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Logan Turner Aug 2
Life is flashing by without me
******* and made to watch the ghost
******* sounds from behind the mask
Slick with oil
Gassed and destroyed
Painful wheezing
Breaths are leaving
Red wet chest barely moves anymore

He's covered in mud and chasing me
Just the energy
Let it out and let it go
No need to think too much
I can grasp the throne if I let him go
I can grasp it
I can grasp the unkown

It's like I forget that nothing matters
Nothing is real
Gas me again
Cover me in oil and blow it up
Scratch another surface clean
Why can no one else see this
Truth is ugly
It has no face and it scares me

Blow it up but nothing happens
Some kind of undecided pattern
Its only beautiful from specific angles
Sporadic and unpredictable
Knotted and tangled
I don't write much
Logan Turner Aug 16
No one's coming to save you
Get used to that
Feel so alone
Run out of things to say
Everything feels so empty
When I run out of ideas to share
And nothing excites me anymore
And I bang my head against these walls
And I don't stop
And the cranks are turning
And they never stop turning
And it's getting tighter
And it's getting nearer
And it won't stop hunting
And it won't stop hurting
As long as you're beating
I can hear it's blood travelling
Keep it away please
Please keep it away from me
It has no face and it scares me
No one can seem to name it
Slithers back
Back to where it can't be seen
Logan Turner Aug 16
I scream at the plaster peeling on the wall
So existential I hardly know how to spell it
So I just melt away into nothingness
Become the paint and keep still for once
The answer floats along
Etched into eternities consciousness
Don't worry about it
The functions are complex but the reasons so simple
Let it pass by
Don't question
Let it slumber and snore
And then peace
Just for now
A few more moments
Keep still
Arms open and throat exposed
Khoi Aug 6
Second gilded age

malefactors of great wealth

the oligarchy

still GOD USED ORDINARY
PEOPLE just like you and me
Remember God defeated the third ***** using ordinary people with
Extraordinary will
Alyssa Gaul Apr 26
Spring feels like dying this time.
I usually feel like withering,
but because of the allergies.
People used to be able to laugh
at my sneezes; now they feel like
quick triggers. How do I know which
it is? My phone says it’s a Friday.
The calendar says it’s April.
I know it’s both, but it feels like neither

because spring feels like dying this time.
When I go outside I can relax for a little
in the warmth, but I know it’s a false feeling—
that nature is living. No one I know is really
living, but the mosquitos don’t care.
I go from bed to table to bed again,
wearing the same clothes; it feels maybe
like being mummified. I know I’m in a
tomb, with the same walls haunting me,

and spring feels like dying this time.
Not even the loose sunlight pooling
in from the window can draw me out
from my blanket-cave where the screen
light burns fleeting images into my retinas.
I let myself lie there until the hours fade,
like everything’s just one big dream,
another reality where my body is nothing
but goo. It helps me to forget the truth,

that spring feels like dying this time.
Still Crazy Oct 2019
“High in an ingredient called allicin, garlic can help stimulate circulation and blood flow to ****** organs in both men and women. However, because of garlic's mood-killing smell, eat it in moderation.”

while researching mold, stumbled on this factoid,
the one that’s asking
what is moderation in love?
and where in the oddest places, we find answers...

oft thought that pure love is extremist,
and any extreme needs to thrive on its antimatter,
so goodness, needs speckles of unkind,
and ****** promotions, aides that aid,
present an invoice needy for stamping “paid!”

such is the casino we play life in,
you cannot leave till you’re paid up,
paid in full in heartbreak joyous,
so the odor of love, keener, fruited,
when absent and the green grocer
no longer smiles when his ex-best garlic
customer walks by(e)

I toiled in seduction fields, gathering fruits and flowers,
now, reduced to a window-sill gardener whose
crop will grow from citified rain, small stunted,
leaden and ripe for discardation

troll me not, your stuff is your stuff,
mine is mine, when we meet, you will be slow to recognize,
but you will smell my garlic, and know it’s

that poet
exactly

au revoir, no!

it’s not your eyes that will acknowledge
my existence, but the dirt beneath my fingernails,
and the perfume of what might have been therein contained
if you, sadly unlike me,
are!
s t i l l
crazy after all these (tears) years
fearfulpoet Oct 2019
these hard words

are the only fruit my hard-rocked soiled-soul produces,
my alliterations secrete no beliefs, quench nothing,
the poems I don’t write are my most successful,
the songs that comforted, now find no-entry orifice

skin cold wet clammy sweating unsuitable for tilling,
my horizons natural, felled, underground swallowed,
replaced by the man-made barriers, guardrails of words
leaving body, utterances shoutout, exiting non-permissioned

lurch from one guilt-carrying, black leather-straps wrapped,
round my arm, to the ones strapped around my temple,
honorable acts owed, responsibilities fear foundering
unfulfilled lists, griefs, signs of cowardice, badges shameful

deep sighs, open groans, me mean asking questions of myself,
laughed off, city noises turned off, silences of colorless colden,
the sirens loudest inside reverb endlessly, still give nothing away,
a final exam, an all sided, annual checkup reveals nothing but


these hard words

7:48am 10/15/19
hannah Aug 2019
You are more
Than the stars
In the sky
At night
You're so much more

Just a delicate
Drop of dew
On my windowsill
Not waiting for me
Too close to touch

You're ethereal
Making the
Planets jealous
You're too close
To evanescence
Hold on I'm not done yet.
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