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Luludi Oct 4
They messed with my head real good
Was it that I misunderstood?
How you kicked the tree ‘till all leafs fell
Left to rot in hell
The freak created is on you
You’re the one who’s cuckoo
Mother slept on a floor for years
with thin, withering sponge as a barrier between her and cheap carpet
in a room of no purpose
and yellowing walls.
Her harsh streams of smoke
comfort the child,
focused wildly on used coloring books
and certain this is Mother's preference.
Ali J Fogwood Sep 15
Forgotten to take the pill, was it?
Or perhaps somehow the ****** split -
An accident, or surprise?
Just the sorts of thoughts suspicious minds
Might have of couples
like you.

Not that anyone said those things with you in mind,
But I think there are other suspicious signs;
To begin, I'm wary of a child born on a midwinter day,
cursed with snow every third birthday,
Or maybe I'm suspicious of the harrowing sight
of a miniature pair of shoes,
Or a child returning, smiling (or teary eyed)
from a first day at school.

When we go on, with us die (at least it is said)
our first snowfall, first kiss
First rush of joy to the head,
The first (and last) love
vanish too when we come to be dead.
Not so sad a thought, I say, for just to be born
Is to be handed a road-map, and that job is yours.
The map must take us entire from hither to yon
So put clear crosses on the junctions beyond
To spotheights that matter, that you yourselves found;
First last dance, last love
Second **** (perhaps), but surely first bike,
First time to lay awake with friends too late in the night
First getting up and first falling down
And to know the outdoors and be cosy inside
To be loyal in friendship, and savour the ride
And know, that for all your love
Noone survives.

But with all that aside, I conclude,
What it is that I mainly suspect, (far worse than the rest)
Is the thought of a child so ignorantly blessed
To have been born to such wonderful people
As you.
Ali J Fogwood Sep 15
Aged six, I think, charging through the front door,
With a mesh of macaroni painted and glued in the shape of a car
Stuck out at the end of two tiny arms:
Here's what I made for you!

Then a childhood flies by and before you can think, then we were four-
Now only three.
Perhaps you are off pottering about, in a room out of view
On some eternal Sunday afternoon
Having left, as you were wont to do
Your tea going cold on the counter.

I step back through the door, now twenty-six
And you're looking out from the kitchen,
Quietly smiling, golden sun painting shapes on your loose old tee,
And see me as a man, a bank account, two pips a master's degree
and a car, achievements won
just as messy as the spaghetti twenty years before
That I made for you.
Nadia Aug 7
In a moment of defeat and despair,
we begged, “What will you eat?!”
"Noodles!" She declared.
"Noodles," we agreed, "noodles are fine."

And so noodles upon noodles upon
noodles we’ve tried: noodles boiled,
steamed and fried; strings, tubes and
swirls; noodles shaped like bunnies,
unicorns and dinosaurs; in sauces
and soups, in cheesious goops;

noodles with veggies (until veggies
were banned); noodles with
mushrooms (only from a can);
noodles made of wheat, lentils, rice or
corn - noodles made of everything
noodles could suborn.

Noodles for lunch and for dinner -
noodles again and again and again
- and what then? How many times
can one noodle? How many noodles
until brains begin to spill onto plates
in a braineous-noodle-ous state?

Noodles for breakfast - can’t do it.
Noodles for lunch - can’t get thru it.
Noodles are banned! Noodles are
not welcome near here - never again!
At least not today anyway.

Ok, fine...


NCL August 2019
Jon Thenes Aug 3
make mouths
pull on the muscles under the face
express self at the world we present to you
(straining it all in
through your finking eyes)

make return actions
and make us understand
that you are pleased
and that we are not just
madly flailing at this ‘parent’ business.
F A Pacelli Aug 13
mothers and fathers
do not wish
upon your children
a life free of pain
that would be impossible
rather wish upon them
strength and learning
from the pain in life
Nadia Apr 22
I love you, my sweet, little bug
We lazed this morning, cuddly snug
Hiding from a drizzly day
Warm and giggling as we lay
Hearting art, space and cats
Asking questions, having chats
Watching mag lev trains on screen
Learning magnetism for the keen
A picture couldn’t hold this bliss
Nor any words fully reminisce
The two of us, affectionately enspooned
Love, peace, curiousity, cocooned

NCL April 2019
Shakti Asana Jul 18
He wants me
He says.

Don't they all?

I am tired of being wanted.
I am tired of being needed.

You have yourself a passel of kids
Out your own wahoo --
You wouldn't want to be wanted neither.

Don't want me.
Don't need me.

Bring me flowers and roses
And mix tapes
And doughnuts
On Sunday morning.

Kiss me.
Sweep me up in your arms.
Look me in the eyes.

That would send me.

Bring me.
Send me.

Don't want me.
Don't need me.

The want and the need make me tired.
The bring and the send makes me free!

But.
Maybe.

He, too, is tired of being wanted and needed.

Well.
Then.
What are we to do?

Want and need one another?

No.
Too many competing demands.

Take my hand.
Please.
Just tell me you love me.

Don't want me.

Don't need me.

Just love me.

And I will just love you.
"Expectations are premeditated resentments."
malluraeh Jul 11
in a house were screaming and bullying is
a daily thing
in a house were who speaks the truth gets taped shut
in a house were human mistakes get inhuman punishments,
only time is your only weapon
time will heal and and make it worse at the same time
but someday,
the time bomb
which you created
will explode
and it will take everything with it
everything
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