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pri Aug 2018
our love doesn’t exist.
but i can tell you about our love.

our love is like gold dust in a miner’s pan,
soft and glimmering, sparkes lost in the world,
thrown haphazardly across the sky.

our love is warm like a summer evening and gentle like the cool breeze you feel when you
fly on playground swings.

our love is that pent-up feeling before a rainstorm,
charged air and a sense of something to come.

our love is like the rainstorm,
soft and loud and enriching.
it’s in the air i breathe, and i’d breathe it all the time.

our love is like blueberries in a red wagon
-aesthetic, cold and sweet.
i taste every time i encounter you.

our love is the curious look on girl’s face,
awkward and longing to know,
to accept this feeling.

the feeling that doesn’t exist.
Nexus Jul 2018
Isn't it funny how his blood smells like his blade.
It must be the metal, quantum level the same.
Every possibility in time lead to this line.
A faceless man writing this rhyme.
In a world so messed up he thinks it's his fault.
Turning to drugs, he lost all his hope.
And now sits alone worrying how to cope.
Can't stop smoking dope.
He never visioned he'd be happy,
And it shows.
-Nexus
Top notch legal scholar Erin Go Braw
     (less concerned about being fair versus
     abominable, irrevocable, and execrable
     unforgivable oversight most holy "M" & *****)

cabinet of high priests,
     sans spelling chieftains ready to claw
your person to bits,
     and they presage remote clemency

     which decision told, when Jeff Sessions
     decides final punishment to draw
now, (see excerpted lines
     visited with glaring flaw

"Benediction For Lord Apple Macintosh"
     where ...bot sized wetbacks, setbacks,
     and drawbacks, required a secret char),...
     intimates a "hee haw"

and rock'm n sock'm pull no punches
     square at yar triangular jaw
YES, on account misspelling,
     whence Grammarian Jude Law

at the least aims (to topple a prospective
     title of eminence grise), banning access
     to such undeserved
     catbird seat, sans Rhetorical perch

laughing while ja plaintively call for maw
**** Oxford English Dictionary - but naw
can do, and hence paw
mister trumpeting

     "FAKE" wordsmith raw
flesh will turn into....
unreadable print until closing text
that elaborates how holiness felt vexed.

To ye (a freshly minted scalawag),
     these 20/20 eyes bulged agog
while steaming with invective
     at what attempted

     to pass as sacred poetic blog
when thee (Matthew Scott Harris),
     now pronounced, an illiterate,
     immoderate, and inveterate å!@#$%∑

with a severe cerebral clog
(meaning prefrontal lobotomy
     not out of the question),
      you m~r mangy whelp of a she dog
     (my humble apologies to canines),

less deserving than being
     whipped near death's doorstep flog
after henchmen (strongly
     resembling Alaskan BullWorms
     guarding this royal hutch,
     herein Cupertino, California.
Willow Jun 2018
Step inside my bedroom.
It holds a warm body
That makes sounds of lust

Step inside my bedroom.
I holds a mind of its own
That releases nothing but laundry

Step inside my bedroom.
It holds a heart of green
That embraces all but hate

Step inside my mind.
Which holds a body hot with anxiety
Who makes lustful tunes of surgical desire

Step inside my mind.
It holds a bedroom if it’s own
That realeases all ‘out phased’ laundry

Step inside my mind.
It holds a heart of mine

Step inside my heart.
It holds a mind of theirs.
Tyler Roberts Jun 2018
Don't do drugs, please
Just give them to me
I promise that
I'm right here

And if in someone's
Strength
You need to plead
I promise that
I'm right here

I don't wish for the end
Truly I am content
I look in the mirror
And I'm right here

No matter how it ends
I don't think it's up to me
You still have a friend
I promise that
I'm right here

I took two pills
And I just hope that
They don't make me
Feel

The last thing I want
Is to tell the difference
Between my dreams
And what's
Real

In my dreams
All my dead friends
Are here
A simple hello
From your lost voices
Is all I wish to
Hear

Truly
I know
I had a
Friend

You're all right here
Atticus Jun 2018
we are the dreamers
we are the lost people
wanting a light to guide
us
but unless
we riot and
fight for our rights
we can do nothing
you see
it takes an army
to win a war
but it can only
take one voice to
make an impact
and
Martin Luther King Jr
did just that
but why is it that in our
generation
today can't stand up for what's ours
when a man
who had so little did so much
we need to take a stand to make what has the gone wrong right and it will be hard but to save what little humanity is left we must do so.
Bryce Jun 2018
Somewhere deep in the skies of Montana
a lonely street corner flickers
casting coded light
upon the distant albino hillside

It was once a great lake
of snow and ice and melt and
unseen by life
It drained and died

and its beautiful lakebed sands
became the hillside
again

to tumble and fall
into valley and time
again

there we built an impermanent road
we pave and pave
maintain
with trucks and slabs of dirt and grain
roaming those Roman roads
again

Somewhere deep in that heartland
the strings that pumped the musculature
of a dying nation
slowly giving way to a violent attack
from within
oxidize and pool
into great tides
to one day see the coast

I am in California
but I see it clearly as a dream
where the great plains meet the mountain face
and the Cheyenne carved their heels into the dirt
for a bit
spirit
eroded into the winds

today the miners spit
at a coffee-town bar
into copper cans
licker than split
Owning the land that shakes
and shifts
redrawing god's lines
with a paper pad and a pen
for a bit

And the dresses the ladies wear shine
lacquered wood and the horses cry
and beside the interstate
the trucks steam and chuff
and their drivers gaze starry-eyed
onward, beyond into the night
beyond those flanking hillsides
to the flat ocean land sponged anew
that left the oil fields in Texas and the tar sands in
Athabasca
set ablaze in the fervor
of a death rattle
American heart
pumping to feed these hillsides
again

for tomorrow we begin.
Nickolas J McKee Jun 2018
The pages dripped,
As so the time of the lover.
What seemed so pure,
Gone the distant time another.
From tears to blood,
Pleased and fitted the seeking lines.
This writing love,
Above all the pure soul he whines.
Somberly eased,
One seeks a fine place to rest on.
Of all chastised,
Left a soul requited and blessed.
Run forgiveness,
Placed heavenly upon his chest.
What you know...
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