Lori 3d

i used to have cravings for you,
6:30am in the market, i purchase you
500 riels a piece, the seller smiles
with a tip and the chip on her teeth.

i used to slice you up and savor you,
i managed to keep you for days in the
fridge, swimming in water to keep fresh
as if I knew our moments won't last.

i used to heat up the pan for you
just right and prep it with oil for your
comfort, i pop you in till you get
crisp brown then i add some salt.

i used to let the oil absorb the heat
for you as you lay ready for a dash
of powdered chili, you are finally ready
for my mouth to discover.

i used to eat so much of you, i couldn't
stop, i watched you from a far, i desired
your company because of the taste for
life you give me though its fried and spicy.

i've stopped having cravings for you
i used to cry because i couldn't have you
you choose another to stick you into their
tongue, i moved on, now you taste like bile.

replaced, i flair in the taste of spicy tuna.

taste prompt. tried to input some dramatic things i want to say to a person. I don't know if it worked.
Soph 5d

In the end
We all get what we want
Be it rioting, money or cognac
You're my stained glass, my everything
And to think I threw it all away
For the models, with their hair down to their feet
Another image makeover, another pill, another way to kill yourself slowly

You, you're so full of bile that rises in my throat, youth in the face of age
Elegance, class, all of the above
Chanel sunglasses and Chanel totes
And you tote them with pride
You are the type to wear Rolexes
While there's a Swatch on my wrist
Hoping to switch wrists
But you've always just been full of piss and vinegar

Talk to me
Tell me your stories
Spill everything like some sort of poetic mess
All over the pages and pages of stories
But still, you always get what you want
As your paisley Prada bag wrinkles from years of wear

WJ Thompson Apr 17

The stars are in the sky
And they are bright
at night
But they are very far
and despite how far
We can drive in our cars
We can not drive to
the stars
because they are very far

One day
I will destroy my enemies.

A poem I wrote as a joke for my friend.
Lauren Prather Apr 15

Scaring people away since 1996. If you couldn't tell, I'm pretty good friends with anxiety. We talk every day, we know each other pretty well, that is for the last 21 years. I guess we've had a lot of time to get acquainted. I know when anxiety is about to come over and stay...well anxiety used to leave, sometimes, but nowadays he usually ends up living with me...he's not invited though. Don't get me wrong. He just shows up. I guess I'm too nice of a person to kick him out, instead I let him in, I let him sleep in my bed, I let him crawl deep inside me and stay. I let him eat my food and use my energy. He likes getting strong. But when he's strong he burrows into my veins and organs... He forces my stomach to twirl and squeezes my lungs so I cant breathe... He pumps my heart so its beating faster than a drummer can move...

But that's my friend...

He's just making music right?
He wants my body for a beautiful thing...I should feel lucky right? That such a well known subject chose me, of all people. Anxiety is always there for me right ? He never seems to leave me alone especially when depression comes to visit, what more do you want in a friend ? He's loyal, that's for sure.

But you see anxiety is no friend. Most friends don't try killing the ones they love most.

leah Apr 4

i want a pseudo love to manifest in the cracks of my hands
and show me what it means to be alive

excerpt from an original slam poem.
Benjamin A S Mar 27

‘Are you a boy or a girl?’
They shout down the corridor in a chorus behind me
Like the cries of “Good morning, Miss” in assembly
The patronising tone
in sleep deprived confusion
Droning throughout the halls
ringing around ‘she’.
Going to lessons is the scariest thing
Head down, walking fast hoping
they’ll never say anything
Hoping no one will question you
Glance around and notice you
not daring to look up
in case you make a wrong move.
You can’t know what it’s like to be
in a room all alone,
in a house that is not your own;
'Your body is a temple’ they said.
But they don’t tell you how to treat it
if it’s right in your head
but wrong in your skin,
and that feeling
of being and existing
is like dealing
with a thousand anxieties
suffocating within;
Chest too obvious
voice too loud and feminine
not enough to be ‘gentleman’.

'Why does this bother you?'
I hear you enquire,
it's because society’s construct
of gender is too based on attire,
an old fashioned concept-
Telling your children
that 'blue's for boys'
'pink's for girls'.

