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Amanda Oct 24
I feel like a storm.
Powerful, striking and dark,
but also afraid.
The Reds won by turning capitalism and democracy against us The frenzied shortsighted pursuit of individualism enraptured by its own grandiosity Obese in arrogance and false piety Among our weakest links the myth of liberty in the guise of protection against our own From My Cold Dead Hands they will eulogize the depths of our hypocrisies tucked into the gaping cracks of a marbled column tombstone that reads We the People a hollow echo from a dead philosophers guilded mirror reflecting delusions of equality while his window glimpsed the reality of People bound as chattle An era of monsters championed as heritage by a devolved theater of gross absurdity enraptured by a sycophantic maelstrom swirling a wretched mass of vitriolic grievance creeping its facists tendrils through our halls our homes and our hearts So much bluster about essential freedoms now a **** in the wind from a constituency of the ignorant dead eyed before the altar of Exceptionalism A manifestion of the truly unexceptional by a bizarre cult of personality devoid of that very essence Whiny and bloated convinced its oily opulence is somehow self evident justification for its own cavernous gluttony Heavy the privileged jowels spew hatred and lies slathered in corruption shouted as truth through the arcanity of scripture among those who would not know the forest from the trees from the rot in their minds as long as it says so on the TV vomiting endless propaganda of imagined shadow forces flooding the country with fictionalized caramel colored criminals Willingly blind barrelling into a fog of twisted fantasy failing to realize that the narcos envisioned pale by comparison of heinous intention or deed to the very real NARCs embraced Lockstep and jackboot heel in tow behind a tide of Nationalism that is anything but A contrived patriotism cannibalizing its own mythology whittling the bones of history to alternate facts devoured by fat children as so much sugary cereal bored reading the Constitution from the back of a whitewashed cardboard box ******* about a return to values and integrity they dont possess with their fingers crossed Cowing to the blackened whims of spineless parasitic wraiths picking at the shades of fallen titans Packs of roving dipshits trumpeting ideals their grandfathers died to eradicate Prancing about sporting the finest camo and tac gear in a perverse sashay Their measure of civic duty reduced to how much red white and blue crowds their shitstained boxers dowsed in cheap beer and sad rivulets of encrusted ***** trickled in a shame for which they have yet to fully account or atone Fools leading the foolish to oblivion are we God bless the USA for surely no creature under heaven would
Henri Coetzee Sep 21
A friend once told a girl I liked that I was obsessed with death
and I yelled and screamed as I denied it but it must have
too much for her as she walked away and never talked to me again
that night I punched the wall till my hand bled
it was that or the knife
that’s a lie I never cut myself why would I write that?
I was probably looking for attention that’s what they say isn’t it
it’s only for attention not because I don’t know how to feel
or how to deal with my emotions not because
I can’t talk to my friends
I’ll never say how much it hurts and so they’ll never know
Sometimes they do know though and they ask and I lie
Saying everything is fine when I just wait for them
to go so I can cry
but I’m just looking for attention so what do I know
now I wonder if my friend was right
the day he told a girl I liked that
I was obsessed with death truth be told
the thought of death does bring me comfort
Not suicide gods no but the idea of an
eternal sleep free of anxiety or emotions
to trouble me does seem quite tempting
and now I write poems about my emotions
trying to put into words what I don’t understand
and hoping someone relates
truth is I never liked that girl all that much
and my heart is dead but not quite
and life is grand I mean horrible and  
love is everything but also a lie and this poem
is like my mind:
a chaotic cacophony of thoughts and feelings all mixed into one.
First time I've ever written in this style, it was fun
-elixir- Sep 16
Don't live to love, love to live.
Said once a wise man who
dwelled in the depths of my soul,
as I threw the blade away.
Nylee Jul 9
Cold feet.

Moving the feet
Left and right
Belief in belief

On this wintery night
Beneath the starlight
Looking at the dark blue

The racing in the head
All the things left unsaid
The messeges never sent

Non escapable, this
non answering pleas
No ease, no fire
all smoke, left cold

So making
Is breaking
Life is a lie

A ramble,
What a life

The cold feet,
A defeat,
Another repeat.
Melanie Shupe Jun 24
***** spews like words, oh wait, the other way...

Like that time at my best friend's wedding when I had to give a speech,
and even I knew I was full of **** talking about love being a fairy tale. But I was so drunk on Jello shots and Crown that I talked myself into believing it for four years.

Like that time I said too much to make a boy stay just one more night, and I gave up my freedom for silence and dishes and diapers.

Like the first boy I ever loved falling back into my lap and my mouth moving faster than my head can keep up with... is this even a good idea?

Words flow freely in open silences because I cannot stand the sound of nothing around me when the noise inside of me is so loud; all this has done is get me into trouble.
I've been crying again but don't worry, I’ve been trying to understand myself and my sexuality since I was young, i came out as bi just to see if the label fit but it feels too controlling and the box gets a bit smaller each time I say the word, I’ve lied to friends about hook ups that never happened and have pretended to enjoy kinks for people I'll never meet in real life. I feel a disconnect to who I'm trying to be and I don't know if I'm scared of accepting myself or if I'm scared of someone getting too close for me to learn it hurts. How do I explain to my friends that I don't understand when they complain about not being with someone for a few weeks when it's been years and how do I know when I'm telling myself the truth and when I'm picking another label, I need someone to tell me what to do but there's no one to ask so I'll keep going until I understand.
Eva B May 29
how am I to proclaim my desire for her when my shadow says I am too much too fast I unravel I hesitate I hide I dream her body showers mine
Dez Apr 2
Locked up with my thoughts
Is not good because they get ******* in knots
And I am left questioning my sanity
And at times blurt out profanity
Call me mad
But in truth this is very sad
To be locked up
Is messed up
Someone let me out
There has to be another rout
Oh wait
This is a bit late
But you were in my head
Right before I went to bed
What a mess?
Your mess is no less
Then mine
I’m sure you’d make twice as many lines
If you dared to write
But for now goodnight.
Ksh Mar 29
Empty streets, flickering lights
Not a soul in sight in the darkness of the night.
No fevered whispers, no drunken gait,
No flirty couples, no late-night deadlines.

The streets are devoid of life,
And yet you can't say it's dead.

People are living, breathing, sleeping,
under different roofs, in different rooms,
in varying states of ecstacy and misery and outright boredom.
In endless creativity and stuttering breaths,
witness the arousal and the ebb and flow of time
without so much as a second thought
to anyone outside the realm of safety and peace
within the four corners of their reality.

With each inhale, there is life.
Why can't we say that each exhale brings death?

For what is death if not simply as the absence of life?
When the glimmer in his eyes fades, when the smile you long for
doesn't appear, when you reach for his hand and find nothing but air--

It's empty.
It's meaningless.

I don't feel alive without you.
Yet I don't feel like I'm dead, either.

And so here I am, in a weird limbo that is just pain, pain, pain--
The pain of each inhale not bringing me what life is supposed to be
as described in picturesque scenes from tiny little windows.
The disappointment of every exhale that brings no end to this emptiness, this chasm of nothing in my chest that you once filled.

Empty streets, like veins that pump blood that refuse to sing.
Flickering lights, from my lighter that spouses one last, dying flame.
No fevered whispers, no drunken gait.
No love, no adrenaline.
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