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I’m the only one with dirt on my hands,
I’ve been crossing my fingers and snapping rubber bands.
And the fragments and pieces build into a story,
I transformed it to a thesis; the quality’s too low for me,
and I never set my expectations too high,
as should I, a lack of truth and abundance of lie.
My oh my and by the by.

There’s cracks in my ceiling and head,
there’s splinters in my skin and my bed,
there’s poison in the words I was fed.

I’m the only one missing pressure on my shoulders,
replaced the gentle weight with two heavy boulders.
I was wishing on satellites thinking they were stars,
breaking free from embraces thinking they were bars,
admiring fireflies not realizing they were cars
but I’m painfully aware of my own
scars.
I’m holding open seminars
to these memoirs of ours.

There’s cracks in my ceiling and shell,
there’s craters in my heart where I fell,
there’s holes in each story you tell.
Casey Sep 25
The room that we called a "porch"
because that's what it was supposed to be
before it was enclosed with walls.

The room that we used as a fridge in the winter
because of how cold it would get.

In summer,
the room where the cat would lay, sun-basking.
Shedded fur floating like petals in the air,
illuminated by the sun-streams through the window.

The room with the handy outside-facing lock
so that your brothers could lock you in
when they were annoyed with you.

The room that was renovated into a part of the house
rather than an enclosed porch.
Ending the many uses,
but still containing the memories.
Written in my LA class, inspired by Bathroom by George Ella Lyon
I'm barely at home
There's my wooden furniture
These my plates of chrome
A fridge full of nourishment
My marble dome
But I'm barely at home

I've barely a hearth
This a room of my choosing
That there my land on earth
My book shelf for musing
Amenities for mirth
But barely a hearth
I don't have any place to feel at home... Freestyle written in 6 minutes.
you kissed me until all of the pain evaporated
until the echoes of my past fell to a hush
quietly, suddenly the agony dissipated
like there was no room for it here
you repossessed the places my past called home
you called them yours and I called you mine
If you want to get into someone’s head,
Have a sneak peek on slices of his life,

Get into his room.
Because personal space don’t lie.
Have you ever
felt cooped up?
in a narrow space
that you call
your most comfortable bedroom

It could be
your most comfortable place
or the place
where you feel most tormented

A place to hide
from what you fear
but also the place
that imprisons you

the narrow box,
sometimes
it can be an echo of laughter
when other people are with you
but it can also
be a silent scream when you're alone

a bed
that only accompanies you
when you sleep
a pillow
that catches your tears

nobody hears you
because they all died

so who do you complain to
in your room
when you are sued
for mute?
Peter B Aug 21
One day they will join
their brothers-in-dust
and live together in box rooms
under the ground,
where no tables, no chairs,
no carpets, no sofas,
just simple beds.
Ken Pepiton Aug 19
Crawling through line after line,
precept after precept,
I find
here
a little there,

a little, cognitive dis sonance inhibiting resonance,
here
why must I… evermind…

I prefer short lines to commas and ellipses
But both maybe, may be, yes,
Is yet more
Precise…

cision, cutting, precise
insision ssss
---…---
cut the knot,
re
connect the thread
ssssee

history is unraveling, we
may
see
a god's POV.
Don't blink, ****.

We'll see
watch
Eventually,
everything's eventual as long as
liar's prosper.

{don't agree, no no no, just because
Stephen King said it is believable}

Then protuberances begin to rise,
inflamed,
packed with ***** winjin'sooks

off-ended,
topple-toddle tiny steppers,
k-boom, skintyerknee,

ye'll heal. Try running. or flying.

There, there, hear the rules:
Mother may I and Simon says, overlayed

with the decalogue jubilee of the
first hidden child emergence,
and the fertilizing procedures used to make
Amazonian Black earth…

wait…
who remembers the bailers of putrid pig guts,
virgins Demetria got to love their job?

What did they believe they were doing, eh?
The mysteries of Thesmorphia, those
are no secret to science not falsely so called.
We have access to knowns known long afore we'as bornt.

We sentient sapient augmentals, we open all the books,
A.I. reads them, and we remember, see:

The Thesmophoria (Ancient Greek: Θεσμοφόρια) was an ancient Greek religious festival, held in honor of the goddess Demeter and her daughter Persephone.

From <https://www.google.com/search?q=thesmophoria&spell=1&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiQpquu74kAhUHjQIHXrxB5QQBQguKAA&biw=1280&bih=631>

and we spread as leaven might, whither the winds list.
fertile soil production is why some **** happens.
it’s a good thing t' act like you understand.

From a web of interlocking bubbles of being POV.
A high fiber diet and proper exercise, with a bit of ****, salty aquired taste for the un-used-you-alls
Mark Wanless Aug 7
i saw the elephant
in the room
it was me
Anastasia Aug 5
My room
Is dark
A web
Of night
But in the corners of my room
Glow handfuls of sunlight
Shining gently
Like yellow fire
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