'Is it really?' I say.
Gender is not just binary
it fluxes and changes,
just like any scientific theory;
Einstein for instance,
didn’t come up with special relativity
in a night!
It took years of work
until he was right

Let this apply for gender too:
not just black
and white it's not as
clear cut as that
this is black and this is white
Evolve the theory
from system to spectrum
of freedom and pride
to reside in one's body happily:
Humanity allied.

This is what I dream about,
but it is not what
I've been living throughout,
in our world of shame;
where we are reduced to words and themes.
Driving my community,
those who love and support me,
to thoughts of suicide.
Being known
only when they're reduced
to rags and bones,
dead bodies
from their hashtags
thrown in the corner
another into the pile of disorder...

But people think it’s okay
to come up to you
abuse you in the street.
Knocked to your knees
to cries of 'queer'-
you end up living in fear-
'well, what do you expect given
who's watching Wall Street?'

Yet I stand here
talking to you
a queer boy-
with all connotations of the word-
a queer boy with a voice.
Look at me!
My chest,
My unbroken voice,
My broken mind.
I am not proud of what I am,
what I’ve become and
how much it hurts
is indescribable to you.
I am not what you want me to be.
I am a man.
Not trans.

Ritika Mar 18

In the chills of those sprinklers
These shivering hands are bleeding.
Bleeding the ink on the bright glamour of whiteness,
And roughness yet serene looks of this inked morn
I cannot but just able to break these concrete wall
A thousand ton probably,
I'm underneath this hard-core stuff!
Gulped the last weed of splashed pity,
Can't hark anymore.
Kill your bloody core!
I don't really see any empathy or comprehensiveness
In the pale skin of yours!
Hey, ever you see through those reflectors!
Well, I do.
Thanks for your ass to be concerned.

A quick write.
Ritika Mar 16

The waves of those blurred mists
Are just calling for rhyming
But I told that I'm just a poor one
I can't really write poetic stuff,
Though I love to call it poetry in motion,
Oh! This gush, is what I'm scribbling
And not really always the sweet winds.
Those light steams just caressed,
Tried to cool me down, calm me,
Clasping my lids and just trying to listen
What it has to say to me,
I'm finding my solace,
In the purest rides of clouds.
Switching off the whirlpools,
These threads of air, resting me
Making me dip inside the slumbers of peace.
The waves of those blurred mists,
Are now what I'm dreaming.
Awake I'm scribbling.

On www.error1585.wordpress.com
And @err1585 at Mirakee.
Luna Lund Mar 9

I’m nervous so…
Sorry if I’m quiet.
Excuse me if I stutter.
Forgive me if my voice shakes.
Its just that,
I’ve never really been heard.
Never truly been seen… Like this.
You see,
I’ve been conditioned to be silent, soft,
Lest I take up to much space.
Cross your legs, uncross your arms
Smile baby,
Entertain me.
I was taught my worth is as a sexy specimen on the street,
A charming housewife in the church,
A mindless medal for the man.
I was taught the only way to be beautiful is to be small,
Starving myself of food just as I was starving for the attention
Of boys who were already taught to be big
Already taught to be strong
Already taught that any big and strong girl must be wrong.
Boys who took the lead are go getters, while girls who did the same are just bossy.
And in my dance class I was the fat girl, the one who couldn’t move like the others because chubby can't be graceful,
But maybe I just took up too much attention because my movements were so damn big!
In classes raising my hand too much would make me a know-it-all a teachers-pet a goody-two shoes and now I think again that maybe my brain was just too damn big.
In middle school my modest friend was called a slut because her breasts were too damn big!
A plus size model gains a plus when her body is deemed too damn big
And I cry at least twice a day and no not because I’m on my period but because my emotions are too damn big.
And excuse now I’m shouting but its just sometimes my voice can get so damn big.
And yet.
We are taught to be small.
Taught to squeeze into size zeros as if we are nothing at all.
Taught to force our big hearts big minds big souls into the molds of what a woman should be.
So if my voice shakes know that it is under this weight, like tired biceps at the end of ten thousand rep ten thousand pound set.
I’m sick of being sorry when I can't fit into what you think I should be.
And women are done being pretty paperweights for the patriarchy.

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