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Melanie 2d
could lie about the past and cover it up.
i know you expect the salad of truth, served fresh with intriguing dressing–the good bits that make you want more.

i know that you feel as if i hate you, secretly.

i pretend to love every aspect of you,
although you're a broken pile of glass shards to me.

cutting my emotions and making me bleed tears of contrition.
shame that i wasn't good enough,
shame that you regret tying the knot,
shame that we even met.

you're the only other person besides me that has a glimpse of heart.

at least, you care about me a little.

even if you manipulated me a trillion times to conform to your standards,
even if you admonished me for not being the most beautiful,
even if you belittled my existence,
i can't escape the reason why i'm still staying with you:

fear of losing you.
I'm unmarried. I heard about a situation in my personal life where a married couple chose to go out and have a good time over bonding with their children. This poem, in any fashion, is not criticizing their marriage or conveying a particular situation in their lives.
Dahlia 2d
I have been told to sing a song of myself.
What type of song?
The average song is three minutes and thirty seconds long. There is a chorus and a verse and a bridge. There are instrumental sections and lyrics and a harmony and a melody
and my life seems to not quite fit that mold
but I am all for trying.

I have asked myself about that thing that is in my head, and I said to let it be.
“Let it be, it’s surely nothing more than a scrap of a dream,” I say, and I agree.

Today, I saw two deer. One so brutally real, alive, that I can still feel the sandpaper-tongue on my wrist, the casual flick of an ear as I brush it with my gloved hand, the inquisitive nature in which it noses at my pockets for a morsel that I didn’t think to save at the time, and suddenly wish I had just to reward it for being so clever. Its pelt, dusty brown and flecked with white, was coarser than expected. It reminded me of grass in the late summer, when the stalks are going into the last seed of the season, and they take on a golden-dun hue. I took a moment to remove my glove. I yearned to feel the field on her back, to turn over each piece of grass and see the hidden silvery roots. This presence, though (probably) not possessing the mind to know what it meant to me at the time, came nearer to me than I would have dared go towards it. It came nearer to me than you would; people have stopped meeting my eye but this creature which had every reason to fear and hate me was touching me. For those few minutes, I just felt that deer. That curiosity- one part tentatively measuring every detail and one part bolder than anyone would have expected- brought my mind to its knees. Every note of myself was suddenly resonating with one tune.
But the moment passed, and she bounded away. All too quickly, another image from the morning leapt to my mind. Roadkill. A doe, caught in throes of agony. The body bloated with festering gases, the eyes glassy and bulging. Her legs were splayed and bent at unnatural angles. Broken on impact. Neck thrown back in her own dying scream, the ground beneath her mouth was stained with a splatter of blood and bile. The same pelt, a silvery brown, was smeared with blood and covered in lesions. More ghastly was the crow perched on a rib, thrusting his glossy black head within and coming out sated and covered in gore. A feast to one, a funeral for another. The creature had been dead for a few days at the most, but it didn't matter; the scene was eternal. Commonplace, almost. I saw two more on the same road. The corpse lay discarded, wasting, akin to those shredded tires that litter the freeways of Las Vegas, and to any other pair of eyes, it would have been a grotesque nuisance. Unfortunate, but unavoidable. No empathy for the dead- only sympathy.

the world is
too big
    too big for me
because even though im tall
my temper is short
i follow the thunder call
    take me past the edge
        i say
all i’ve ever wanted is to see more
    and more
and know that somewhere
        somehow
i’ll be different than before

I do not want to stop poetry, though it is a poisoned cup. I know that it is never going to be substantial in my life, beyond a hobby; I know poets are fifty-percent more likely to take their time; I know it just seems like wasted words I keep locked deep inside me. I build a shield of stanzas, a river of rhymes, a legion of letters to keep my errant soul in place. It wanders and wanes like the moon, and I crush it deep within me with my muttered musings. It can never flow free, except when I allow. I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul. It will obey or be removed. I will be what I need to be. I will do what I need to do. I will take whatever measures I need to. Who cares if I want to feel so much it makes me hollow?
I stare into the setting ochre sun every so often, and I can hear the twang of a subtle guitar deep behind my eyes, and I can't even sigh. I should not feel so much. I should not feel so much of this feeling. I have given it a name: the get-goings. It rips through me like a thunderstorm. It slides across my fingers like the rolling tide, and it rings in my ears like a prayer. Get going, get going, get going, get going, getgoinggetgoinggetgoing, if I don't do something I'm going to shatter. I need to move. I feel it crackling in my bones like a surging shockwave. It flits down my spine and, with a touch as soft as a whisper, it tentatively- almost ponderously- shoves an icicle between my ribs. I look out late across the valley and lock eyes with the summer sun. It calls to me, that serene temptress, and it tells me to leave. “Get going,” it chides. “You should have left it all behind a lifetime ago.” But I never do. I think I’m still waiting for someone else. It would be wrong to leave without him.

