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Bhill May 30
Watching the sunrise as it inches up the horizon is like...
Waiting for the popcorn to pop
Watching your favorite movie with that special ending
Remembering your last great kiss and wanting it again
Gazing into your fire pit with nothing else on your mind
Seeing a close friend for the first time in years
Having the greatest news delivered to you
Opening your eyes on a hike to see the most amazing, new sights
Hitting a hole in one
Driving down a long boulevard and not hit one red light
The smoothest, glassest water, to water ski on
The freshest, dryest, deep, untracked powder to float in
***....  The sunrise is all this and more!
Start you day with a
SUNRISE
What is a sunrise like for you?
IncholPoem Jan 9
Rice  gruel
did   wet  the
potato   crisp.


Dried  chili powder
was  mixed   with
flattened  rice
powder  to
bring   tears   in  a
fancy  dress competitive
child's  eyes.
Love  purely  to  yourself not
just  potato chips.
Hg Oct 2018
bouquets of powder
as white as flowers of zinc

skating thin ice
cutting thin lines on the sink

sniffing inhaling
until his nostrils would bleed

skip to the morning
they find his pale white body

he was so nice
in junior high when we met

his younger brother
smiled exactly like him

the death tore the team
they were closer than magnets

but he risked it all
to fall in the flower bed

is that what we get
when we encourage the dope

tuition’s forgiven
still the parents don’t cope

and i can’t imagine
how hard it must be to hold

a part of your brother
right underneath your own nose
©Hg
insomniatrical Nov 2017
She is destructive.
Her smoky tail curves and curls around you,
Whipping her deadly gases about.

She breathes out a swirling rainbow
That seems to drown out anything else.
Her breath fades into a deep blackness that consumes everything in sight.

The tar on her skin drips from her tear ducts
and falls upon the ground, sizzling and creating voids
On every inch of free space.

How **** she is,
And yet she entices you.
How long have you been her entrapped prisoner?
How long have you been chasing after her?

Never love your captor,
Never chase the destruction.
Never say the fire warms you
When I can so clearly see the burns on your skin.
Never say the blade is dull
When you have blood dripping from your wounds.
Never tell me that White Demon has no grip on your forearm,
When I will watch you dragged through mud and blackness
At the cruelty of her hands,
Blindly and unknowing.

How long have you lusted for the White Demon?
Jules M Sep 2017
You know, I never thought
That I would think
That I would just love
For my Mother
To pass me the powder,
Just for the sake of killing my
Fat numbers.
Josh Feb 2017
A mouse is small
and a mouse is brown
but when one appears
big people scream loudly.
I wonder if the small, brown mouse
knows why there's so much noise.
Poor mouse is getting bullied!
Chased by giants!
Giants are slow, though.
Big and loud and slow, you know,
and too preoccupied with other things
to catch every quick little mouse.
I think the mouse will win this one.
But I heard they don't like chilli powder.
Viseract Aug 2016
A flash, a crack,
Twirling smoke
Sharp smell of powder
On the fume, slight choke

A flick, a twirl,
A clinking sound
Empty shells
Upon the ground

Don't even try
I'm locked and loaded
Accidentally deleted the original, so I had to try and re-write it. I apologise!
PJ Poesy Mar 2016
Smell it I do, then thought of you
Presence comes, in wafts rose powder
Sweet dust, pinching, untainted, true
Nana's essence, remembrance undo
Faith's instinct couldn't seem louder
Than rose powder, temperance's you

Heightened fragrance, blooming sense
No excess, bought at dime store counter
Perhaps to ward off onion's offense
Her pierogies, life's past tense
Empyrean staircase, she, soul mounter
Origen in belief, source whence
Rose powder thence, spiritual encounter
Loved her dearly, there seems nothing but goodness in that sweet dust. It tickles loving memories, and says "safe."
Cecil Miller Nov 2015
Across the bed, she has lain,
Not breathing not in vain.
My mood is as stoic as her skin's hue.

It started early with how the day
Cut ***** windows with sunlit rays,
Was as southern as a slice of honeydew.

She was leaning by the gate,
Like Christina Applegate,
As willing as a pauper without a clue.

I never asked her name,
To me, they were all the same.
(Somehow, I think this one might stick with me.)

There is an absence in her eyes
I have loved since her demise.
She will stay this way in my memory.

I pour the powder on her pale,
****** belly, then toot, inhale.
Through my nose, I feed my mind.

Sticky dryness of my mouth;
It's time to leave the south,
Go somewhere no one can find.

I can still hear the sound
Of the drive by shooting down
On the street from around the block.

The room is a vestibule
To the starlit harlot's tomb.
When I'm done, I leave her on the cot.

As I move through the door,
And leave behind the *****.
I muse, briefly, how I stay in the clear.

To all the good Catholic boys,
May you bang up lots of toys.
Have a ****** belly Christmas this year.
I was hanging out with friends a few seasons ago and one dude remarked that a girl, our friend, baring her mid-drift, had a ****** belly. We, being of a twisted sort, parleyed that into joking about doing coke off of a dead ******'s belly in New Orleans on Christmas morning. Please, take this as satire. Don't give me no heavy lip. I am out of meds, anyway.
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