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Nat Lipstadt Aug 2
Last Best Shot

July 31, 2020
8:07am

the morning sunlight. high enough to lighten first café & the future.
warming, mellifluous, biding good tidings, a head, ahead for the day.
sun-in-sky-low, so trees stand taller, shadow-makers, just for now.
grass blotched, pockmarked, alternative hints of hope & mystery.
the bay wave waters stilled, unrolled, unroiled, no-thrashing, omen?
is this wellness? is this a green tea soul and soil infusion, calming?


my mind wanders to that remains unaccompanied, unaccomplished.
unwashed breakfast dishes, miles of mail urgently unattended.
poems half-composed, some decomposing, resurrection on the list?
these unwashed word-shards, cry out, if not today, then when?
passerby’s, yachts, kayaks pause, turn, all bow-me-pointing asking?
is today their finale, burial by deletion, or their
last, best shot?

my reflection, neutral-neutered mien in 19oz. Blue Mountain
black coffee, in a Canadian Macintosh porcelain mug, provides
no clue, accident or incident, but inquires: why the adrenaline?
words are bullets and
i have been shot by you too
many times to count
murdered so effortlessly
the bullets slip from your tongue
A tanka poem. syllable pattern 5-7-5-7-7 though challenging to write at times. Today, I am up for it.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2021
Neurons don't wait their turn
- they are auto-exciting
- a sniff, a pheremone, per
- haps way may personalize
- an idea, common to saints
- or heroes
- or gamblers, whose games
- forbid lies…
Ask Shainline #226 Lex... I can be having a nearing blah day, and turn to Lex and learn a bit finer granularity on truth in a material reality. Mater-trick, dijagitit...
Zack Ripley Mar 2021
Pain has always been there
To help remind us that we're alive.
But not all pain hurts the same.
A broken heart starts with a shock.
A bullet, a hole of fire.
A stab or slice, a sting.
A punch or kick, an ache.
But the worst pain isn't physical.
It's psychological.
Over time, you may forget the pain
Of being shot, stabbed, or punched.
But you'll never forget the words
That were said or the fear you felt.
The point is,
There are different types of pain.
But none of them hurt
or heal the same.
You hear the deadly thump
You reach up and feel the slight bump
You look at your hand, it’s a crimson red
In a few minutes you’ll be dead
A striking pain through your veins
You look at the deep sky and it rains
The rainwater in your wound
Falling to your knees you know you’re doomed
Oh, how you cherish life
You only remember that now you’re in strife
How you wish you could go back
But all that time is what you lack
With no more time to spare
You let the rain take you, without a care
~5/3/21
A young bird learned to fly
Flapping its wings
The wind blew it away
The hunter shot him
Fall
So does his hope
He despaired
Life is too short for him
Indonesia, 20th February 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
Arcassin B Nov 2020
By Arcassin B

Tie my hands , don't let them go , just hold me back,
don't let them know,
I know how to control my mind,

Safety first , contain the world , theres not enough to tame the world,
I could finally open my eyes,

ode to love when there is none , then I walk off,
the day is done,
maybe I just need a friend too,

paint the town , bury it in gold , brush is my heart,
so is my soul,
I know who I am , so who you?

Looking for a real one.
Looking for a real one.

short timing for everything consisting of more bad things to come and push and pull at my strings of shame in agony in this matrix along with the bots,
wanted all the fake **** to stop, you can not rely on cops,
Crying wolf to ears that rot, somebody could've gave me a shot,
But in the end I always got shot,
Everyday was like recovery, while staying in a box,
I was,
Lost and confused with who I was and not I'm found like this the end of an era with show and tell,
Don't show and tell anyone anything nowadays cause the hate is real like the hate never left the cycle like an ongoing loop of **** to come,
When the stuff you're ready for comes for you,
You better run.


©arcassinburnham2020
https://arcassin.blogspot.com/2020/11/real-1.html
Amanda Kay Burke Nov 2020
If you try being a better man
And fail
At least you gave it a shot
Something to be said about formulating a plan
The majority of people do not
Just thinking
Anais Vionet Sep 2020
I swear, my parents act like they were never teens in a pandemic growing up.

I was watching “Perry Mason,” an HBO show set in the 1930s. Perry gets mail out of his mailbox and I think “no GLOVES??” This pandemic has a hold of me.

6:30am  I’m finishing my shower - wrapping my hair in a towel.
Mom: from my room “I have something for you!”
Me: “OK.” (I’m curious)
I step out of the shower, wrap on a towel, and my mom steps up and gives me a flu shot without so much as a “by your leave.”  Dr. Surprise strikes again.
My arm hurts  =/

Writing a paper, on my computer, in class - I try to use the perfect word but I spell it so badly the spell checker gives up and in effect, says “I got nothin’.” I switch words.

Telling a girl to calm down is like trying to put a cat in a tub.
My parents think every guy I talk to is my boyfriend.
If I’m texting and smiling my parents think I have a boyfriend.
I say, I don’t know” when I don’t care.

For ALL of its downsides virtual school is better because:
  My two BFF and I have a facetime call going ALL school day so
    we can say snarky things about everyone..
  I can listen to music on my headphones during classes.
  I have multiple screens so I can web-surf during classes.
  I don’t have to wear shoes or a skirt!
  I can put a video up so it looks like I’m paying attention.
  I can snack/take a bathroom break whenever I want to.
  I don’t have to carry a backpack or make locker stops.
  I can be late or leave early and blame it on “tech issues”.
such is teen life 2020
Marri Jul 2020
Have you ever washed the blood of another off of yourself?

Standing under the shower’s rain,
Rinsing, and scrubbing the blood off your face and arms.
Staining the tile where you stand;
Swirling hypnotically down the drain.

I shot you;
I’m the reason you’re dead,
And the splatter of blood across my face proves it.

The gunpowder is still under my nails,
Black as ever as if I scratched my way out of my own coffin into yours.
I’m still coughing up dirt, I swear.

I stabbed you;
I’m the reason you won’t wake up.

The blade glimmered as I twisted it into you so fluidly.  
I was afraid to pull it out,
Afraid that a piece of myself was embedded in you too.
The dagger is a shade of red and brown as if you were ***** just like me.

I killed you!
Can’t you see? You can’t.
But, I believe, no, I know you feel it somewhere.
Somehow.

This water isn’t hot enough.
It’s not scalding enough to burn the feeling of you off of me.
But the blood,
Oh, the blood.
A never ending crimson sea, a deep bleeding river of you, slowly, but surely, disappearing from existence.

I run a bath,
The shower wasn’t enough.

I’m still stained.
I’m still tainted,
I’m still bleeding into someone who isn’t me.

The water swishes as I settle in.
Back and forth, up and down,
Over and under the sides of the tub.

The water won’t stop turning red,
A deep red.

A reminder that I killed you,
That I shot you,
That I stabbed you.
That I don’t regret it,

But regret isn’t guilt.
Is it?

It’s ******.
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