There is a persistent itch fluttering in my throat, and I have been seeking its name.
They tell me that hope is the thing with feathers, but
I wonder-
are flutters and feathers truly the same?
The sky looks down with watery eyes,
and shivering winds that pass for deep sighs,
and all the world is soaked in her tears
as she mourns the passing of thousands of years.

How can something so severe show up so suddenly?
How did I invite this illicit inspiration?
To take my time would make me terrible, tantamount to treason
And would amount to almost any outcome but the desired answer.

This year I will hear
the sleepy lullaby of rain-
And miss everything in between today and my clear days.

These are not the songs of myself.
I do not sing for myself.
I sing what is within me; I sing the songs I know need to be sung. I sound my own yawp; I sound it in my own way, be it silent or screaming. I seek not to fill my mouth with the words of others. I have faced my agonies in my own way, and it sufficeth me to share them sparingly.
This is not a song of myself.
This is a song by myself, a song for others to hear and reflect on, a song from my soul-
messy and shoved together and vaguely familiar in a way that reminds you of the drumming rain.
This is the song that I have been trying and failing to sing for so long.
Initially for a school project. Based on Walt Whitman's 'Song of Myself', though that one is 52ish pages long.
Chris 3d
I like the truth as I like my women,
Simple, ***** and hopefully in my favor.
Chris 3d
I don't care for the spasm you call a smile,
I don't care if your soul is vile.

I don't care if you're the bitter one,
Who will carve my life undone.

Simple words are spoken only when
you tell the truth,
and only then.

The truth whatever it may be,
Will seldom set you free.
Tell the truth to ones you love,
They curse and throw stones from above,
Tell the truth to wretched foes,
And be cast with waste below.

Simple words are words for men
who love the truth,
and only them.

I don't love you, don't forget,
I love myself, and only that.
I love the way you curl asleep,
I love the lines that run so deep,
I love the face that I want to *****,
True enough, but I don't love you.
Then I heard, "We've met before. I believe countless times in innumerable lifetimes." She looked at me and said, "Boy, we have already done this. Don't you remember?" And the girl in my dreams said to look inside her eyes but not at her eyes. "There is a way out. I can show you if only you believe me. We can be free," she stated. Can the patterns really ever be broken? "This will **** you," she said. "Your mental imprisonment is an endless cycle, you broken record," she furiously lamented. "There is pain in everything. Pain in pleasure but pleasure in pain. What is growth without death? What is progress in happiness without change? The ultimate comfort is unknowingly repeating the same cycles over and over again. To enter the uncomfort zone is ultimate freedom." A beautiful dream just a brutal nightmare disguised that replays real events of the past in the mind until I wake up to realize they are no longer mine.

I sit still and she whispers for me to look down as she offers me a hot cup of tea. There is a South Korean woman in a red dress in my tea. She wears a lavender rose through her hair while looking at me. The ocean current pushes the waves to the surface of my mouth. She holds my hand softly, then gives a firm grip.


I am alone in a bedroom and there is a beautiful, but haunting Gregorian chant. I go out to the garden to pick foreign fruit from fences near an old church. I eat the fruit and she tells me to watch her hand. She draws three circles in the air. The first circle is small, the second is slightly bigger, and the third is much larger. "What is this?" I asked her with confusion in my voice. "Chaos," she said in an assuring manner. The circles followed each other surrounding me and going up and down. "But...can you see the order?" she asked me. I just watched them. "To understand the meaning is futile. It is beyond your comprehension. Things happen, you see. Maybe you think they are good or bad. It is just nature. Go with it and allow it. There you will become truth."


This woman wore black, she had pale skin, seductive emerald-green eyes, long and straight black hair, with a face so beautiful is was beyond reason. I could not look away. She directed me with her finger to come with her. We were ***** and she kissed me in a dark room with the moonlight striking her body from the window of her bedroom. I closed my eyes and I heard her say, "Now try to find me." I opened my eyes and she was gone. As euphoric as I felt, I wondered where she had gone and if I would ever see her again.


I awoke to the oppressing sunlight burning my eyes. I felt an emptiness like never before. I searched lifetimes looking for her, only to receive hints of her echo. Every time it feels for sure I will meet her, I open the door to the beginning again. So I run and run in dreams. My mind is exhausted.


