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Nick Stiltner Oct 10
top brain forward eyes severed diluted
down mind feared essence ignored
star gaze rays smogged polluted
connect connect widen the gap
flow flow hand meets ice-water
growing numbness crackling bones
crack sip sigh Relax

unattended, withering, left to rot
chime chime signs direct where
why lark fly vines hide
the corner
beads dangle I move them
and they fall back into
they fall back into
their places
stages lights tread lightly across
and bow be sure to bow they like that
humming bird wings on twilight canvas
blurs blurs the paints and hues
dreams and views dreams and views
severed sinews, unabled motion
crack sip sigh Relax
lean back rising tide blanket and jaw slack
So easy lost yourself.
So hard to find.
When you in stream of minds. When you're part of wave.
It's easy be someone than be yourself.
It's easy be someone for others eyes.
But inside this streaming you're not the one.
In streaming just a shadows.
You'll find the force to get out.
This metal rod is inside.
You know who you are.
This grain inside of you.
The force inside.
And you'll find yourself again.
You know where's a light.
You know where is exit.
You've been here already a million times.
Grace Haak Sep 4
Trout Sep 2
When my poor head is wet, grandma is ***
Tacit engagement stractics
Crisping over the plains

I’m no scented mentalist.
Scream and slide

Where did
It go
It is impossible
The fan
He makes
Too many good points

I have a visitor with a golden eye
Standing in the street
Open to anything
Such as:
Drifting white on the millsap sockways

Tempted by the crew of another

Oh so you’re the seventh advanced skeleton now?

There’s a buidle
Dancing around with the same colored eagle

Take it off
With a chance
To the world

a) white inside
b) dead inside

You look like you should be short but when you stand up you are going to be really tall. I am the opposite.
Lose the grass in your bones and be here tomorrow
Vandal vandal candle future
Trout Sep 1
My soul is weakened at the hand
To be such a one who sleeps
In the morning and night
And midday to which one will have
Anything to be such a winter gun
Such a winter gun
Inside myself inside your own
Hands and thighs and pinky fingers
Little toes on the ground
That will make something a sound
I cannot find the words
To explain some absurd
Gallery on the table
With the magic light of spark
Sparking up to the hills
Cannot be something real
In the ocean, cannot bear
What will see, diamond be
To be careful in the mare

Such a boring winter light
Magic markers at the sight
Counting wrens inside the tomb
Mystic magic, *******
Inside my hearer sides,
Inside the willing lies
Toes inside the marching band
Dinosaurs of the little land
Feet with socks of purple pots
Changing numbers like they’re rocks
Sweater on the baking tide
Whizzing laughter fill inside
Drooping eyes of wisdom words
Cannot calculate the buzzing turds
Swooping in and out like a bee inside the masking man
Marching till it’s out of hand
Cannot conjure anything at all
Can you fall
Until the doll
Reaps inside the penny lane
The naked heart inside the side
The cave below
The ground that’s sowed
Sewed inside
The human eye
Everything inside
Something inside
The man won’t go away
The humans are here to stay
The baby parasite
The adult living life
What’s the difference
Ian Johan-Gomez Mar 2016
I feel a grim satisfaction as mud splatters on my white shoes.
What an appropriate metaphor for early adulthood.

My problems are not my own.
The sociological imagination has never
seemed so applicable.
We’ve all been dosed up
On dashes of passion,
splashes of intelligence
and just enough anxiety and depression
to approach existential nihilism and
We’re fed these lies of individuality but
We Know
we are only products of our youth and culture,
ones of many in the long production line
We claim
We are Art,
but We Feel
we’re just generated from streams of code,
prepared to fight to the death for
some algorithm that doesn’t even matter
And so I protest
I can’t just be a number
I am flesh and blood,
my knees are buckling under the
weight of this artificial perfection.
I’m not just a number,
My eyes are staring at the
the marks that
determine my worth, knowing
success is my only option
i am not just a number
My sanity is sinking and
drowning and
constantly fighting to stay afloat
But I am not just a number. -
My mind tells me I’m not making it--
How are these other people making it?
I’m determining my worth
on sets of standards that are as worthy as dust
And it is with these standards i am told
I am just a number.

I feel like
I can no longer speak
because I’ve been
at the top of my lungs

But my voice
is too quiet
And the world
is too loud.

I’m so tired of trying to be heard.
Yet these words still sound better
when I scream them,
not just scrawl them down
on scraps of paper.

for someone so happy
I'm so very angry.
for someone so happy
I'm so very sad.
J J Aug 21
I don't leave my house much
and I keep to myself, dysthymia at my peak
    These days.
Blood in the sink after brushing my teeth for the first time in weeks
  and feeling all the more disgusted for it,although
I know it a mini victory in itself,enough of a sign for hope--
better than any ******* self-help book could suggest--
The laughing jittering chitchat all-being lovely paranoia stage has passed
And now i feel the hangover.
Luckily,the eureka's glued on too
And the reflection is easier to inspect now--
you know that Hemmingway quote:
Write drunk,edit sober? Like that,but over the coarse of a lifetime.
And how boring sober life is after the highest peak,but on the same note,
I've flushed the drugs to deter temptation,to better myself--
When i was bad they made me okay,
When i was great they made me even better,the world even closer...
But they're a ruining process. I've learnt to love the blossoming passion flower of my mind,
Although i want so to hate it currently.
I know i am,i know the universe is,and if you're reading this then you too are;
And that's all that needs to matter sometimes.

Through silence,through recluse,through art,through pen,through therapy,through time,through honesty,through dream,through woe,through laughter,through scream, through power,through weakness embraced,through fire,through love,
Through a madness unhinged but always aware
Of self and all surrounding;
You do what you can to get by,but most importantly,you do what you can to better yourself.

You don't have to be perfect everyday,
you dont have to be perfect most days,
But if you're trying for anything at all,you're braver than you could be,and not yet as strong as you should be
And that is a  very   very    good inspiration
I'm not doing the best at the moment but writing is one of the things keeping me going strong. I thought I'd rant and rave about the process of finding inspiration when you least want it. First line borrowed...well,full on nicked, from Soko.
J J Aug 12
My mother said they say the dead are blessed
but i don't think so,

i wake to my dream's afterimage overlaying
the ceiling;i stay laid in place
envisioning myself
gorged in holy water, purging away any memory

but that's just not the way it goes;
Sat here as the vinyl needle scratches the same
  scabs,as a tired revolver—

leaks **** of sound,thick repitidous clouds which
  lead to nowhere and nothing—

a bored, ambient crackle,

In the poetic spirit, it reeks of home
  but reminds me I am I, alone

And in the conversing-sense
  it gives me a ******* migraine,

it was one of W—’s favourites
when it's tune was still entact

But alas, it is what it is, outside is a world
i've grown too sore to mingle in
(dare i say a multiform delirium where
  it's both too typical and too unpredictable
((daren't i blame another reason?)))
Regardless,i'll stay inside another day
and skim and retrace the life that brought us here
   to **** the time.

If nothing else.
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