Our ex-veteran father-figure gets a hamster, calls it Snuffles.
The thing you don’t know until the end of the script of the Tarantino-twist is that our protagonist sits
rocking back and forth in
a barren room inside a strait-jacket.

Meanwhile, our enemy shouts
something along the lines of:
"grab a spoon
I hope they don’t wash their hands"
The stones fallen off their strings,
gunshots hotwire themselves away from
a dubstep kind of drilling, the pipe dream
of an intimate email relationship.
Shout again,
"I hope you never feel those clammy hands.
Your diner eggs stink
I chucked up
In the kitchen bin.
Snuffles, a weird poem from my collection: 'PERFORMANCE ARTIST POETRY AND BRAIN FARTS FOR UNSOLICITED MICROWAVE HEADS' (again, yes all caps)
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2019
Let the babble stop
Let the brain farts cease
Let pleasure be your guide
And the poet slip into their persona,
Like a performance uniform,
A slip dress
An existential throw up of thoughts like
Bad Chinese food.
The kind that climbs out of Tupperware,
slippers ready

Of Tupperware and ready slippers
***** out takeaway rice.
Performance uniforms sit up in bed,
Babbling about existential poets.
The bad Chinese food
Waltzes with its guide,
Brain dribbles out of nostrils.
Dear night-shoes,
This babble has ceased,
Haley Lorish Nov 2018
Bittersweet and lemon treats
Tanking troubled hatless heaps  
Salty horizon flogs sweet beach
Sandy skin, too soft a peach
Your thumb brushing my left cheek
Can you still smell the apple’s reek
Skewed hearts remain in heat  
Devine reminds a heart to beat
Kept up in the saddles seat
King of every bit of hate, wash
These battered palms disgrace
Love has sunk the ship of face
Tulips lack the need for space
Whips of stars appear in plight
Have you only fight or flight?
Good wills only break the bank
And I’ve only left myself to thank
Derrek Faraday Oct 2018
“Oh hell yea, they’re suffering! They’re believing that they can go home, but aren’t getting any closer to the Entropoid Valley which leads to Kubla Khan, by whom they were cremated and born. Instead, they’re here, whiling away their days for boys who are bringing the death of days.”
“Hold your thoughts, lad!” Yells the Cameraman of the Head.
“I’m here, I’m in your head ImhereImhereImThere. You’ve no right to chastise the boys who have not kissed the horror. They’ve seen it, yes. But they haven’t captured it, you see. I am the camera, in my ribs are the film reels, the oscilloscope in my uvula, the trigger rested in my right earlobe. I tell you, there is strength in their brutality, I can bring you the tribal taste.”
“Man, we was just talking about centrifugal farce.”
“No, was it?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Hey! I believe-“
“Can’t be”
“Shan’t be”
“Oh, whatever. Those bullets find their way to the ***** anyhow.”
“Hey, grab your Coca Cola, Clean. We’re ‘bout to miss the show. The cameraguy could record it if he wants.”
Derrek Faraday Oct 2018
Sewer rats bottleneck into a Carnival of Depravity. Due to the bizarre circumstance of their fingers, they allow their limbs to become limp. As Valkyries, they are aware of the juxtaposition of their clown pantaloons and their hobnailed mudboots. In this benefit carnival, a ferris wheel runs amok. Within it, GI’s holler their way through the vermillion skyway, zippoing the dented carapace with their M16s. In a true practice of youthful bliss, the 5.56 returns to the cosmos. However, the bullets, streaming out and homewards, are soon constrained to the circular path of the wheel itself.
“Centripetal farce!” goes Lance.
“Hey what, man?” whimpers Mr. Clean.
“Well, y’see: centripetal fOrce makes an overwhelming amount of sense. So much so, that when superimposed on the Carnival Cavalcade™, it must make no sense, for it’d shake us all up something mad.”
“So, the bullets aren’t real?”
“Oh, they’re plenty real. Just touch it, it’d melt you, starting with the neurons, cat. Other than little blue reality though, it’s out there. Its dancers are not chained to any concrete block of nature.”
“Oh, they’re sufferin’?”
Derrek Faraday Oct 2018
By the 1960s, a disillusionment with Nationalism and war was permeating within the public consciousness.

Man: jazz. Jazz! Everything sounds like jazz when you lend your hears an oscilloscope. You know what j-a-z-z sounds like? Well, it’s sweet, serendipitous or nonsensical, nihilistic. Modern in stainless steel or anachronistic in brass. Jazz! So what? Jazz sounds like anything that’s everything and vice versa. It’s a limb of that omniscient looker up and over: the tune itself. Oh, the tune? It’s what lies between your fingers when you’re writing, forging, loving, giving, perishing. You strut with the frequency of a conduit, but an unaware one at that. A change is gonna come in mere years, I know that much. Everyone will be deloused in the pain of the world; Mother Sympathy for all, even the charlatans who hide behind their crimson fur! All I’m saying is, whoever brings it ought to be from this place. I can’t fathom a recalcitrant extraterrestrial handling our own business at the expense of their planet’s water supply. I’m excited for whatever comes, believe me. So long as it ends me and with me.
Amanda Sep 2018
How can I feel alone with you right by my side?
I am at war with these feelings I hide,
You try so hard, always lend a helping hand,
But when it comes to my soul I fear you don't understand,
I wish you had a mind that worked like mine,
Anxious and uncertain all of the time,
And emotions that constantly go up and down,
With ideas incessantly spinning like a merry-go-round,
Or maybe I just want you to get why
I am easily upset and often cry,
When you tell me I'm crazy that word cuts through my skin,
You of all people should be aware of the chaos within,
But instead I feel in my body there must be something wrong,
Around you I feel like my inner thoughts do not belong,
I know there is no reason for my steadily shifting mood,
But knowing that still does not better my attitude,
I can tell you love and care for me so very much,
But lately I wonder if that is enough,
I find myself trying to be someone different for you,
So we can be happy and not break in two,
But I'm starting to realize and accept
I'll always be like this; insecure, ******-up, a total wreck,
Its not fair to you when you give all you have,
To give up on evolving and only put in half,
You deserve more than what I can offer,
Someone who will aid you to thrive and prosper,
It's clear to see I am holding you back,
A distraction somehow guiding you off-track,
Taking up too much of your time and energy,
Yet when I tell you to go, you say you only want me,
Why is that when I am bitter and cold?
You could find a far warmer hand to hold,
I want you to love me for not despite
My endless flaws that cause us to fight,
I wish I loved you enough to let you go,
It would hurt me but it would be what's best I know,
I am too selfish to say goodbye and depart,
So I continue to break both our hearts,
In hope that your love will make me whole,
Fill up and repair this gaping hole,
I lie not only to you but to myself,
Inside I sense we are too damaged to be helped,
So we live every day with a smile on our faces,
We follow our routine, go the usual places,
But something is off, engraved in each bone,
You're right here so why do I still feel alone?
I haven't had one of these flow from the heart in a long time. It's a relief. My gift is not completely used up!
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