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John McCafferty Jul 2020
Where are the source of your thoughts
Contesting emotional triggers
Consider those eyelids to flicker
Additional context adds stress
As different paths stretch us apart
Sleep deep within these sheets

Another drill to overcome
The next hurdle and then some
Distracted by less with
small progressive steps

A learning tool for all
Dig away at the molehills
Digress with flexed biceps
Reminded to incorporate rest
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
Four cycles I neither nourished nor idled
As I pondered the sameness of it all.
Heard Solomon’s voice.
Shrewd as ever, but varnished with sorrow
Like mine.
Could it be?
That once that filmy overlay,
So seemingly inane,
Has been pulled back — the vacuum seal breached.
No longer sustenance in enterprise?
But in repetition one must sate?
The story of man is not a tragedy!
Of shackled ankles and nine to fives.
But a dialogue with God!
Where the audience jests and heckles.
But is moved again
And again to silence
By a mere visceral soliloquy.

From our cells of subjectivity
We shout and dance for progress.
But is there a better way
To breach the barriers between spirits
Than by rediscovery of the known,
But ignored,
The pathway to our wholes?
Are we then just fools
Wandering eternally through a mist?
Have we once again shed
What’s most precious?
To reveal what?
But our shameful nakedness.
For what Solomon knew is lost today
When I interact with the world.
All is vain but the path.
Till full circle our story begins anew.
Brittney T May 2019
You'll be fighting your monsters
til you're six feet in your grave.
I know you, you're strong
still it's hard not to cave.

Sometimes in summer
it's easy to forget
that the war is still going
when the battle resets.

Inside, in the dark,
where the flowers can't reach
They see it's their time
to attach and leech.

Lay low, wait til morning
and remember you're loved
when fuzzy little monsters
Return with boxing gloves.
After a few beautiful months of successful depression management, I found myself in a hole one night with no triggers. I felt lonely, helpless, and impatient to get better. I felt disappointed by how suddenly I got back to a bad spot after years of nonstop work. I knew I was going to be okay, but I needed a distraction to get through the night. I decided to visualize my depression as a physical being that was separate from me. I started cheering up as I was writing, so the being became less and less threatening. By the end I had myself laughing by picturing this tiny sesame street looking monster wearing boxing gloves. I'm proud of my little pep talk. I hope someone else finds joy or humor in it as well.
Philomena Mar 2019
Why can't women have ***
Why are you praised for the same act that demonizes me
Why can't I be proud of my body
Why must it be hidden away
Why can't I experiment
Why can't I even experience
Why does *** mean I'm so ******
Why does *** have to destroy me

*** is an act for he modern man
He stands tall while we bow down
He receives all the praise
All for an act that he only gives halfway
Because it's all
"On your knees"
"**** my ****"
"Don't be a tease"

*** is a privilege for those with a Y chromosome
So that they can stare while we cover up
So they can **** while we remain chaste
So they can stand over our broken bodies
Whilst we crumble from within

And I'm so tried
Tried of the ***** looks
Tired of the names
Tired of being a salve to this society
Tired of the image of man dictation how I feel
Tired of everything that's wrong with ***  

We deserve to **** just as much as you
And **** we will
Because we don't need you permission to love our bodies
And someday we will learn that
And on that day you will have to learn to share
Share your precious *** with the new modern woman
Gotta love a double standard, I suppose I'm just tired of having to cover up because I'm not supposed to have a body, nor do I dare enjoy it. And it's not that everyone a misogynistic *******, so much that I am tired of having to be ashamed for everything I do and I know I'm not the only one.
a mayflower
is please
the art
of law
to pursue
investigator of
its pill
when a
foothill is
mother to
triumph of
ill while
you are
nature's force
here but
taken true
elegant again

             never having to


              ­ permission.
To those who protest you are Patriots: let your voice be heard.
this cautious man (bobby jean) born in the u.s.a.
grownin’ up in the badlands of atlantic city
bonded with blood brothers
felt born to run along backstreets
in brilliant disguise that did cover me
frequently blinded by the light
of the full moon

casting silhouettes against darkness on the edge of town
which lunar shafts pierced candy’s room
while immersed in book of dreams
describing better days on a Cadillac ranch

where devils & dust - visible dancing in the dark
celebrating like calendar showered 4th of july
or other glory days in darlington county
even though I ain’t got you.

