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Sunday morning coupon clippings
like breathing for gasps of the air
while out there
the beads of rain
necklace the silky spiderweb
and all they want to do is decapitate,
amputate and castrate
a piece of you.
to hack off what’s been given
like a bull in Cambodia,
to surgically remove what’s been earned
with an incision of accuracy.
ah yes, the prairie state- land of crucifixion:
everyone on the cross with black blood streaming down their cheeks
it’s like roaming through the jungle
of machine guns blazing
from behind the trees
and slugs whizzing by your ears
with feet failing to trudge
through the battlefields
of dead bodies at dusk
and arms raised waving the white flags
we all enter en masse
receiving less than half
putting up with twice as much
like products of the tombs
working twice as hard
plus some illegal activity
on the side just to drown
in their inflationary sludge
we can’t even afford to walk
across the room anymore
so often times you’ll find me
lying down
twisted in the sheets
feeling as comfortable
as a Picasso painting
with nowhere else to go
nowhere else to turn to
except dreaming of death
in the minarets of my past
and gently plucking lilacs
from the garden of my love.
Acina Joy Sep 10
We were a country that lived near the equator;
I was the land and you were my infinite sky.
We have lived and witnessed our aeons together.
Each moment fleeting, and passing by.  

The wind whispers, and the creatures rumble
weeping for me the unfair weather I hold
Only the dry seasons and the rainy seasons come by
and the sky, he's always done what he's always told.

When he cries, he creates floods and storms
or peaceful drizzles and ditz so plain
and when's angered, he takes right up
the moistened land and then grants me pain.

At night, he's terribly beautiful and quiet
the stars twinkle like stickers on my attic
The silent love, and the prolonged memories
and what he holds, goes far beyond semantics.

I sung, "Precious sky, I am your earth
the land you watch with clouds and dew
And he replied, "Pretty land, you are my purpose
and there's nothing to take me from you
Jack Jenkins Jul 10
When I stare at mirrors
My eyes disrobe the lies
And shadows of my mind
Til I'm left with emotions
Creaking on worn floorboards
Stepping into a noose
Kicking the insecurity out
And waiting to find out
If I died
Or was set free
//On anxiety and insecurity//

I'm learning that I am extremely insecure about myself and am terrified of loneliness even though I tend to keep people at arm's length.
ㅡjatm Jun 27
She sees the ocean
In your beady eyes,
And she wonders
What you see in her.

She wonders if you know
How deep the sadness goes,
And how she carries it
Just beneath her skin.

She fears you'll walk away
When she leaves you with nothing,
But the bitterness and broken
Shattered pieces of her soul.

She is trying so hard to hold tight,
Just to keep herself sane and whole.

But then the time came
When you started,
Seeing all the things
She sees in herself.

And that was the most
Terrible thing for her,
Because she was aware
That you won't s t a y.

And she was right.

You l e f t her.
Ava Courtney May 15
My parents warned me about the bullies the responsibilities, drugs and terrible things, but they never warned me about beautiful tan skinned boys with hazel eyes that could make you forget how to breathe, eyes that cut deeper than a knife ever could, whose smile could unwittingly **** and make you forget how to think. And whose hands could steal your suffering soul and shatter your heart into millions of pieces. Whose gentle lips could make you stupidly forget all the bad things he’s done and keep you begging for more. Whose touch sent shivers down your spine and paralyzed you.

Oh god.

They forgot to tell me how he’d make me feel.

And how much agonizing pain I'd be in

When he left.
My mother says that when she was was younger, she was scared of the lord.

More scared of the lord then her own parents and  I, I am desperate for my mother’s approval and I am scared of her truth.

More scared of her truth then slowly slipping away into a dark place in which I may never return.

I am terrified.

Terrified of the chaos buried beneath back of my terrible brain.

I am terrified.

Terrified of admiring my own shame and maybe I blame this shame on my mother for never telling me that *** was ok, but it’s still shame and that’s all that matters.

For years, I never thought that I mattered. That maybe, the world would be a little less violent, people would be filled with a little less silence if only I was gone. Disappearing into space like I never truly existed.  

But I have never truly existed, have I?

I walk around with terrible secrets strapped to my chest like they belong there.

If only I could say, “ mom, I like girls. I like the way they look sometimes even more then I like boys.”  

And if only I could speak. If only I had a voice to preach and It’s a shame that young girls feel the same!  

My mother says that when she was was younger, she was scared of the lord.

And I, I am scared of something that can actually be seen. Of something that you don’t need to look in a book and read. Of something that doesn’t seem that far away.

Alex May 2
Maybe it's the warmth
Or the delicious aroma of burning meat
But I wanna go to hell
And smell
Don't know where I'm going with this
But oh well,
Time will tell.
Ashita Apr 30
Why do I remember,
How your smile captured my heart at a glance,
How those lips had always put me in a trance,
How every glance from you made my stomach dance,
Your eyes now refuse to give me a chance,
And even now, in this phase,
I wanna lie in your embrace,
With our fingers laced,
And as our hearts,
I just wanna look at ur handsome face, lose myself in those perfectly brown eyes,
And claim you mine...
how I do I forget u,
When certainly i still care abt u,
How can I act like strangers,
When I know u more than myself,
How can I not think abt u,
When u r my universe....
How painful is it to be a poet,
Who can't write.

A poet who has thoughts,
Terrible ones,
But can't express.

A poet with emotions.
But was never heartbroken.

A poet of a few words,
And even those are not the fascinating ones.

A poet who wants to, but can't rhyme.
A poet who wants to but cannot write.

{Like a Doctor Who Can't operate
But a doctor can also be a poet from the heart.}

A poet not so poetic.

A poet like me.

They tell me don't try too hard.
It all comes from within.
But how and when?
Because I am desperately waiting for the time to come,
When those words will flow out of the nib of my pen onto the paper/blank.
As smooth as a river going into the ocean.
Like a fine aged wine from the bottle.
Because it is too heavy,
To keep it all inside,
Troubling my mind and soul,
Like a thousand years old ghoul.
But it is all Stuck up,
jamming all my words.

HE never gave me those beautiful words.

I read, I read and I read a lot.
Hoping It would be able to turn into something like it. (into those words)

Like a poem.
A flawless poem which leaves you gasping for breath.

I want to become a poem.
I want to become a story,
Which makes you cry, itch and then leaves with an ache for more.

I wish I could use those brand pompous words.
The mesmerizing vocabulary,
Impeccable rhyme,
The exceptional emotion,
preposterous thoughts.

I don't complain.
I just want to be.
Why is it never enough just to be?

And if you have to choose between,
Being you or a poem:
What kind of poem would you be?

All these magnificent poets
And yet there I am.

Did I mention?
Poet of a few words.

Alas! Again
Words, Words,  Words,
I wish I had a way with them.
How terrible it is to be a poet from the heart, with the mind of a sane person.
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