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Jonathan Oct 2020
If you want to sing your song of retribution,
Face me with your empty eyes wide open.
If you demand that I pay my full restitution,
I’ll give you my penance along with my sin.
I’m not here for your old, dead institution,
I don’t give a **** about the piety of your men.
If you really are the end-all-be-all resolution,
Then simply strike me down and take your win.
Jake Welsh Feb 2020
sunlight reawakens us
from our open-eyed slumber

things happened last night, i don’t know where to begin
partly because of the outrageous events that occurred
and partly since i can’t keep my thoughts straight

boy, i could go for some pancakes and tea
and a moving monologue of redemption.
actually, no pancakes, just the other stuff.

to be honest, i’m not feeling so well. dizzy, you know?
i mean, the sun is up and shining
but i just can’t shake the feeling that the night’s not over.
my fourth (!) chapbook is coming together steadily. looking back at my work, i've noticed a trend towards conventional poem structure, but there's part of me that wants to get back to prose. it's that never ending itch to do things differently, i tell ya.
Garrett Johnson Oct 2019
Earthly blood.

Pushing.
Left inside the crimson.
Ton of
Thorn.
Like the village where we came from.
Green.
Itching.
Dust on the self.
Dust on the shelf where Frida Kahlo stood.
Dust standing dance.
Dust for your health.
And flowers for the some to die.
Just like how I should.




Garrett Johnson.
Sylvia oh Sylvia.
Words' Worth Aug 2019
I was dancing in the bar
Where love was the drug
I was soon dancing among the common people
Stepping into the shoes of glasses
Shots for flaming heads for friday nights
Crazy nights could come with the gay fights

I was dancing in the bar
Falling into the glasses and laissez faire
Breaking the coffee in the corner
Creating riffs, and shaking hips
I was dancing in a lesbian bar
Critics were not in the ******* kunstelromm
I was reading books, and apparently working overtime

They say tomoboys read books
If I don’t do it right, I can be wrong
Slowdust and wanderlust- slowly wetting lands
Megitta Ignacia Jun 2019
A.
You're Vincent Vega
I'm Mia Wallace
Plunged the needle to my chest
Adrenaline injection it is
Significant other or a guardian angel?
Baby, you're my 24/7 bodyguard.

You saved me
You saved me
I thanked God, He sent you
I don't need Marsellus Wallace anymore
Completely healed
This immidiate
This instant.
060619 | 18:35 PM di office, lagi hari lebaran hari kedua, bentar lagi mau makan ketupat bareng keluarga kecilku di bali. Tuhan maha baik. Akhirnya kuserahkan diriku pada dia si scorpio yang satu ini :) fully committed now
Chris Saitta May 2019
Paper lantern prose,
Crematorium of hearts,
Beating quick to ash.
dairy Oct 2018
you were a pulp
a sweet little bit
you laugh a while
you ran a mile
you die a little
Poetic T Feb 2017
Thoughts of my woes never  really were contemplated
upon reflection, this thing we are all do is fated
to fall on our laps. I was opened armed, I was blind
even though I could see, finding myself easily confined.

It was like I was strapped to a tree and then pulped
reformed to a thousand paper cuts. I was sculpt
in to the form i see now, I was a servant
while those that were calculatingly observant.

Less is more on the thoughts of a subliminal message,
could one even see that which was feed,  a presage
of there controlling. we are woven into this false
motion, confused by the continuous waltz.

I wore no chains no mark upon my supple flesh,
but this was a different kind, woven in unseen mesh.
I was drowning in air, i was sinking in depression
I'm enslaved with no evidence, only my confession.
Money the new slave of the human condition
Sienna Luna Jan 2017
Riding this horse past oblivion

feeling wind shout past

sharp shoulder blades

long hair whipping strong

grinding both thighs

into these browning flanks.

This horse is built from

sticky pecan sugar

such spice sprinkled

and dusted whilst the rider

flits past us stream like

arrow fringes near the cusp

all harrowing and musky.

Horse of caramel and nuts

sticking together like childish

tar painted gold and copper

colors shining past in rounded

muscles as the horse pushes

through the gulch he glances down at us with coal inlaid eyes as rough as sandpaper against raw wood

trying not to get caught up

in sliced splinters but careful now

before the horse of brown mud

runs us down trampling us to

wet ****** pulp so wait until

he has settled down to sleep

and then we can climb the mountains by escaping his

cramped cave of dreams

which only reveals how tricky

slips can be.
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