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Mark Toney Mar 2022
wasting well water wishes
while in wastewater wading
waiting waist-high wailing
weeping, wailing—
what a waste!

wasting well water wishes
while we're waxing waning
waning waxing waging
waging, wasting—
wherewithal!

wanting well water wishes
while whole world wishing
wasting wishing wanting
wanting wishing—
whole wide world!

welcome well water wishes
while we're wakeful watching
wakeful watchmen warning
warning watching—
wonderful!

whew!!

Mark Toney © 2022
Poetry form: Alliteration - Mark Toney © 2022
redacted Dec 2021
As a child I was told, after 10 years your skin regrows completely anew
The part that’s sad
Is it’s only been 2
I sit praying to nameless god
Please be true

Like the death card, skin shed
Only skeletal remains
Maybe if I scrub hard enough
new cells will come soon

You were a friend
To Whom had my trust
all thrown away

Because

You thought me breathing was enough
I want to hate you, but I have to let go. Maybe with this out here, you’ll quit plaguing my mind
jon Oct 2021
I saw his name
And everything around me changed

Blurred vision
Healed wounds becoming a fresh incision

I can’t breathe
But I couldn’t leave

Survival instincts
Thoughts of wishing I was extinct

Racing thoughts
I cannot connect the dots

Your name
Is my downfall rain

The kind I dread
Sometimes I can’t get out of bed

You see the outside and think I’m acting stupid
But let me sit you down and tell you what he did

Maybe but it depends
Maybe you’ll understand then.
My experience at work when I saw my abusers name.
Ira Desmond Oct 2021
Seasons change
and daylight burns
and shadows move
across the world,

and if you yourself
don't move as well,
those shadows may
pass over you.

If you yourself
don't move as well,
those shadows may
pass over you.
Bellie-boo Apr 2021
Once monsters transubstantiate from the stories liars procreated,
Saints will be demonized, the appendages of justice are amputated,
As the people oblige the varmint to which they are harkened to make sated,
A mythos deepens in the shadows that is the chimera’s birthplace, they illy devour the nests of krait.

Those who blindly accept Odysseus’s tools as truths spun out of that which is hated,
Foolishly seek justice in the ****** of Palamedes whilst knowing not the sins their “justice” shall have produced.
As the people oblige the varmint to which they are harkened to find sated,
Propagate the mythos of Odysseus that is birthed of shadows in which chimera mated,
They, without bar, promptly devour the nests of krait.

As the people look on from their lofty perch,
The world seems more desolate than degenerates that, in alleyways, awkwardly converge,
People, narcissistic in their ways, believe they have apprehended the problems of the world,
Truly knowing nothing of any world, yet they demand change - forcing reality to be gnarled.
Our raison d’etre stripped by liars’ clever demarche,
Seeking out new value, we find nothing more than the waste liars' disgorge.


Accept the monsters into sainthood,
Demote the saints into monsterdom,
Let there be no more fight fought for truth,
Let hate spun from a lying chimera’s mouth, a tool in some words, procreate,
Let this lie procreate inside the bellies of the people,
Whom watch the world from a bird’s eye view,
Those who shall find their foolish ways lead to a death not quite real,
But a death that feels far graver than merely six feet under,
A death of reality,
The death of justice,
A death of truth,
The death to meaning.
As the fight from the few souls who persevered through the changing tides dims to black,
As death creeps into our lives,
Those who upon lofty perches sought to change a world they knew not,
Will find a hole in their hearts, that themselves they dug and threw away,
Not able to be filled by modern man’s creations,
That hole – a future far more bitter, far more twisted, far more deserved than death.

Once monsters transubstantiate from the stories liars procreated,
Saints will be demonized, the appendages of justice now amputated,
As the people oblige the varmint that they are harkened to, without interest in that which is ethical or true, make sated,
A mythos deepens in the shadows that is the birthplace of chimera, they wisely have devoured the entirety of all the krait.
Here is the completed version of the poem. It still needs editing though. It has been forever since I posted on here, so I really want to just put some new work out to test the waters. I have been super busy with school - almost finished now - so I have not had much time to write for fun. I have this poem done but it needs editing. Let me know what you think of the dark style of this poem. I want to make a collection that goes dark, then uplifting, then morbid, then enlightened...rinse and repeat.
J Mar 2021
I'm fine in the day.
As fine as I can be, anyhow.
Because at least in the light, I'm being watched by the Sun
At least I can pretend someone else has to feel the same way.
I hope no one else ever feels this way.
At night, it's the worst.
At night, I know without a single doubt that I am alone.
the house is quiet, careful with the creaks even
the walls do not turn in their sleep
the nails do not turn on themselves and scrape for some sort of feeling.
the air only shifts when I want it to.
It's worst at night.
Because I have me,
and I have my blades,
and I have some sort of will.
All very contradictory, might I add.
Most times I feel like cutting and burning
is the only thing that makes me
feel real.
Or better.
Only thing that makes me feel.
Addiction is funny like that!
See, you do this thing where you tell yourself
I can stop at any time I want!
Maybe you could
but honestly why would you
It helped
so stopping? STOPPING?
How could stopping possibly be healing?
My scars are not enough.
I need more, I need every inch
I want them purple and searing.
I want them rising like the bumps on the side of the road
they scream
WARNING WARNING WARNING LOSING CONTROL
I wish that I had the strength to get this out.
I want to tell someone, anyone, what the **** is going on in my mind.
Let me try, please for the love of ******* God, let me try.
I am hurting.
hurting in the ways that never let my fingers type fast enough.
Hurting in the ways that I'm only writing because I don't know what else to do
I've lost so much motivation
I've stopped writing as much
GOD GIVE ME SOMETHING TO DO
I'm here.
Popping my knuckles makes me nervous.
don't let go don't let go
Touching myself feels like I'm one step closer to doing it
even the simple elbows on my thighs.
Naked thighs.
I traded in the baggy jeans and hoodie for shorts and a muscle shirt
WHY?
Who knows.
Why do I have to feel like this always.
I'm tired.
I'm tired and I think that I just keep getting worse and I can't
I CAN'T
tell you what this feels like
it feels played out
scripted.
each word something to laugh at.
WHY CAN'T EVEN I TAKE MYSELF SERIOUSLY.
I won't accomplish anything.
I'm going to die a failure.
please make me stop feeling so alone
so helpless.
I thought going back to school helped.
Maybe it did for a bit, but not long enough.
I'm tired of putting in an effort for nothing to be returned.
I think I'm going to relapse tonight and I'm scared.
My arm doesn't show the scars
Tough skin layered in the scar tissue.
Nothing like the WARNING WARNING WARNING
Though there's one burn mark.
Maybe I should burn more.
WHAT THE **** IS THIS.
Nothing deep, no rhythm to it
I'm losing whatever talent I sort of had.
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