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irises Mar 2018
the world is
my oyster
they say.
yet,
why has my life
produced no pearls?
only tears
and gritty sand
polluting the land
around me.
She Writes Mar 2018
I love rainy Saturdays
Laying in bed all wet

Thunder booms
Lightning strikes

Little Droplets fall
Between my thighs
Dylan McFadden Mar 2018
Part 1: Good Friday

Unspoken words – I hear them clear
They speak above the rest
I hold them near and hide them here:
The heart inside my chest

Part 2: Saturday

Unspoken words – my Savior lay
Alone in Joseph’s tomb
Oh, heavy heart, cry not today
For Sunday’s coming soon

Part 3: Easter Sunday

Unspoken words – the Son, He rose
A new and glorious morn’
He shines on me and now I know
I’ll never feel the thorns

.
David J Feb 2018
I am not a fan of breakfast
I'm just never in the mood
Because every thing we have
It just looks like tasteless food
Although I get out some milk
And get out some bland cereal
Yeah trust me I am aware
That its not nutritional
Yet I get out civil-ware
And continue to prepare
Although something just feels off
Oh No, it's my greatest fear
6 a.m. on a weekend
Wait why am I here!
I went through this last Saturday, I wanted to write a poem, so I choose to write about that unfortunate event. Haha!
During element’ry school
Lunchtime was a drag
For the bologna sandwich
In my little brown lunch bag.

My favorite? The spice ham
I loved on grilled cheese.
Made bologna mediocre…
A cold cut for the breeze.

Now, turkey’s my favorite
Amongst the cold cuts.
It is healthy and tasteful—
No ifs, ands or buts.

Cold cuts, an old sidekick
Are convenient—take your pick.
(Revised 2/2018.)
Iris Proctor Jan 2018
Saturday
Sounds like the pattering
Of bare feet
On a dusty concrete yard,

Smells of chimney smoke
And jagged coal heath,
Sheep-scent and
Wiry wool on a barbed fence,

Saturday
Is a jangly guitar
In a rickety truck
On a gravel road,

With a gravel voice
Rough as grit,
Deep as the caverns
Between the peaks,

Saturday
Is sunlight on an enamel ***,
A tin kettle
And its blood metal tea,

It is blackberry-bitten legs
and iodine streams,
A canopy of heady bracken
Below penny-marked trees,

Then Sunday,
Slantwise
Against the setting sun
Away again.
Lou Dec 2017
I sought satisfaction in stupid sheepishly and shallow strides.
Scared subconsciously, I swallow and sustain substance for pseudo self esteem strengthening.
I seemed of in service to slumber and stinging sadness, shots sank like ships, submerging into the sea of my swarthy stomach in seconds.
I somewhat sympathies as a sailor, sweating, struggling and swimming in slipping sobriety saturated in my sulking style.
Scanning swarms of serial swindlers, striking sculptures stances of self-doubt.
I stammer in a storm of slurs, ******* down my safety, stopping myself at the stoop of the saloon I see a seductive silhouette staging the space.
She stroke my sight, standing sanguine in scarlet, soul sold in high heels.
The smoothest sculptures in seven square miles were subjugated into scree and I was ****** in submission.
Stubborn staggering suitors, stand shaking silently as she is stopped by sharks stalking and snarling sycophantics.
So straightforward in suggesting their secret starvation to strip sensations, seem by seem, like a sub-par **** cinema scene.
They step and speak short.
She smokes off, stranding the scree in smoldering slaughter.
Its sad this soul-less sanctuary soaking up sorrows.
So self inflicting, and so satisfyingly side splitting.
She sported her spurned, scorned off into sadistic solitude and stained sticky stigma, sobbing to sleep.
So spent from simple stocked, stored and supported senescence of ceremonial subjection of ****** status.
I savior my sincerity, and stretched out of this strange stadium of stooges.
So long scarlet sanguine I sang softly, as she stole my sight suspiciously in sync with hers.
Sacrificial seconds split from smearing stolidity to sharing a smile.
That's simple satisfaction, so I seen scripted in sitcoms and shows.
Supporting sapiens in stasis to see sappy stunners on screen, to stare snoopy, as stabs and slashes strike socially into socialites of so called sanity and sovereignty.
To sweetly pay salvage as slaves of soppy studio slander.
Such is this sorry Saturday night, I am solidified in sedation.
I wrote this over a year ago, took me a few months to put it together properly but I wanted to share this fun time. Its about this bar I use to go to when I was in my early 20's and I use to watch people a lot act like savages, trying to pick up women, usual bar stuff. I hope this isn't too much of a mouthful, enjoy.
Stephanie Nagata Nov 2017
Loneliness is like a ghost
creeping me up on a Saturday afternoon
and gone
as if it has never been there
the other day.
Ismail Nasution Oct 2017
I'm an open book
on a typical Saturday.
Beside me sits
a cup of coffee.
Barely sits I can say,
but say we are not
in the mood saying
"good morning" on today.

Yet what is love
with no flaws?
It is a mere fairy tale
of our bedtime story,
distracting us from
weary, scary yesterday.
Dori Oct 2017
It’s 4 in the morning on a Saturday and you haven’t slept in 3 days because you don’t know how to sleep without hearing those three words that you've always so foolishly believed. So you just lay there flat on your stomach with your ear against the mattress, drowning in silence and choking back ***** your stomach is too empty to throw up. At this point the sound of your heart beating at all makes you anxious and confused because how does a guitar make music without any strings? You’re rocking back and forth, tossing and turning trying to escape, but you won’t sleep because yesterday she promised to love you through anything and now you know that when Sunday comes around you will have lost everything.
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