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Mark Wanless Jun 26
**** you you justly
neutered mongrel and the hand
that is up your ****
I went through hell
But I never fell
So I have a story to tell
That I'm alive

I fell from an expectation
And it ignited wild jubilation
Among a hating nation
But l'm alive

I crashed on a goal
It felt like walking on hot coal
But my Soul has a strong sole
So I'm alive

I was restrained by my fears
Drawning in my tears
But I changed those gears
Hence am alive

I'm alive for me
I'm alive for you
I guess you got the clue...
I'm alive
Leah Ward May 22
The main theme of this poem is um, triumph
So uh the secondary theme of this poem is defeat?
How could that be? Is that even what a poem is?
Is my life a song? Is this the ******* chorus?

Something crawls up from the drain through the ***** dishes and out of the sink. It grips me! It’s got me!

[This is the part I want to hide]

I saw a man so beautiful
Rarely is there ever a beautiful man--
a man so beautiful you want to kneel
and scream “You’re so beautiful!”
But instead I’ll worship him in the ways he insists:
by stepping aside on the sidewalk,
by laughing at the jokes he steals from me,
by squandering the money he pays me to do his job.

Is my life a song? Is this the ******* chorus?

It took me three to four years to learn
the difference between worshiping and begging,
between faith and belief
And now I have neither and engage in both and yet
My life feels like a free coffee and bagel
My life feels like an unwrapped candy bar
My life feels like a compliment from a stranger
My life feels like a birthday card with cash in it
Is my life a song? Is this the ******* chorus?

This is my once-yearly poem.
It’s like a broken perfume bottle at the bottom of my bag.
Look at it-- read it. Smell it.  Literal swill.  Most things make me feel sad, even more things make me feel threatened, especially this poem.
What is there to do but put my head in my hands?
What is there to say if not sorry?
Quortni Moore Nov 2022
It’s been a while…
It truly has been a while since I’ve written here, but yesterday I was triggered, inspired if you will; inspired to write this and let it be real.
When I was a child, 2nd grade to be exact, I befriended a ******* the school bus and long story short she spent my entire 2nd grade year manipulating me into all kinds of ****** acts not only with her but with other classmates. I was told by this girl, my classmate, another child, a second grader that everything we were doing was okay, it was all okay. Why?? Because her and her sisters did this kind of thing all the time.
To me as a child it made sense I guess, but she also threatened that if I ever told anyone as in ANYONE she would tell them it was all my fault all my idea. All of the staying in classrooms when no one was there, hiding and being told to do things that were beyond a child’s or even some adult’s comprehension, the hiding anywhere and everywhere and the fear of being caught it all was in my hands, and if i told I was to blame.
This went on for an entire year, or so who knows I blacked it out, but I vividly remember using a journal I got as gift to document it all detailed and when I got scared my mom would find it… I ripped the pages to shreds. And I killed the memory. I went my entire life until 19 years old that I realized it was never a dream.
It was real.
The point of this all is during a deep discussion With my best friend, I expressed to her the moment after all these years that remembered the girls name.
I told her one day my mom found a different journal I wrote in as a child, she found it a couple years ago and I was intrigued so I flipped to a random page… and on that page it was a prompt that asked my favorite and least favorite things about school.
My least favorite thing about school is: J**h .
There it was!!! Her name .
I told my best friend her name and seeing as though after I left the school district she stayed, we recalled the girl and how I can’t see her face in my mind but she knew she had a twin sister and they left the district after 2nd or 3rd grade and they came back in middle school. However by middle school I had transferred schools.

Long story short it shock my entire being that I missed this encountering this girl again . And I will never know her face or why she chose me but all I know is she was just the beginning of my trauma.
RisingUp Apr 2022
In a flash,
the thoughts come back -
"you're fat".


This illogical phrase used to put me in a haze, made me a slave, to its demands I'd cave.


My stomach feels bigger, so do my legs, does my face look fatter? Maybe it's what you ate. You need to fix it, or I will berate.

Watch it.

Weight gain not acceptable, definitely not allowed, do you really want to look like a cow? Punish yourself, less in, more out, look at you, you're just becoming more stout.


