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Osiria Melody Jul 11
Even the most laughiest jokes don't make her crack a smile
Another bottle burst open
She pours her emotions into a glass,
Downing the sleepiest concoction of death (Alcohol kills slowly)

Even the most handsomeiest of men don't make her eyes smile
Another shot at romance burst
She pours her emotions into a glass,
Downing the sleepiest concoction of death
(Alcohol floods her senses)

Even the most wonderfuliest of people don't make her confidence smile
Another chance at personal growth burst
She pours her emotions into a glass,
Downing the sleepiest concoction of death
(Alcohol made her callous)

Callous, desensitized, angry
Angry at the world for leaving her to clean up the mess that she didn't make
Angry at the world of leaving her to clear the wrong paths that she didn't want to take
Bottles don't listen, only supply temporary relief



Melody
7/11/19
inspiration loosely drawn from reading a web comic about a drunk character.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 23
poems are cheap they say, the supply exceeds the demand,
all are product of criminal mischief, and Lord, I know,
I’m one of the most thieving, most mischiefing ones

when no one was about, I scribbled many notes,
transplanted from my eyes, for a bottled voyage
to fallow beaches for sandy seeding

no matter IF these poems are from your womb ripped,
****** red concoctions of life’s cute cutting edge inscriptions,
no one cares re your titanic love’s labors, your children’s betrayal

no one cares from whence and wherefore they birthed,
all words, low class and progeny, not prodigy, of demeaning circumstances, best tossed back without much foolish hesitation

writ with pen tip of broken green glass from a parking lot,
the point I broke once more before my commencement,
inked from a wicked witch’s melted green spittle pooling alongside

poets of no way, falsely prophesying falsehoods most singularly bad,
waste not-want not, time better spent than reading rhymes of stolen disrepute and cloudy ownership and ignoble authorship

unless you among a blessed few, who see a full blown poem in glassine clarity, birthed fully formed Elton songs in a mouth full of amniotic fund, you, put down thy laboring eleven instruments

if words you claim of new parentage, you as the mother dear,
know there is nothing new under the sun, even these very words,
scripted by Israelite king whose tomb gone, he, too, poet forgotten

join me in a needle park of junkies who tried and failed, nickel bag
smoking budget dope words, in cigarettes of mostly discarded seeds and twigs, hallucinatory inhaling the same vision again & again

you refuse, naturally, glamming in notional newness, your arrogance, a plentiful commodity of wood-be writers by thousands buried in wooden caskets, under wooden inscription-less crosses

and of the trillion readers possible, to coloring picture books and instant grams, all have gone to the labor-free glancing look-see
of a seconds-short, lengthy meme, 10 second videos, 140 limitations

of the greatest, of Shakespeare and Coleridge, reader’s fast-dying, sunburned neurons reply; “free ***** of his Love’s Labour’s Lost, and the Ancient Mariner, overdue, free him too!”

ancients mock you aware that there be no verbal combination yet to foretell, what Lear said, that’s the the idea, “When we are born, we cry, that we are come to this great stage of fools.”^

fools we are, for there be no fore, the tale already told, once before & more, vaingloriously does this poet’s false vanity speak, so, so boisterously,
  
“why my tale, why my tail, is as new as the oldest fossil”
^ King Lear, Shakespeare
Nat Lipstadt May 1
check in at the library, my card scanned,
per the terms of my sentencing agreement

to the poetry shelves dispatched.
row after row, book after book,
all blank awaiting my affections,
all demanding my sensei sensations,
seeking a creme filling of honorations,
words of all shape, roots and origins,
the occasional new combination

some, never heard before, timelessly awaiting expulsion
from the birth-vocal canal where comes origination,
but for me, death by enforced creativity,
that’s what the judgers desired,
a punishment that fits the crime

my misdeed record unsealed, intended for
world envisioning, the ego audacity to imagine
I could write a single good poem,
thus the punishment fits the crime


may1 9:19am ‘19
this for CJ
Little
white
lies;

out of my mouth they
just  f l y .
I don't know why,
it's not like I try.
But I guess
in my mind,
I have a whole supply!
Use some here
                               use some there,
I use them everywhere.            
        
Will they harm me,
I don't know.
But I think I should stop,
though.
I mean, they're just little lies?

I was just think of lies and decided to make this, I don't really know if it sounds the way it sounded in my head. It sounded pretty good in my head. :)
Mystic Ink Plus Feb 2018
10 to 5, Job
Of a prediction game
Investment,
Always a half way to goal
Uncertain market
Let’s bet over Green and Red
A thin balance,
Tracking ups and downs
With a colour change,
Every complexion turns, dull or bright
A calculated ****** expression
Almost ready to express
With some losses, some gains.

Rumors airs,
A political unrest,
Sign of regressing opaque sense
Digital formulas,
Almost rests in vain
There is,
Tug of war, between
Supply and demand
A growling Bears Vs.
A grunting Bulls.
Shared from my Anthology, Canvas: Echoes and Reflections, 2018.
an office
trove packed
plentiful travels
today with
a fast
clip their
pens and
refills on
swivels for
a techie
to browse
afternoons for
ergonomiety and
nearby as
a wayfarer
needs a
coffee break
An instant fulfillment depot  hereby staple
Death-throws Jan 2017
Dabble baby,
I'm your supply,
You'll never know a guy who will get you
Quite this  high.

Smoke Me,
Drink me,
Snort me too.

Slip me onto your tongue,
Under  the sun,
You'll  trip, it's true.

The longer you use me
The more you'll see
No one's abused  the supply
Quite  like me

I'm dead and cold and dark and blue
I've sold my soul for a fix you know it's true

So now nothing makes me happier
Then poisoning  your mind,
Don't stay in my life too long baby
I'm just a fix, you'll find
For all the broken things inside you
You know you'll never fix
I'm just the duck tape
To stop you loosing your mind

— The End —