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b Aug 21
i hate it here
in my head,
roaches live
inside my head
calling me
all sorts of names
wanting me
to stab my veins

i hate it here
where lays my heart
worms infested
the sinful scars
feeding into
this world of ours.
rgz Feb 13
It's all for the one's you'll never meet

a word
a system
a building
a philosophy

Their onus is ownership
intended or otherwise

what will you leave behind?
Dae Feb 2019
i can see all the demons in your closet

i wonder if you can too

are they dismissed and swept under your bed?

or do they watch you when the lights go out?

has your obliviousness

caused them to follow me home?

they’re under my bathroom sink,

between the sheets and

they crawl throughout my drawers.

when they scurry across the tile

and crinkle my old wrappers

it wakes me out of my sleep.

i wish you would come and

take them back.
polite criticism is welcome!
nikolas Sep 2015
I dislike writing about happy things. I also dislike sad things. I like writing me things. I dislike cliche poems and stories. Hello, I'm me. Unknown. Unheard of. I tell tales. Just some ******* tales. The brain is the scariest part of me. Well it scares all of us, doesn't it? I'm horrifically depressed. I'll say it now. I guess you could say I am cliche.  My life consists of many people being ups and many friends being downs. I quit drugs. I quit ***. I quit cigarettes too.

It makes me want a cigarette.
I want to write a book. A book of me, but not totally me. Just random stuff I feel should be said.
Quentin Briscoe Aug 2014
We are the roaches of men
They treat me like the left overs..
burnt and small..
crawling from the cracks
of ghettos
waiting for extermination..
But we just multiply rapidly
hard shells of soft skin..
that bullets constantly find...
they call it enforcement..
We call it fear...
they are afraid of our skin..
The power behind our beings..
They look at us as sin
We are the Roaches of men
unwanted house guest
feeling their
Creating more and more traps
for us to fall in..
Stomping our pride
with their steel boots...
Once upon a time
they could never **** our minds...
But they've found new forms of poisons
That have burnt us down
to smoking ourselves...
as if is normal to see a young black mans
skin leaking smoke from the holes in his chest..
the smells of burning flesh..
that once swung from branches
in the southern sun.
Strange fruits to...Weeds... to roaches..
I bet they'll test
the theory of survival..
when they nuke us..
You 'know roaches don't say much...
they just create a lot of scatter..
but they create louder sounds together
and we can't even stand united
so our voices will never be heard..
just left in ash trays awaiting disposal..
as the stench or our smoking silence lingers in the air..
When will our dying embers once again catch flame
and burn away this despair..
we are stronger than memories
denser than air..
we are Power
Surviving long after the many times
we were suppose to be extinct....
Choices of Strength..
that we need to find again
We are the Roaches of Men...

— The End —