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Jake Hageman Jun 2017
The same routine
I sit and scheme
My words will set me free.
I have my mind
I have my pen so nothing can silence me.
Words are drawn on the page created one by one.
They tell the story of a broken man.
On a search for something different, something new.
Day in and day out the same routine at hand.
It's time for him to grow up
It's time to be a man.
Change is part of life and that's just how it goes.
But when life doesn't change at all that's when he begins to question it all.
elowen morey May 2017
I am in a rut
an awful rut that I don’t know how to get out of
I find myself reaching for different things to bring me comfort
I’m not even for sure what I need
what I’m searching for
It’s like I have gone numb
It’s like I’m stuck in this current emotion and can’t get out
I’m bored yet content but sad yet feeling okay
I have felt on the verge of tears for the past few days and I don’t know why
I don’t know what my body is waiting for
It’s like I’m waiting for something to break me
Annie McLaughlin Mar 2017
When shall I get out of this rut?
Counting down the hours until I can go
Only five and a half now, but
I'll be back next weekend, I know.

And only thirty dollar bills a day, for what?
To get hit and kicked and yelled at
I'd rather get payed for selling my body like a ****
Or maybe I'll be a professional eater and become professionally fat.

Pure disgust is all I have to say
Until next time, dreadful day.
Kyle Kulseth Sep 2016
7 cups of coffee, never been so tired.
7 hours 'til the weekend
          I'm a garbage human.
Crawling on my belly through the ******* bars.
Kick a couple empty cups and join the trashcan stars.

Monday morning, can't believe still at a job like this,
I'm a ******* nematode behind a ******* desk.
Got a mouth full of fangs and a vinegar gut
Got my hands *******
          got an empty wallet.

Empty out my guts on the concrete night,
pour the contents of my chest on the headache morning.
Chisel clear sight out of my crusted eyes
just in time to read a bright orange low fuel warning.

**** these stupid weekends and this ******* space.
**** my empty-heart excuses and my dishpit face.
Clean the plate and wipe the slate clean.
          Leave this place.
Maybe try and settle down.
One more cup of coffee.
Kyle Kulseth Aug 2016
The nuts
and the bolts
of your automatic habits
programmed scowls and slowing reflexes
               keep you
     matching wits with no one
               every night.
             And you keep
slipping
     back into your 6-month rut
     with your cold sneer,
      hands in pockets,
      your shrinking bank account
           and swelling gut...

The Mountain Lines meander,
you're just killing time and brain cells.
Ashy days are tasting bland.
Bus routes circle back on themselves
          like your footsteps every ******* night,
          this town will raise its hand,
          you'll retreat into familiar flight.

                                                      Cr­inge
                                       'cuz it's so easy.
                                                       Cringe
                     at what you have become.
     Come back on your loop repeating.
                                 Potential's mocked.
       You're numb and deaf and dumb.

And you've never surrendered.
But that's not the same as winning.
Pinning hopes on snapping out
of it and sleeping hearts on sleeves.
          Heavy footsteps every ******* night,
          a walking metronome
          passing cross-streets just to pass the time.

Your dull,
aching eyes
that you peer through every sunset--
programmed scowls squinting through preset acts--
               keep your
       dulling wits all silent
              every night.
           And you'll keep
walking through days like turnstile gates
and send each night on down the line.

Send each night on down the line.
Adrija Jun 2016
whisper upon whisper,
grain upon grain.
they pile up, until there is no space to breathe

not a pocket of air,
only the damp black.
hot. humid. cramping and stamping

extinguishing.

and then.
it crushes,
you're trapped like a bee on a wing

life has you now.
in its hold
god i just feel so stuck, so frozen in this  state. there's nothing i can do about it except wait it out, see how everything pans out in the end. and everything i hate is waiting. is not doing. this is too much // too little
Danielle L Cook Sep 2015
I can never write poetry when I'm happy
what does that say about my personality?
why do words evade me when I long to share
my feelings of positivity?
I don't want to only be known for my works
on tragedy
I am not always sad and lonely
I smile and laugh
and enjoy what life gives me
and yet I can never convert that joy into poetry
here I am, destined it seems, to always be a tragedy
tragically, this is also another poem about unhappiness
SøułSurvivør Aug 2015
---

the glowing iron wheel
had made its way
across the sky
crushing
everything
in its
path

i sit doubled over
my forehead
in rivulets
from the
furnaces
its passage
had stoked

clouds like
dusty dirt ruts
curving into
saguaro spiked
hills
to the west

crescent moon
a faint slice
like a
glowing
cattlebrand

the cicadas
still whirr
on
and
on
and
on


7 PM
and it is
still
98 degrees

and the
ghosts of
cowpokes
who
died the trails
still ride
their bony ponies
on their endless
road
into
the

sun


soulsurvivor
(C) 8/17/2015
but it's a dry heat
Emily Jones Jul 2015
You linger like yesterdays coffee
Staining the table
My breath and teeth
Leaking over onto my white shirt
Ruining it
For bleach isn't strong enough
Tide falls short
That faded white shirt
Stained
And despite the distortion
I still wear you to bed.
Dan McGowan Jun 2015
lay back and relax
go along with what the stream
will give me
sometimes fast
sometimes slow
a snag or two
to keep me grounded
watch the dappled shadows
the canopy of leaves
through closed eyes
perfect state of being
water drips with weird sound
wakes me from my splendor
turn my head
come face to face
with rutting buck
that snorts across my mug
the startled deer
has startled me
just glad to keep it upright
stag turns and runs
quiet restored
left with vision of his eyes
and the quickly narrowed pupils
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