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Brooke White Nov 2018
My father uprooted the linoleum tile
after purchasing the house and noticing carpenter ants.
The owners of the house before had laid down
their best pine colored flooring in the kitchen
back in 1959.
My sister would toddle in and out of the doorway
playing with the grout spacers,
and reaching for sourdough in the pantry.
All while stepping her pink sandals around the dead ants.
She wanted to help my father, but was too afraid of
going near the oven.
The oven, where they found Sylvia Plath,
whose exhaust fan would snarl like an animal of the night.
It’s stovetop, stained with oil like a forgotten Jackson *******
The counter adjacent, where our mother would eventually leave
divorce papers.
poesuer Nov 2018
a word doesn't have to be real for it to have meaning
nothing has to be real for it to grip your stomach and throat and force butterflies into every part of your anatomy
the emotion crawls under your skin and all you can do is feel it

a woman rises in the dawn with her fiery red hair, eating men like air
you become that smiling woman, only 17 and not even a lady
dying becomes your art, and you are indeed very good at it

a man frowned like thunder and went away, the stars not needed today
you begin to pack up your very own sky, melancholy filling your entire world until it all comes to a standstill
wind does not blow and not even streetlights shine
your very own lover is still in tact, a phone call away even
but he frowned like thunder and went away

a raven, a remorse, a rapping at the chamber door
a madness, a mania, a man whose mind is gripped by loss
a horror that now belongs to you, the pigeons on the street start to quoth "nevermore,"
every crow is an omen, every bird is wandering through purgatory just to torment you,
and you have no loss to speak of

I dreamt I wrote that feeling, I dreamt I put it into words
I dreamt I transcended humanity, I dreamt I became the art
I dreamt about the feeling, I dreamt you felt it too
I've been reading a lot to get out of my writers block and this is the result. three of my favourite poems, lady lazarus by Sylvia Plath, funeral blues by WH Auden, and the raven by Edgar Allen Poe served as main inspo. I tried to make them into something new, about poetry itself and how much of an amazing art form it is. about how you don't have to empathise to be able to feel the intense emotion and power behind them. also, I know 'dreamt' isn't a word. I just like how it looks/sounds more than 'dreamed'.
Aisha Sep 2018
please tell my heart to simmer down
i can’t hear myself think
over all of this noice it’s making.
it bubbles and boils and makes my skin itch with the urge to **** it.
please take my heart away.
i can’t bear the burden of it again.
it feels so heavy, like someone buried it six feet under, but i can still feel it.
it’s like it’s calling out to me from underneath. it wants me to help it
but i can’t. i put it under there myself
and i lost the map
hashtag1stworldproblems, but
couldn't even win a prize for reading:
'But there was no give in the cat,
no flex anywhere but his tail. And for
a moment their roles reversed, as though it were
the train facing
the inevitable cat...'
'n' dog 69er
vukojebina Tasmaniandevil in a ******
ad under/overbiting off more than I can
chew Escher's pretzel autocannibal
Prometheus in a Faustian ****
stage pacman dragon fusion starbirth centre
of the earth Bruckheimer pileup of me

Meanwhile bombs fall everywhere but here.

Singing 'Suggasuggasugga my art ***,
liggaliggaligga my art hole'

putting out the bins Insta-grommet-
ed Fama-widgetted the world but the world
is washing its ***** homme moyen sensuel
feels neither ****** nor blessed
culdesac wilderness no 'Wot no samo
©' enriches but inside my flat wypipo
surahs are basquiated alll over bones stones
& date palm fronds Newyork Paris London
Norwich supernobody supernova of purple psychology
prisoner between the lines egotistical subprime of me.

Allthewhile bombs immortalise everywhere but here.

Praying ' Ia! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat
of the Woods With a 1000 Young'
  yet still
the DWP send brown envelopes like post-
al millenarian sandwichboards or economic
letterbombs mash of calendars unassailable
nth mph inevitable catastrophe alazonic
file Akashic Bureau declassifies
is conceit of a train facing a rhino of a meme by
necessity a meme of a rhino gardarhino swino
my geworfen gurn of response scenarios
geworfen backatcha megillah galaxy
fillet ubeity is barrow pig cosmic bootyclap of me.

Everyday bombs bombarded the Mousetrap Theatre
but never hereatre.

Isn't everything just advanced basketmaking
everything is advanced basket-
making everything either that or egowanking
like urban legend of the Purple One ouroboros-
ing his purple one Janusjaws bittensmit-
ten by tailtaste once American sawboneses
optimised the Tom Thumb of Funk's
zeroshape with double ribectomy musta hadda sillycunt
implant ah the hiss of hubris human CMBR
soliphissing hero of selflove whited sepulchres
'This is the only musical the mouth & hopefully
the brain attached to the mouth, right?'
X-iestance of me.

