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It feels like I'm repeating the pattern
Ambition vaster then Saturn
My heart refuses to be cold like Vattern
People always have their back turned
It's nothing new to me
The improvements have been few to me
Don't try and start a feud with me
I get why they took a knee
Because hate is on a killing spree
It's been awhile since I drank a pouch of Capri
I'm not trying to be a fusee
Only when it is done the correct way
I could write this all day
But not feel like I'm exigent
It just continues and effects like vesicant
I hope that there's a mouthwash that reduces this bad taste
Because I hope these aren't a waste
I aspire to not be copy and paste
I still got a ton of haste
I'm opened up, spaced
I hope this doesn't debase
My prior work before this
I'm just reiterating how I feel
Turning it into a spiel
Living in poetry is ideal
So I hope these words congeal
And hold the same appeal
To the newer readers
You're not the bottomfeeders
You are the possible leaders
To this stormy and confused campaign
Help end the blain
That's caused me mental pain
I just want to be your Thomas Paine
But I can't unless you show me your light
So we can sleep better every night
To end stress, people get high as a kite
I know that isn't right
We can't ignore the problem
We have to create a way to stop them
And that's been the desperate attempt I've had
That's why I get so glad
When I achieve it
You are not something I ever want to aggrieve.
To the fans/followers of mine
Kenna Marie Feb 2016
Some days you have the ability,
others on a shopping spree.
Dressing clean, ultra supreme.

To live is just a dream that only you can see with binoculars.
I live in our own aura, the World and I. Where we can kickback, sleek the ruffles out of our curtains.
With blood sleeking down the glass window pane, the beginning of a crystal clear scheme
with crimson stains.
A passing by expert, I have yet to earn what removed hastes to which I should come to a slower pace.
Push you into my fool, a clown to a stalemate.
Copping everything on a shopping spree, my feet don’t touch the ground, they elevate.

Now I’m trying to jam using these hands, but one grips at fear.
I don’t have time for tainted misused feelings.

I have to make them squeal for me. Hide in the bushes, they want to be seen with me. Using correct of muscle, I hold me. Carrying all these packages, I’m the one you want.
Wren Djinn Rain Sep 2015
The sky is so polluted but it's beautiful, isn't it though?
Feel bad, so to relax, sit outside 7-Eleven with a smoke.
With the way I hold my head you can't even tell I'm poor.
Or maybe you can, because "What's that?" You ask. It's
the loose change in my pockets overfilled to the spilling
You hear me walking, it's no-cash, it's no-wash, the half
blood broke ***. All the bad habits, no natural habitat.
Clothes from the Village feel almost as fine on your flesh
as the high class new tags from the corner off 5th/Saks
What makes you happy? What makes you happy?
With just a little more coming in you could finance your
fantasy, or get more freak and nasty. Green is the color
on top of the clouds that catches you falling before the ground.
Shuck corn, remorseless, you can get it paid. Mesmerize
at the numbers rising higher and higher, coerced too
easily to enjoy your stay. What makes you happy?
What makes you happy? The view from the penthouse
on top of the city. Pity. There's no love in the home you
built. There's no cause no effect no affection waking
you up to touch the world with the passion igniting
your eyes and pulsing out your fingertips. One step
from homelessness without one hope, but faith is
a better replacement in the end and I've got faith
in code.
Marlo May 2014
Rage filled nights,
Blood filled fights.
Red visions blurred,
Directions without a word.
Satan fills your thoughts,
Religion is forgotten,
Bible pages gone rotten.
Green blood through your veins,
****** fills your brain.
Run and ****,
Stab for the thrill.
Wicked smiles placed,
Angelic qualities erased.
My hunger is traced with the craving,
That when satisfied sends me raving.
i'm a demon
. *** .
K Balachandran Mar 2014
Matador, **** the beast
that run amok inside your psyche;
the urge to throw in the towel
then becomes natural.
Amigo, you are the problem, the bull is your creation
you realize that too, but pretend it's just to
amuse the audience, blood according to you, tickles!
you are the harbinger of good times..hear the crowds roar..
they too, act as if they buy your story
because you have the sword, and the power to ****
but if you  turn weak, slowly fall, they'll hail all bulls
fell prey to your merciless sword

— The End —