livin’ in the future
mine hungry heart hankered and felt like I’m on fire
for you, this fire in me craved human touch
desire - roaring into the ole factory fire because I wanna marry you
because the night populated with girls in their summer clothes

each dazzling like 57 channels (and nothin’ on)
in imagination of my american skin
descended from when adam raised a cain
before last to die forecasting kingdom of days
now dwelling in celestial mansion on the hill.

now rightfully claim status of I’m a rocker/
local hero and I’m goin’ down
meeting across the river
if I should fall behind
on the downbound train as living proof
within light of day magic jungleland

policed by highway patrolman i.e. johnny 99
alias johnny bye bye – held up without a gun
defending this lucky town established on Matamoras banks
from an incident on 57th street

thus celebrated as local hero every independence day
when with ****** incorporated firing point blank out in the street
that staccato new york city serenade from no surrender outlaw pete
originally from nebraska.

it’s hard to be a saint in the city open all night
within my hometown
once my father’s house, now my city of ruins
where tis moot to ask does this bus stop at 82nd street?

one step up
into the pink Cadillac
hops the ramrod queen of the supermarket
teasing audio dials sans radio nowhere
a red headed woman

racing in the street toward secret garden
to save my love – with thee angel rosalita (come out tonight)
offering reason to believe roll of the dice real world
and to prove it all night

from spare parts – shards of roulette wheel
housing souls of the departed
please save my love and stolen car
for sherry darling – that spirit in the night

she’s the one among souls of the departed
no longer stopped by state trooper
precinct based along streets of philadelphia
some crackling like streets of fire
straight time mandate for those armed to the teeth
along tenth avenue freeze-out.

requiem per terry’s song – what love can do
accompanied by e street shuffle
performed in somber tones
rumbling down thunder road
for souls of used cars
two hearts crushed

along this hard land
for: the ghost of tom joad
the last carnival homage to wild billy’s circus story
the price you pay when you’re alone
working on a dream
now wreck on the highway.

we take care of our own from youngstown
when heading of to the promised land
the rising distant mystical eden
where you can look (but you’d better not touch)
espying the river of salvation

joining eternally the ties that bind
a tunnel of love
or like the wrestler
pinning opponent tougher than the rest
like laborers working on the highway
chiseled like this hard land!
Tony Lee Ross Jr May 2018
If you're forward thinking, why is your life stuck in reverse?
ConnectHook Apr 2018
You’ve labeled us rightly: Real news. It’s no libel.
Forget about Putin; we’re just having fun
as we cling to tradition, and guns, and the Bible.
The pipe-dream is ending. Your war has begun.

We are glad you’re progressive—your future awaits.
Take your baggage, and go. We won’t hinder your flight.
You could choose one of many dull globalist states
or else stay, and prepare for the cultural night.

We are ****** and mean. You appreciate art.
We’re black velvet painting. You’re classical strings.
We are rigidly Right. You are left feeling smart
but appalled by the changes democracy brings.

We’re the garbagemen next to your uptown Picasso.
Our news is pure falsity.  Why ? Cause you say so !
We are selfish, aggressive, misogynist too . . .
(you can ask our sweet wives if the latter is true).

We’re oppressive to immigrants, harsh on our kids.
While you signal your virtue, we have none to show.
Such deplorable ways have you flipping your lids.
So please go out in style.  Or else don’t—but just GO.

We’re immune to the slurs you’ve been slinging for years.
Please progress to the North without further delay
and make good on your promises. Spare us the tears.
And buzz off—take a hike. Break a leg. Fade away.
Though you may hate him
he’s really not that right wing,
your president, Trump.
tabitha Dec 2017
i have always found myself
in the middle
actually born
in the middle of the day,
very well-versed in
what it's like to be
simultaneously rich
and incredibly poor
living in other states
sleeping on the floor

i walk a generational fine line
this gemini primetime,
of insoluble crises
the holy oil floats to the top
we learn
that feigned warmth cannot dissolve
the calcified ego of a leader or their god
you proclaim the name of jesus
but still cry out for someone to lead us
from gray

it's taken time and distance for this to be easy to say.

this is for the ones
who have always found
themselves in the middle,

america, honey, will you meet us there?
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