The bombs they bombeth everyday, but I'm okay.

Big Gazrilo Princep Bang weltgeschichtlich pinup
modcon ***** to my suprachiasmatic nucleus living
l'appel du vide in comfort fatarse sitrep
tragicecstatic bluff transparent as an exhibition-
ist pharaoh mummified in cling-
film hokeycokeying the keys till my right hand's in
court & my leftover hand doesn't count
tallies of tall realities like BasquiAT-ATs or Daliphants
skittled by Tippex the inner crickets' tip-
ple ghost grawlixes sculpsit grazes 00Q's qwerty spype
no carmen triumphale of poetical toothbrushes gets free
from chelseasmiled singularity inadequake scree of me.

But bombs being dropped is not the only way
this 40-yr-old 5'6 din of reverie will stop.
Pete McIntire Jun 2018
Love was the Afterthought;
To my emotion &,
My madness.

///

Hate is why I cannot feel;
Yet the world just sees,
My empty glasses.


P. S.

May your freedom bring you both happiness
& joy.

Until the day we meet in **** where I can play
You like a toy.
Pete McIntire
1/3.5
@RedLightWriting
Lily Flower Jun 2018
Like resistless air torn by a bullet
Life unmasked itself in a baby
innocent, playful, illiterate...
for half a second or so,
and ran!
Past Mother who, amazed by your giggles,
called you mon âme!
Past father; arriving home
to say goodnight,
and a quick wave before bed.
Past school days and holidays,
taught to eat books and ***** information
lost through thorough knowledge!
Aye! Aye! Black cats and red eyed bats.
Past the lustbird who made love
to your left ear and slammed the other
shut!
Life passed your very black hair and set it white.
Seems like the bullet hit sharp in your chest.
And now a baby cries bald..
Heather May 2018
I knock on the door
You dont let me in
Praying you will accept me
You chose to Reject Me
(Is that love?)
Change after change
I am still not enough  
You treat me like a useless puppet
You throw me away
(is that love?)
Daddy daddy
Stranger stranger
For God has given me to you
For thou has “cursed” you  
I ask for love
You give me Pain
I ask for your presence
You hand me resentment on a silver platter
Daddy Daddy
Is that love?
Mari Carrasco Nov 2017
some mornings, as I watch the sky turn back to blue,
I think about how much prettier it would be with you.
how all the love in my heart would paint the sky bluer than blue.
how your eyes would match the sky and their sparkle the sun.
your smile would be the same shade as the clouds.
I am shaken with the realization that everything in nature leads me back to you.
because the moment I think to forget you, my heart swoops me back to the smell of morning dew,
and the memory of the cool wind hits my face and it makes me imagine that's what it must be like to kiss you.
Julie Smith Aug 2017
Like under a veil of stained, milky glass
I live my life with stoic carelessness
Asking myself where do I go
When the vast landscape is a uniform expansion like white snow

Every breath I take contains a lack of oxygen
A dull and hazy mesh made of smoke and collagen
My mute body and brain make me feel sort of dead
With the big bell jar wafting over my head
My eyes nearly blind, with a shade of pale blue
My hands on the cold glaze can't reach through to you
As I sink deeper in this plexus of boredom
I wonder if I can ever be restored from

This condition of permanent nonchalance
And out of an inaudible chaos find a new balance
What seeps through to my tired mind in this peaceful war
Is that only you could lift my bell jar
Inspired by the novel of the same name by Sylvia Plath.
Written in June.
Thank You for making me find a New Balance and for letting me breathe again.
Julie Smith Jul 2017
A writer's eyes closed forever
Cold lips will never read the lines no more
A broken heart put forth

Neatly cut hair, fair and pale
In your face a soft expression
But under your smile fighting a tyrannic battle of depression

Revealed the tragic in your words
Betrayed and glorified, innocent and scared
A Daddy's girl with no place to go

A proud Mum living with a grown child
Larger than a life of symbolism and mythology
That couldn't deal with your radiance

Am I Lilith or am I Eve?
Maybe both in one
Every wife's a mistress, every saint a sinner and the biter bit

Tell me Syl, the reason for your chosen silence
Will our fates coincide
Or did you die for me to reunite all those who failed in just one life?

Like me my dear
You were the first, did you want to be the last?
They don't talk anymore, your cold lips
Written for Sylvia Plath
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