There she is. I have found her. I wait for her to look at me and recognize me, but she never does. She sits alone crying. I wait and then I leave. Something is wrong. Which is worse, I thought: To be rejected by the most important thing you have ever known or for it to disappear forever from your grasp and live each day and night yearning for it again? If only there was a cure for the mind's obsessions.


I woke up with no recollection of anything or who I even was. My phone was near my head ringing. I looked and it said, "Unknown Caller". Usually I never answer, but something told me to pick up and my curiosity got the best of me. I answered but said nothing. I listened and she said, "I found you. Now are you ready to be free?" I confirmed and I followed her into the darkness.
Anna 4d
I Had Something

No Good It Would Bring

But Death And Madness And One True Thing

All Because It Entailed

Itself To Me
Something... 2016
A CAKE'S DONE WHEN YOU BAKE IT, A STORIE'S DONE WHEN WROTE. LIFE IS WHAT YOU MAKE IT, A CLICHE BUT TRUE QUOTE. A DEAF MAN FEEL'S THE BASS, A BLIND MAN FEEL'S YOUR FACE. EACH MINUTE IS A BLESSING SO I'M IN NO RAT RACE! IGNORANCE IS BLISS? ABSTINENCE A GIFT? THE FEEL OF "THAT" KISS, BRIDGING THAT ONE RIFT, DON'T SIT AROUND WAITING FOR LIFE, YOU'LL JUST GET LEFT BEHIND. WORD'S CAN CUT YOU LIKE A KNIFE, AND THERE IS NO REWIND! SO LEAVE THE PAST, JUST WALK AWAY, ALTHOUGH IT MAY BE HARD. THE FUTURE'S COMING, COMING FAST, YOU CAN NOT RUN AWAY! WHY SHOULD OR WOULD YOU WHEN EACH DAY, YOU OPEN UP YOUR EYE'S? THE TRUTH IS THAT YOU ARE ALIVE SO GRASP IN EVERY WAY! DON'T GET CAUGHT UP IN SADNESS OR CAUGHT UP IN THE LIE'S. BE THANKFUL THAT YOU'RE HERE, EACH DAY IS A SURPRISE!.
Silence takes over.
Everyone is running.
Leaving this world.
Littered with hate.

Music quiets the
Yelling.

Still, we can’t see the truth.
On gods will,
Up in heaven.
Locked and sealed away.
Bob 4d
Lately my thoughts haven't made much sense
Seem lost and scattered among the deaf
Shown to the blind
Haven't been able to picture one yet
Like my first child
They died before making it to daylight  
You heard seeing is believing right
Keep my eyes closed to miss the view of my depressed state of mind
What's the point of talking to those who pretend
So I sit quiet and alone
God has already called on all my friends


Strike a match  
Flick a bic
Make some light cause this is all dark ****
Am I the only one to sit with my eyes closed
Thinking how easy it would be if I made my last breathe my last breathe
Leave the note you wrote years ago saying goodbye
Don't be selfish by getting mad
I was ready for my time to end
Breaking the cuffs
Snapping the chains
If it wasn't meant to be then good would've stopped me
Right?


Would shake hands and say goodbye
But my left is wiping sweat
While the right one puts in  work  
I tried everything from eight cokes and countless lines
And still can't find my smile
So why fight the feeling
I don't matter
You been blowing me off like I'm the dirt on  Mr. Knowles shoulder
Put me in a closed space with your sister
I'll hit her hard
Make you a auntie slash ex step mom
Now you have something to go sit and tell
Let me get the door for you
I'll act like I'm over you
Yell, scream and cuss
Then slam the door
As I hit the floor
Cause only then will I break
Cry out asking God why
Feminine has become a intimate word to me
Something to hide in the ***** drawer locked in the floorboards
Too intimate and innocent  to show to the the worlds
The first chance they get they drop your drawers and say well why would you go and do that? And demand you do; you try to say you won’t.

Why so sensitive?

They want those white ******* so much they crave them
search
       for
            them
                      in the dark
                                      
But mock them in the  daytime
to be sensitive was to be gullible
So why Walt’s in those white petals when the world wears ***** boots
How do you shed those pants for linen loons
The world has shown how it degrades the “dumb blonde” and her worth
To be feminine to be intimate to be innocent to be sensitive to be gullible to be worthless
Growing up I had a hard time time being intimate with other people, I don’t mean the ****** way I mean the feelings that you have the closeness to the other person and the nakedness you have to show your true self. Somehow this got connected to being attached to all the reacurrinng word in this poem. This is also shown in the first couple of words how the a after become isn’t an right before the vowel in intimate, showing the closeness to each vowel and how this is seen as wrong in this sentence.
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