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Jeremy Betts Jul 2024
I watch life's ultimate plan to bulldoze
Play out and target any happy settlement,
'Till all that's left are foreclosed burrows
Unwelcoming ghettoes
A real to life Gotham City narrows
Everyone knows
Shiit flows
Down stream and my life's the delta where it all goes
And it shows
As it never slows
Better days?
I'm out of those...
I don't suppose
You have one you could spare
All I have to offer
Is heartache and woes

©2024
James Rives Jul 2024
can i not bore into my temple
and remove the bitterest parts
of myself when they scream?

am i forced to witness their decaying
motions as they spoil and rot
every good thing I feel?

i say no, because i am worth more
than unspoken disdain, disgust,
unpleasantry.

fingertips to burdened lips,
I unsilence them and free the raindrop
words that ache to revive the good
behind the hurt.

paintbrush smattered in an ugly
hue of purely human creation,
no divinity in its intent, portrays
an image of a me that doesn't like me.

but it washes off in realization
that water is love is truth.
and that truth, beyond me
and in me, is good.
Sythin Voxe Jun 2024
We are warriors painted as children.
We've fought since we were born.
Our ax and sword tied to our mind
upon which our lives were sworn.

We carry the weight of the world we do,
in the hood of our favorite cloak.
It doesn't weigh us down but chokes us still,
making speechless words cease being spoke.

Our wrists are tied by invisible webs
wrapped in logic and basic understanding.
But they're spun by spiders outside our heads
that our structured world's demanding.

What can we expect from them?
Their eyes coat our heads like brandy.
They say,
                “Speak up,”
                                   “Shut up,”
                                                    “You talk too much,”
Or whatever words are handy.



Is it just you and I?
Me and you?
Us?
Could be, perhaps, maybe.

One day I hope there will be more than two.
And the next child like us will be


our baby.
We will Die young as late as possible.
Charlie Harman Jun 2024
Genetically predisposed to be overtly critical of everything
while also severely hindered by crippling social anxiety.

I've never been to therapy
nor a psychologist
not even a mystic-
and I know the last one's probably  
a fraud: but the effort is, at least, somewhere near
sincere.

Adjacent, perhaps.
 
I might even be riddled and rotted
through and through,
by the experiences that have shaped
my soul
yet I know-
that I still know nothing
at all.

If there's truth to my reality, and it's not some story I've concocted,
then the reality is that I am simply me, and I have certainly NEVER...

been to therapy.
It certainly has been some time, huh? It ees what it ees.
Jeremy Betts May 2024
Wether recorded digitally or with a pen
With or without hitting send
Questioning the subject matter, real or pretend?
They're all just thoughts that don't bend
The only ones I have over and over again
Not even hinting at an end

©2024
Ken Pepiton May 2024
Mortal passions.
Whiling whole days away,

wishing instances of just this
artful vision made mere words.
Accounted for, line on line.
Actuational responders.
Hello,
World
Initiative, INIT run
plain, lain flat to show one side,
while hiding one side,
and all that lay beneath this
surface, now  still pond holding the sky.

As intelligent, gentled warring monks
and monkeys, chatter in the trees,

solitary man, with an array of antenae,
sending and receiving dry ideas
to be read and rethunk, at once, indeed

as wisdom tends
to evaporate, leaving inklings
traced with artifact and story, back
to when our kind being generates

an instance of on
to logical word forming wills,
breaking branches in harvesting races,

to the victor goes the glory, in story form.

Drama brought from life experience, dared
and done,

for no good reason, at the time, daring devils,
mocking saints, saying in one's reading mind,

this day, have we not come to know, today,
now certain, this one day, we have to be in
and have our own being and breaths in.
After a cold April, a new novel day occurs around my environs....
Jeremy Betts Apr 2024
Should I really worry about every chip on my shoulder?
Because I'm far more concerned about this planet size boulder that's up there
Knowing it is, still hoping it's not a foreboding place holder
A precursor to a something likely to be far heavier
Representing a multifaceted, real and present danger
I know I know better than to say I can take the pressure
Because inevitably that's when you hear
The crazy train circling life shift and kick into higher gear
Elevating despair to a level superceding fear
No one gets to choose their final chapter
So whatever
Let's just get this over with if it's not going to get any better for here

©2024
TS Feb 2024
Being talked down to -
That never happened.

Being taken advantage of -
That isn't true.

Being stood up -
That's dramatic.

Being violated -
That's just plain wrong.

Being broken -
That's pathetic.


You put finger quotes around my word. The word I used to open up to you.

But oh... I'm so sorry. I didn't realize that you majored in my trauma enough to tell me my own history.



-t.s.
Ken Pepiton Feb 2024
-------- tea and Sisyphus

Bruno paused, at his interface
with the printable word form,

he paused thinking in writing
"this is so important, I must underline it."

I thought it, of first importance.

The concept of all fruits freely eaten from,
but one, knowledge, right of all sorts,
all species fruit, branch, root and leaf,
all intervvining chthonic molds to make soil,

goodgottamight jus' gimme a blackland farm.
let ol' pharoah done be drownded
goodgottamighty , oh yah,
jus' gimme a blackland farm.

Science, long now, sudden
eruptions of just too much to think about,

like the size of the Earth in his hands,
relative to the post JWST visualizations we share,

bring it in, too wide, ballein, throw out a thought,
an Earth baseball sized, no problema,
in your hand, your mind hand, your typist hand,
keyboarding second nature, like a callous
on the *******
of a scribes writer hand.

Often offered up as proof, see this finger,
this proves I wrote the whole pile crushed,
in the shipping and storage of Ashurbanipal's
collection of books, which Solomon told him,
when they were swapping wives and concubines,
was a vanity and a vexation of the spirit,

But this calloused finger, the mused mind reminds,
this finger proves I came through history,
I did not make history.
I remind myself one reader is plenty, keep things rolling up hill,
get to the top. Drop it, watch it roll, meander on down, at a peasant's pace.
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