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MJL Feb 23
Diseased turnip
Rooting in the dirt
Rotting fodder
Gnarled and bitter
Lying under your bridge
When you are gone
No-one will miss your rancid rag

© 2019 MJL
a whirl
on heels
with a
shrew could
strew the
map with
their features
a cartographer
drew in
their wild
fantasy with
red carpet
with their
faction pursued
a revolution
with Stanton
à la carte
please allow arability of friendship
and hoop fully this acquiescence
     can render an accord shared
     via exchanging calumet peace pipe

     initially invoked qua
     piercing, gouging, digging...from hooked aquilinity
upon awareness miss applying the squaw aridity
mine swallowing capacity as pins pricking

     a voodoo likeness doll (of me),
     though this claim could steeped
     in utter contrived artificiality
      fusing flagrant faulty aromaticity
asininity admitting absent attentiveness

     as ska walking a fine line
     betwixt asexuality behooves
rectification allowing solution Wiccan agree

     upon linking assimilability, assignability, assiduity
     implicating with asperity ***** err roan
nee huss rubble word choice prompting asperity
     inducing me to cast the first stone

of apology, and self awareness
     totally tubularly offer thyself as human sacrifice
redeeming conceding unalterable venal tone
     role of squawking chief fowl ling at the end zone

     regarding, where associatively properly went
assumability, anonymity of the internet vent
     ting modality adopting immunity,
     viz virtual community tent

revival meeting adumbrating atypicality, attainability
     avoidance of audiological atrocity, sans atonality sent
to ear rate, the autoimmunity authority,
     authenticity, austerity, audacity, co rent

ting availability, automaticity, accessibility
     asper automobility to scale tenement, pent
house, or pre faux ying bing avascularity,
     avidity, avuncularity avers automatically tall lent

aim to amble along xy feigning tubby
     with minimal audibility clark kent
     information superhighway

     axiality grid via galavanting gent
can be activated swimmingly
     with less overt axe said dent.
Jessica Jarvis Mar 2018
It hurts more to succumb to the darkness
Than to resist its emotional drag,
To give into the negativity
And accept the longevity
Of that damp, moldy, abrasive rag,
Than to accept and see the Likeness.

Accept the overwhelming Embrace,
Rather than the darkness of that place.
Overcome. Claim what’s overdue:
The Love, the Peace, and the Grace.

Typing midnight motivation at 1am... Had an oddly rough week, but what has passed has passed, and i’m excited for the days ahead. Here are some uplifting words....
Ankit Bhardwaj Mar 2018
Today, I met the son of a rag picker.

working at a landfill talks about a Biogas tomb,
but does not know that he sits on a methane bomb.

Talks about the suffering of animals, while he suffers from toxins,
redeems every moment of his life for indefinite sins.

Shoves through the rotten corpses and befriends the scavengers,
he wears a stained Spencer and soiled wayfarers.

His eyes are jaundiced, given the stench,
climbs the dirt, while his body starves but his hands are hench.

He looks curiously at my white glowing skin,
laughs at my soft palms throbbing on a dustbin.

He burns the crap, and high goes the flame,
snuffs out his little life, with this every day precarious game.

He bathes in sewer and eats near the crap,
he talks of the other day when he fell off the fill and his leg got snapped.

He is sliced at places and stabbed for stealing ***,
he earns his bread while others of his age mug a shot.

Authorities for his welfare complain about the aroma,
he worships this place as his life’s dogma.

Someday I wish may he smell the green grass,
wear a uniform and attend the chemistry class.

Prejudice he may, for the upcoming generations,
who spend a summer day carrying out these gnarly operations.

May fair go his skin and clean run his blood,
he is the saving grace, my new stench bud.
madameber Aug 2017
you’ve told me before,
self-loathing is just
a common cliché,
now everybody’s doing it.

that’s not to say
i haven’t seen how
your eyes roam over
your body like you’d been
stitched together with all
the wrong fabrics
i don’t think
i’ve ever seen you
look as dissatisfied as
when you look
at yourself.

you’ve told me before,
self-loathing is just like
an std, everybody’s had it
at some point.

it’s just that some people
were smart enough to
use protection or are abstinent
and they’re the ones
who sleep easy at night
while you’ve always got an itch
to scratch it was never clear
how they toed the line
between their self love
and hate better
than others and you
were their other,
caught them staring
and couldn’t tell the line
between love and hate

(thought you saw it
split the ground open
wanted to dip your toes
into the nothing between
you were scared
you’d fall in).

but you won’t tell
me what it’s like
when you look at yourself,
and your reflection
is rag-doll ragged
the perfect pincushion
and you pinpoint
all the split seams
moth holes your
smile is just a
loose thread you stop
to unravel

and you won’t say
what it’s like
when your reflection is
all pins and points
and you’re not sure
if the rag-doll face
underneath is still
there, at one point
she smiles
like only girls with pins
in their lips can,
her lips unravel

(you don’t smile).

you’ve told me before,
self-loathing is just
a common cliché,
there’s no way you’d
be caught dead
doing it.

i’ve seen the red-capped pins
you keep with your make-up.

they look so much
like my own.

are you still there?
i can't see you beneath
all those pins.
i fought for my country defended my flag
i'll do what i must to support that old rag
i don't drink craft beers
that just ai'nt my bag
i'm just an old outlaw at heart

if there's a chance i will take it
give me a choice and i'll make it
i speak the truth , i don't fake it
i'm an old outlaw at heart

Rules to be broken and highways to ride
I can do both without breaking my stride
I show you one face, but deep down inside
I'm an old outlaw at heart

I'm just a truck driving black hatted man
I defend my beliefs the best that I can
I belief in the flag that flies over our land
I'm an old outlaw at heart

I'll tell you my truths, like it or not
You may not like it, it's the best that I got
I know the pledge of allegiance, each dash and dot
I'm an old outlaw at heart
Genevieve May 2014
I’ve been pulled
and pushed around
all my life

Like a rag doll 

And it has ended up

Where I am just
going with the wind

Push me away

Pull me back

Mess me around

I dont care anymore

I’ve gotten used to

Being used

— The End —