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Nat Lipstadt Apr 2023
yes, in full possessive of all the typical, ****** wearing-out diminishments and diminutions

so no surprises, that I’m squinting to see my own personal
street signs two blocks ahead, in case a dreaded left turn be

I hear eventually what your thinking, by the second, third rep, I am fully informed of your opinion and am left wondering why people blather rather than win some, with  
a winsome smile

but it  catches me unaware that my voice, (its tones, notions,and colorations) is softer, though not purposed or so intentioned,this is puzzling, so wrestle for the whys, as is my wont, for explicating my existence be my full time employment and time is  overly plentiful and it’s steady evaporation is not the diet I am needing or even

perhaps, (always a multi-perhaps), mine aging grants an edge-softening, the brain regulates away the shouting urgency of what seemed important, demandy &needy for immediate attention, has a natural implant subtly started subtracting and governs my always was voluble but less-than-valuable insistence to be heard above the raucous din of the world~is~ending~

perhaps, it is something simple physic, but I deny that
escapism excuse, for yet, my bellyful laughter still loudest I know especially, at the ironical, comical of my mirror image rightly making fun of my vanity and even yet today, on a busy city street my senior YO! still summons taxis  to appear from
blocks away

perhaps, he flatters himself, his soon to be required stick will be so big, the need to speak softly intuitively concomitant, but that’s a lie as  he has no stick as of yet, ‘cept for the one he himself, he hisself, penetrated & perpetrated up his own ****

perhaps, just the intuitive or learned wisdom to think slower, talk lower, excise the waste of haste that plagues  the modern life, all that quiet, buttery yet uncool logic persuasion triumphs over the no-reasoned- shouting-pretense to be everybody’s exercised right
to be stupid

so many possible perhaps that this  listing is making me too, 
list to one side; perhaps, the list is so lengthy it requires a conservation of energy, and sotto voce approach to the so-much-of-everything
yet unanswered,

but perhaps,
I  just have less to say and
it comes out of me,
softer and wiser…ha!

perhaps, time has worn me down into a…
**a modulated man
Sat Apr 16 2023
Khaab May 2021
They say I am the wrong size...
And have things to say about my body...
They say it...and leave...
But do their words leave?
"Can't you see your clothes don't fit in anymore!"
" Oh! you are eating that..."
" look fat today!"
It seems funny to them to compare me to different animals...
What do they want!?
I don't get it...should I stop eating?
Should I get insecure about my body like thousands of other girls of my age?
Should I throw up...and then one day end up in a hospital?

They say I am the wrong size...
Then what is the right size?
A thin waist...a lean figure...
They even say ,"everyone is different."
                        smirks they really mean it?
Words are said to insult my body...
Every single word attacks like poisonous arrows...
they let out of their bows.
And it kills something inside me.

They say I am the wrong size...
Then...what's up with that!? huh!
I love the way I am...
I appreciate my they are mine...
And today...all I wanna do is-
Appreciate my little heart...
For taking all of that
As I can't let myself down.
We live in a world filled with different people with different body size, color, shape and what not...let's stop putting people and ourselves in that trap of ideal body types of these beauty standards. Let's normalize everything...because it's sad how many of us suffer!
Logan Turner Aug 2020
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 2020
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 2020
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
Khoisan Aug 2020
Second gilded age

malefactors of great wealth

the oligarchy

PEOPLE just like you and me
Remember God defeated the third ***** using ordinary people with
Extraordinary will
Alyssa Gaul Apr 2020
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

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,
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
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