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Ackerrman Aug 7
Red. Blue. Green balloons skip from hand to air.
Their buoyance pulling taught on string without a care
For cutting of birthday cake or pink frosty icing melting
In the sun, party plates pass from Nanna to Papa.
The sleek magic man pulls another trick, waves his hands and ‘ta-da’.

The birthday boy sits unblinking,
Whilst those around make merry clinking,
Stupor with drinking.
Unmoved in his party of one.

Pink candy, fluffy pillows, sugar spun round like may pole in June
Sun, gliding through shrouds of baby blue glue on the day when somebody loved you,
The faded scent of burning popcorn scars memory.
Faint, old, warm voices rise in chorus of lukewarm water, embrace the scene
As children in play, chase white rabbits through hedges all summer day.

The birthday boy sits with guard folded,
and his mind is moulded,
his memory of play is shrouded,
thoughts making merry grounded,
unmoved in his party of one.

Sweet, suckling, pig aroma, dancing through the air and making merry
all the guests, with hustle and bustle, meeting and greeting with every
burst of laughter, rising and drowning in the air like Ariel,
Enchantress of Garden chairs, thin napkins caped in Tomato,
Children bounce around on castles, kings clinging to memories of tomorrow

The birthday boy sits far away,
Where his thoughts are free to flay,
All memory of that savage day,
Where innocence and virtue lay,
Unmoved in his party of one,

Ice cream Sundaes glitter as diamonds, yawning and smiling
As cream floats down the exquisite vase in timing
To lecherous looks promising requiem to appetite,
A chorus of laughter fills the air with, pop- another bottle,
Warm embrace of familiar friends, we smile soft as a bubble…

The birthday boy,
with stern and solemn stare,
Dares not cut the air,
Or insist on what is fair,
But sits to fester in the sun’s cold glare,
Looking like he does not care,
Unmoved in his party of one.

Sun flakes leaping over my neighbour’s
Stubbly white palace, beams trickle round its walls in party favours,
Death lightning blinding, level-climbing, stupor rising, smiling clowns,
Gracefully rummage through pockets for silver-shining keys,
Embraces kind faces with kinder eyes and another cherished memory leaves.

The birthday boy sat silent as the grave,
His parents want him to behave,
No boy like fancies left to save,
Stooped low in his plastic cave,
Ruing the knife that thought him brave.
Unmoved in his party of one.
One day a character from a book i am writing decided she wanted write a poem about her little brother.
Art might be beautiful as long as it's true.
I might hope I'm Sylvia Plath.
But at the end of the day I'm just an emotional wreck hoping my neurosis sounds like poems.
Feedback is always appreciated! Thank you!
missy brown Apr 17
Your ambivalence
unlike her riddle in nine
syllables, is clear.
unnamed Apr 13
Like Plath and Hughes
The thought of her with you
Makes me want to roast my skull
Megan Edwards Mar 31
I'm surrounded by so many, yet no one is close.
I feel your warmth, but no one is there

I yearn for your touch,
I need your pain.

But now I'm left alone
Alone in a world of isolation.
The mind is a scary place.
Nathan Feb 4
I’m  nothing but a ******* taking up valuable space and oxygen
You wake up in the morning, him lying next to you
You smile and think,  I could get used to this
While I’m over here, waking up cold and alone
Thinking, I hope I never get used to this
I hope I get over this

I spend nights alone, holed up in this hell hole
Reading Plath and Bukowski
Trying to find inspiration
To write and to live
I have my sad songs on repeat
I have no more heart to give

I think its finally time
To give up and say goodbye
So this is it, one last plea
From me to you,
Sincerely, goodbye
Cheighny Feb 2
I am what I am.
The wavering question mark at the end of the nervous inquiry.
I am the final drops of dandelion wine that grace your monstrous lips as you scream at me for being empty.
I am the first drag of your cigarette as you blame the stars for your twisted fate.
I am the silence after the collision of your fist to my cheek, the stinging of my eyes and red stained skin promising not to fade until the morning after.
I am the sunflowers you left on her grave last winter, long forgotten by both you and time.
I am manic love and screaming intemperance.
The final burst of carelessness as you run to the cliff’s edge in an attempt to mimic Icarus.
I am the intrinsic bleeding of burning star-crossed losers.
I am a universe of exploding stars, unanswered questions, and questionable prayers.
I am the throw of a ticking clock at five am after hours of restless insomnia.
I am going 90 on the freeway at midnight with the music just as volatile.
I am the shudder of anticipation.
The relentless ache for more.
I am Jane Doe.
I am oblivion.
I am freedom.
I am what I am.
Feedback/criticism is always welcome.
Brandon Conway Sep 2018
Behind these eyes, insanity
a slow permeation of a voice
screaming truths and half truths

I just don’t want to listen
so I flood the head
just to drown the haunting

but it is ******* immortal
every night I send an eagle
to gnaw on the larynx

every morning it’s there to greet
disguised as a fictional friend
                  fiend. I meant fiend.

it’s kudzu it’s ******* kudzu
every day is a mid spring day
even in winters delicate palms

I spend the nights soaking in a bath
last night I let the water ******* tongue
soon it will feast on my lungs

I can go out like Plath
except my poems are bad
and my novel is only a paragraph

I will not
     let the inner
          demons win.
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