Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Cjf Jul 2018
The vision is so pure and so raw and so filled with need  
My stomach swollen with a love that being full isn't satisfactory, it's greed
It's a feeling of wanting more and more and not having enough of the fill that has your name
That makes me synonymous to greed; one and the same.
The feeling that accepts you as you
And expects nothing but truth
A feeling of jealousy so knee deep
It's hard to throw away & easier to keep
Destiny C Jul 2018
Happiness is filtered through a long silver pump,
where it is torn apart,
then crushed together in a lump.

Sadness is poured in a giant mixing bowl,
where it is strained out,
then dropped into the black dump hole.

Anger is stacked on top,
piled in pieces,
only to be lit by a flame the size of a drop.

Love is demolished on sight,
battered and bruised,
leaving a stench of bitterness out of  spite.

The emotional dump is a place where emotions go,
when they've been let loose -
out of control.

When they've grown outside the human heart,
and reaked havoc like an art.

It's a place where emotions die in a flash,
placed next to all the world's gunk and gloop and unwanted trash.
The Earth is hungry.

Down by the train tracks,
her smooth skin ripples and buckles
until her lips part.

She swallows the rusty railroad spikes.
She gobbles up the old rubber tire.
She devours the discarded work boot, ankle first.
She slurps up the dusty cheetah-print blanket like a limp noodle.
Something resembling a flashlight sinks into her gaping maw.
She drinks deeply of the shimmering oily water until her skin cracks.

We proudly call things “man-made.”
Yet we’re just borrowing them.

Despite our arrogant defiance,
they all return one day
to the Earth.
written: June 6, 2017
revised: July 8, 2018
A Simillacrum Jul 2018
Child of the state has an acceptable life
but
mom
is there
as she thought right
when
she was
just a kid, herself.

Stuck in the maelstrom of prideful ways
that
her
mother
and her father
taught her
and so made
two babies,
batter and baste
and begone --

only to admit in the future
to a confused
son and daughter
her
deeper reasons:
she
hurt for love,
she
hurt for the company. . .

. . . (so)!

Keep it going!
Forget, "slowly."
Keep it going,
you're doing
great!

Keep it going!
Forget slowly,
that education is
important.
Keep it up!
Remember,
if someone criticizes
it's because
you're
do
in
g
r
e
a
t
!
gabriela Jun 2018
every night before I sleep
I pray I won’t see you again in my dreams

every time, you scratch open the wound in my back
and I’m so tired seeing you like that

why can’t I remember the days when you made me alive?
you were the only one who knew me and a part of me died

maybe all of me died when you threw me away
like the trash in the corner you’ve been ignoring all day

I hate that you treated me like that, even more that you still are
I hate that my mind tries to tell me who you are

I know that’s not you, the one I see in my sleep
I know you're not the monster I see in my dreams

please, I can’t watch you slash open the scar on my skin
because you’ve hurt me too much to hurt me again

I know that’s not you; but if it is, then who am I,
but the trash you forgot to take outside?

because you killed me and bagged me and threw me away
I was the trash that you left on the corner that day

and it's black and it stinks and I'm covered in ****
and I thought that you loved me more than this

I've tried and I've tried to push these thoughts out
and trust me, I'm trying to stop dreaming so loud

and I hate when I try to convince myself that's what you're like
but I hate it even more when I'm ******* right
Brandon Conway Jun 2018
Look out in the field when you drive by
Look to the ditch that your cruising beside
Look to the grass and you will see
Look upon that constellation of trash
That tells the story of how we treat
This street
This neighborhood
This town
This county
This state
This country
This continent
This place
We call home
Rezium Jun 2018
I've heard you before.
I can hear your tone and yet,
I can't define it's contour.

I  can't say I even used the word right cause I don't know how to explain this storm.

I've tried to interpret.
Believe me, I've tried to work with it.
But the more I think, the bigger it grows.

I wish to understand and help you out.
But what's the point if I can barely figure your thoughts.

I can't fix you and I can't help.
But I can learn and try
Just give me some time.
You don't know what to do anymore.
Charlie Gnarly May 2018
Bin
Sometimes I wish I really was a bin.
Trash could fill my surrounds, and in.
******* would be in my mind,
I sometimes I could hope,
that a coin
might land
inside
.
A graphically pleasing poem written about embodying my alter-ego transformation.
Next page