These feelings are feelings, these thoughts aren't true. All they want is for madness to ensue.

Triggered by perceptions, automatic and vile, deeply convincing, at least for a while.

Now, deep down, I know the truth. I'm healthy and active, no more to do. Fluctuations are normal, restriction is a trap. These thoughts and worries are a big load of crap.

I'll move my attention, to more important things. The blueness of the sky, the joys of spring.


Feel my hair in the breeze, hiking in the trees, laughing with friends, around food more at ease.

To my young eyes
To my innocent heart
I remember the world was a blueprint on canvas
It was a dream undreamt
It was a song unsung
As if in a crib, I looked about me at the stars of the cities
Constellations of people hung about
Their wounds and aches, joys and laughter, were the myths
Like the Zodiacs, groups of these people
Could define a person
Yet believing myself undefined, I strode out from shelter
Untamed, I ventured to find my purpose
A purpose that would shake the mountain
Rain down the ash of winter
Smother the pits below my dreams
Cull the nightmares that stoke my fears
I waited
I waited, I waited
I tell you the waiting became my purpose
Finally, there, in the clutch of time, I found my calling
I will tell you all of the waiting
I will tell you, don't wait...

Don't wait for the door to ring
or the latch to unlock

Do not wait for the song to play
or the band to sit

Open the door
Be the composer
Be the pilot of your dreams, be the chieftain, be the god

While waiting for what I could be
I saw everyone else become

With the zeal of their hearts
I saw them build, I saw them grow
This one built a nest
That one stitched a doll
Now the doll's a mannequin and my waiting missed the change

I waited for the waiting to end
I waited for the wanting to decide
I waited for foe or friend
I waited until
there was nothing left inside

Where is the zeal of my heart
The timbre of my soul
I lost the sight, the sound, the love
because waiting took its toll...
Ultimately, I started this poem because I wanted a poem title that started with the letter 'Z' since I didn't have one. That's important, LOL. So important I got inspired, hopped off to a grand beginning, then got lost and saved this poem in a draft. That was May 2021. I was lost then, I realize.
The "timbre of my soul" had quieted. In mourning, it was still.

Yet today, January 21st, 2022, I managed to finish this poem. I opened it up, felt the passion in the words and just went at it. I'm quite satisfied not only with this poem but with the fact I finished it. Finishing, or even starting, longer poems has been a struggle for me.
Writing has been a struggle, all in all. But I will not let the fire die.
That is the one thing I owe myself.

Keep writing. Even if I am starving, in pain, destitute, heartbroken, wrathful, sick, lonely, terrified, abused, blind, crippled, persecuted, villainized, disillusioned, cheated, imprisoned, shackled, insane, exiled, abandoned, lost, confused, desperate, paralyzed, dying, I will do it. I will keep writing.
Philip Lawrence May 2021
high above the river, from the edge of the cliff, one can
see the rafters in their inflated crafts, in the blue and
red and yellow ovals, bright and iridescent and suspended
atop the furious strip of gray as they wend below, lifting,

twisting, careening as their vessels sprout sodden arms that
grip scarred paddles, paddles that swing quick and deep  
into the foam only to then be held still and wide to the water,
a thousand rudders to navigate the rocks and avoid the

hard realities that rise in the shallows and are revealed  
without warning, some only to scream haplessly like
funhouse monsters, while the others lie dangerously quiet,  
unseen under the surface, until at river's tail the rafters

lift their oars in triumph amid the mirror-like calm, life’s
vagaries conquered for the moment
Melody Mann Apr 2021
She carries a past painted with murals of adversity,
She treads towards a future adorned with jewels of potential and prosperity,
She upholds responsibilities with dignified clarity,
A consolidation of the contributions of those transcended,
A goddess embodied; who leaves even broken hearts mended,
Her generosity embarks on a triumph unfolding.
Joanna Alexandre Apr 2021
Maybe some of us aren’t meant for “great things”
Maybe some of us are just meant to survive.

And maybe that’s the great thing in itself;
To survive an unsurvivable mind.
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