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I S A A C Oct 2021
I just wanna feel something, someone
not just my days all being blended into one
depression, investments, they’re all up
actually, they swallow me up
but in the stomach of existential dread
I feel freer in my head without all these man-made structures
they want to let my rivers run red and leave me to the vultures
it's the culture we live in, who do we reprimand?
who would understand? take me back to ancestral land
devoted to my our sacred place among the ecosystem not trying to oversee them
we are not God, we are not omnipotent
to the creator, we are nothing more than a rodent
which fills its niche, which helps another fill theirs
we are not individuals in a vacuum but complex affairs
I S A A C Oct 2021
it's all an act
a fact I cannot escape
always wishing for a sweet place, a sweet escape
need a vacation and to sleep until noon
**** I might even take two
Balance, all the components
where should I go?
where is my home?
should I, should I?
how could I, with such little time
tik tok tik tok, where is divine
the clocks in my head are relentless
the stocks hurt my head, can't comprehend it
why not balance the scales and restore peace
instead, you set it afire and watch the poor man weep
Bhill Oct 2020
im tired of the conflicts erupting between us all
let's get our act together and answer the needed call
the politics and policies are in grave need of revision
why can't we get together to avoid the mad collision
throw away all the so call facts and see what's going on
quit throwing your temper into the fray and creating a nation that's gone...

Brian Hill - 2020 # 278
CMXIClement May 2020
I am a piece of paper.

I have been cut down, and put through a mill.

I have been tossed by the winds, yet tethered to every word written upon me.

Words written in black ink, spelling in all capitals that I'm useless, and unlovable.  That I am in the way, and that when I am out of the way I am forgotten.

Words written in blood, saying that I have no reason to go on. I will never be accepted; that I am not enough.  

Words written in invisible ink saying that I will never be seen.

My paragraphs are blotted out, crossed through and rearranged by careless editors.

My crisp texture, and white color gives way to muddy boot prints.

I am rife with tears and crinkles at the hands of careless of writers.

I have been cut down, and put through a mill.

The truth is though...

I am a piece of paper.

I have many uses.

I can be your origami, a love note, or an airplane.

I can be an interesting article, or a beautiful story.

There, among the chicken-scratch and scar tissue, I have room to write my own words.

With caret marks I correct every word I
ever let define me.

My story isn't written on me.  The changes made to the words written on me are my story.

One thing this piece of paper has learned, is that you should never give people the power to write in
permanent maker what should only be written in pencil.

And you cannot control the whipping wind you whirl in, but you can be a page worth a second look.

We are all worth a revision.
Eva B Apr 2020
I spend the night trying to run from the storm
wrapping its arms around this town

but its roar
the thought of her

too intrusive too raging too electric

her rain softens the earth around my naked heart
the one I buried just for her

I lie awake stuck at 9, 894  
being unearthed is painful

I argue with the storm
until I realize there's no outrunning myself
Revision. The original (first/second) draft reads:

I spent the night
trying to run
from the storm
wrapping its arms
around this town

but its roar
was too intrusive
and the thought of her
is too raging too electric
for my naked

The one I placed
at the center
of this downpour.
Kai Nov 2019
a manuscript set forth
erors sprawld acros
every single page

t̾e̾a̾ stains spot it
where it lᵢₑs fₒᵣgₒttₑN
on your desk now

half finished here...

c h o p p y sentences
full of m̴i̴s̴t̴a̴k̴e̴s̴
marked up in RED

there are improvements
little notes jotted down
between the margins

waiting for action
as you steep a cup
to string it together

Writing is really difficult sometimes, but it's also really a beautiful process full of mistakes and the like. I like to think maybe I'm a draft waiting to become some wonderful adventure novel. My author is just trying their best to work out the plot holes and flaws.
Exotic trollwood harlotry and mule kit blues
Tyrannical tyrannosaur traction padness
Cohort cavorts clastic and witch’s *** hues
Ontological ontogeny somatalogy fadness
Inductive endemic veracities and talus weather clues
Epistemological equilibrium’s homogeny badness
Timeless rhetorical ruminations and ephemeral exigency dues
Transcendent ascensional equivocal madness

Tactile acuity prescience capacity intrepid intrigues
Mystical symbiosis dharma sensorium sentiment proselyte
Torturous tractive prosthesis umbrage ultraism colleagues
Newfangled nocturnal nonchalant nether nestle neophyte
Top notch topography tortoise trauma fatigues
Faustian faux pas foist felicitous fealties socialite
Agnate nous ontological ontogeny euphenics in league
Mentalities evocative introjecting sycophant eulogizing apposite

Mystical terrestrial equestrian tellurian tableau
Panoramic imagery empiricist
Evocative exserted apomixies’ ethereal should show
Ontological somatology lyricist
Reflective refraction remissions opulence could know
Theosophy theophany epiphany equilibrist
Magniloquent inductive extrapolation quantum back ***
Transcendent nimbus nimiety exorcist
Ominous phenomenon portrayal spontaneous synchronous
Exponentially extemporaneous
Karli Z Jun 2019
Down to the end of a wooden dock
That sticks out a good way into the water,
She sat legs crisscrossed in a knot, hunched over
With her elbows to her knees, head resting
In her palms. She tries controlling her breathing,
But holding her breath makes her throat expand
Like it is croaking. Saliva pools in the lower corners
Of her mouth under her tongue, and she barely has time

To adjust herself as the bile climbs out of her throat
And down the front of her yellow crop top, dripping
Onto her stomach and crossed legs. Tears are forced
From her ducts as her stomach convulses. Capillaries
Around her eyes are popping from strain. Feeling weak,
She falls to the left on her side and curls into a trembling ball

But she wants to get the ***** off her
As soon as possible. Her shaking palms
Press against the splintering deck, pushing
To her knees to feel what was once in her stomach squish
Between her fingers making her stomach spasm;
She scrambles to her feet as fast as she can
When her only source of lighting is dying
From the wind. Before righting her balance, she slips

Backwards in the bile and tumbles into the blackened lake. Her head
Plunges first and water came rushing into her nose. It burns
Her nasal cavities as her eyes tear open in fear. She’s disoriented
From the alcohol in her system and the water is too strong
Against her weakened limbs. She tries to position herself
Up right, but the more she moves, the deeper she sinks.
She holds her breath and tries

To ignore the burning sensation up her nose and on
The surface of her eyes in her head and she can’t
Hold on. Oxygen isn’t going where it needs to and the edges
Of her vision darken. As a last attempt to fight, she reaches
Forward to grasp at anything she can get ahold of. Her fingertips
Stretch and curl only to move through the murky prison. Her vision

Is almost completely blackened out as she surrenders
Her losing fight. There’s a burn in her chest that grows
As the rhythm behind it slows. Her body,
Like the water, is still, cold, and tinted blue.
Not very fond of this poem. It's a take on a short story I wrote about a girl getting wasted at a lake house party and drowning. Posted for editing purposes, so comment what you think needs correcting.
Michael H May 2019
Doors open and close
Times revise
Sight carried
Through with understanding
Make these things
Touch hearts
amber Jan 2019
I know I am really odd.
I think
My isolation,
Speaks for itself,

People scare me.

My room,
Feels so safe.
Its four walls,
Are predictable.
They never say,
The wrong thing,
Or make me feel,
Like a lesser being.

They also,
Never respond to me.
The constant droll,
Of my inner monologue,
Is exhausting.
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