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Carl D'Souza Jul 25
I am eating delicious
sweet corn and chicken soup:
sweet crunchy corn,
soft flavorsome garlic,
stringy delectable egg,
tasty chewy chicken,
and hot savory broth
which warms my torso;
I am enjoying
the experience
of being alive
while eating.
Anastasia Jun 7
i miss you
when you were next to me
and you were warm.
i'm still cold
even with
a deep blue
kingsize
fluffy blanket
and cheddar-broccoli soup
i'm freezing.
i miss you,
with your grey hoodie
and your smile
that warmed up my insides.
c.b. ♥
Jo Jun 6
a man reads not for enjoyment but to pass the time.
the time that a woman is holding onto because of uncertainty.
the uncertainty of life that hangs like a blade in the air.
the air muddled and rotten with sickness.
the sickness spills over from one body to the next.
“let’s get soup after this”
anything warm, anything comforting.
hospitals feel like i am in limbo
Mel Williams Mar 16
I am being made new.
The egg, cracked in half.
Taped together with scotch tape and super glue.
The yolk entirely devoid of its once-consistant home.

This is emptiness.
This is being renewed.
This is what it is to feel and not feel.
To be and not be.

The hand dips me.
Reaches for me.
Dunks me in a solvent of cement and tissue paper.

I am rock.
I am eggshell.
I am tissue paper.
I am two parts vulnerable,
one part entirely indestructible.

I weigh 1000 tons.

I would sink in a river.

I miss the yolk that once inhabited me.
Golden yellow:
So much promise. So much desire.

A gray mallet cracks me open.
It ecavates me.

I miss my terrible weight.

A hot glue gun binds me back together.
I am neither egg nor rock nor air nor yolk.
I am all and none at all.
I am egg soup.
Egg solid.
Egg squared and solidified.
Egg smashed and built again.
        ...The limitless persistance of life.
Out of the womb into the microwave.
Lost in it's soup till it pulls you beneath the grave.

Get this woodpecker out of my head,
I can't hear myself think.
It's voice speaks through the radio,
telling me to go build the anti man.

Seeing life through the anti man's eye,
We are all perceiving a lie.
Hold it in your hands,
Wear it on your heads,
Put it in your arm.
You are pushing yourself into place.

We're killing god,
And we're building the anti man.
We are at war,
With our maker!
Life is a soup
and I am a fork
how life slips
and drips on the floor

Yeah, it’s a mess
Outside Words Sep 2018
tiny elves in my backyard on my stoop -
“PLEASE SIR, MAY WE HAVE SOME SOUP?”

running out from between blades of grass,
they shouted in unison with a burly crass:

“YOU MUST UNDERSTAND, IT'S A TUESDAY NIGHT,”
“AND TUESDAYS ARE SPECIAL IN ELVEN LIFE!”

“sorry sir, soup is not for elves; mommy said!”

“DON'T LISTEN TO THAT OLD BAT,
IT'S LATE AND SHE'S IN BED…

...WE COME TO YOU IN NEED OF NOURISHMENT!”

“but, I’m just a kid and mommy discourages it!”

i said in my biggest voice, for the 900th time
as they threw up their arms, like I’d committed a crime!

running around in a mass,
they ran back, with such sass,
through the leaves in a big hurry -
on a hunt for soup they scurried...
© Outside Words
A fresh and new awakening
I have released from my inner glow
A personality recipe with added seasoning
A new taste for the me that no one knows
such an untried cookie
a new dish to present beauty in untried ways
I present in my soul's kitchen
as I live out each and every newer day.
So, come to my Restaurant and order up a dish
You shall be glad you tried my "soul's Glow"
For a taste of my tasteful new menu
One that shall surpass even the most stubborn of soul tastes
A worthwhile soup from me to you.
Visit today
or any time you like
My Soul's Kitchen is hot on the world's scene
Don't "knock my recipes until you've tried them"
You might miss out on a new award-winning bowl
Of my tasty new signature restaurant feature
In each hearty bowl.
Jack P May 2018
spilled burning hot chamomile tea
on my shaking hand
which proves, i suppose
that the ones you love hurt you the most

would like to think that falling sick
is the work of some Trickster God
fashioning shackles out of wool
fistfulls of hair wrapped around a bedpost

was asleep for forty-eight hours
most of them i dreamt
various iterations of
an unattainable light

left by abstract imagery
the words adorning
an album i know
making sense of the nonsensical:

"there was a tiny cactus on my desk. i was angry and i smashed it down. the poor ******* cactus didn't do anything. i kept the needles in my fist all afternoon. i left the pieces of the *** and the dirt on the floor for weeks. until my mom finally picked it up. 1/21"
i'm sick
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