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c Feb 4
When I was in seventh grade
Society told me
That curves can be beautiful
And I thought the idea of that
Was beautiful
Until I saw mine.

It was never
That I didn’t find beauty
In others bodies,
It was that I couldn’t
Find beauty
In what I saw
In the mirror

And I know that
Sometimes
It’s more of a -me- problem
Than a society problem,
But sometimes
When -curvy woman-
Means hips like rosebuds
And waist like fine china,
I get a little scared
Of myself.
All body types are beautiful, be you, be happy, be healthy, and don’t let someone else’s idea of beauty stop you from doing the things you set your mind to.
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic.  Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness.  But what of stint-ness snities?  Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums.   Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied ****.  Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums.  We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture.  And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums?  Do we only dream about dexterous articulation?  Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary?  What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton?  We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache.  Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology?  Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward.  Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective.  Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable.  Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue.  Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh.  Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered.  Infusing all with the capability of  aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others.  I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection.  Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony.  Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual.  Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist.  We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
A dream I had about explicating eventuation evocative's expletives.  The amalgamated anathema android.  The cure for pseudopodia interruptus.  At those plastygoop nosed gumby ******* ***** mongers.  Teleportation's telepathic tout will augur the demise of the shallow water scrod ******* dogs.  Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma.  Enigma entity's identity crisis on the futurity fatidic.  Grimacing gremlin greaves and gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts.
dream Aug 2018
Dear Fat Girl,
Hello, it’s me, you,
I’m calling just to talk things through.
You’ve been hurt by the world, and **** on without lust,
Your time is coming, and shine you must.
It’ll take a while, but the alignment is right,
Your baggy-clothing mentality, now wearing jeans a-tight,
Don’t hold back.
There’s nothing to lose.
Your confidence is one you chose.
Don’t pick out in the mirror, things that you hate,
You’re a fat girl,
You’re a big girl,
Your world, your fate.
dream Aug 2018
Fat girl can,
And boy, she will.
Eat what she wants,
Sleep around just for thrills.
Fat girl should,
Exercise more
Inside her skin,
She’s healthy, she’s sure.
Fat girl might.
Beat an internal fight,
Your words fuel her fire,
And boy, she’s alight
Angel Turner Apr 2018
So they showed us the trees,
And told us to write.
Beauty and
overly-accurate descriptions
Expected.
Write about trees, they said,
But not about trees.
Write about roots,
And families,
And graves,
And anything you can stretch to
Relate to a tree.
But that's not my thing,
So I'm going to write about
Something else.

The people are staring at me.
Glaring, almost.
They don't want the teenager
On her phone.
Oh no, she should be
LISTENING.
They don't know
I'm writing poetry,
While they look for faults
In the tulip tree.
They nod their heads in agreement
To infections of the olive tree.
I'm on the ground,
So I look at their shoes.
You can tell a lot about a person
By the shoes they wear.
So they learn about trees,
While I learn about them.
I play Sherlock Holmes
And try to guess their
Personalities by their appearances,
Not really listening to the
Ranger man
Tell us about the
Growing process of a Ginkgo Tree
He talks about a Smerf,
And I absentmindedly ignore him
As I stare at the eyes
of my favorite type of tree.
I give him credit for trying,
Because while he doesn't have
My attention,
He appears to have everyone else's.
Soon, we gather around another tree.
He calls it 70 ft.
I call it big.
The sprinklers turn on,
And we laugh and move,
And we watch the squirrels
Play in the trees.
He makes a joke, and we laugh again.
It was a good time.

So I learned a lot today.
And while I came here
To learn about the trees,
I learned a whole lot more
About the people.
This is a very old poem of mine, one of my favorites though. Please enjoy :)
Mark Wanless Aug 2016
i tried to see my muse
all i got was a past full of words
and a definite feeling that if
the blue alien ships
do not land on my head
the green ones will
muse
Olga Valerevna Jun 2016
I know that I can fall asleep in arms that aren't my own
but every time I wander off I end up in your throne
yet what's a king if folly be the only thing he seek
for I have heard the things he said when I was out of reach
his life commands a part of him I will not dare to claim
and all of it is more to him than I have ever been
my blood has boiled long enough for me to let the green
be something that was part of what I didn't want to be
so there he is and here I am - an almost circle's ring
I can't recall a single day remembering a thing
to read me.
Charlie Jul 2015
+
I think more clearly
than I have in
years.

I can now hold a thought
in between my
ears.

I'm just finding my
happiness; it feels
absurd.

But when I talk, I'm
spewing venom in my
words.

I'm sorry.
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