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What a
It would be
To speak to yourself
So cruelly,
Lying to yourself,
You are only worth
As much
As your productivity
Omnya0 Oct 2018
Everything I write, everything I draw; delete

The things I create, I cannot complete

Is it being insecure or being lazy?                                                            ­                                                                 ­     

I don't know how to be a productive lady                    

I feel stupid                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                                  

Since I can't anything executed

My work lives in the recycling bin

It's close in resemblance to a din

The backspace key is faded

My soul is abraded

I hate that I can't articulate

Does anyone else relate?

At least this poem is finished but it has no real end                                                              ­                                

I hope it shows what I intend
doing either one and
we dream of $8 haircuts
and no plans of anything
but watching the routine
of life unfold in front of
prying eyes through
venetian blinds
as singles mothers
prep their child for the
education of death
as dogs walk their masters
as fathers choke on neckties
and stress in traffic
as the mailman makes
his rounds
and someone is being born
and someone is dying
and someone is dead
and worst of all someone
is dead before they die and
money is made and money is spent
and someone is lubing themselves
with comfort and convenience to
make getting ****** by the world
a little more tolerable
and a little less raw
and I am here
eating walnuts and
drinking Spotted Cow
and listening to Sonic Youth
on this delving day
while the rest are scouring
through another day of
intolerable hell but we never
stop and think for a moment
to ask ourselves who we are,
we just enable them to run our
lives and tell us who we should be
because when they got you at
Gale L Mccoy Jul 2018
find me
in the corner of the local cafe
cling fast to sanctuary
aura of creativity
illusinary productivity
idealized possibility
i would rather bury myself
in it's walls forever
than leave
Emmanuella Jul 2018
Fear had something to say.
And he wanted to say it now.  
So I paused and told him,
“Go on.”

He said,
“I know I’m weighing heavy on your chest;
I see sometimes it’s hard for you to breathe.”
“You know I can’t leave you alone;
So I at least want to give you this tip.”

“And work.”
“Be steady.
Don’t feel like you have to do too much at once.”

Let your chest be unburdened and unbothered.”
“Let it go.”
“And try to regain control.”

“You’re doing just fine.
Doing just great.
I know a few mistakes you’ve made
but you can get back on track and get it made. ”

You can try again.
You might make it;
And if not, try again.”

“Get your work out there
And let it be seen.
Try and do that
And get back to me”

And I looked back at Fear
And told him “Sure.”
Turned my back on him
And began my work.
And if he speaks to you, do listen.
Jeff S Jun 2018
between the peel of the 6am
iphone chimes and the arguing
with cold water and hot in the
cascade of a morning shower
it's hard to think what the
world means exactly when it says
in father-frowning stern:
you there!—yes, you!
isn't it time you were
Vinicius Lira Mar 2018
i've been trying for two years and i can't
i've been trying for two years and i can not write
i can not read a book
watching a movie became torture
do any minimally long task
is impossible
i can't do anything i used to
and i don't know what's happening
because i can not even
dedicate myself to music
and these are the things i like
they are pieces of what i am
and then i'm in doubt of what i am now
or, by doing nothing
would have i become a piece of nothing
and that's all i could be?
Heath Bernstein Feb 2018
It clicks
It ticks
Away it slips
The sands fall through
The hand that grips
And every day
That you don’t do
Is one day less
That’s left for you
You’d pawn it all
To buy a cure
That can’t be bought
In any store
And every time you read this poem
You’ve lost a little more
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