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Jen P Oct 8
If I considered you for a day
Would I know love?

You pull at me
like taffy.

Place a sticky tendril in your mouth,
and deliberate on the sickly sweet
as it coats your tongue.

I look from where you have
and feel
like empty calories.

someday i hope you
and your sticky hands
Jen P Oct 2
I've always been infatuated with forever

How did his body know when to end?

I'm sitting with pearls in my hands,
know them each by their own cool touch,
Set them down, pick them up
Place one in my mouth
just to know the taste.
Then spit it out.

For what purpose is a pearl
Jen P Sep 11
Invisible girls,
silent girls

Girls who live
behind walls
behind masks
in Wells that delve
deep into the earth

Not alone,
but quiet.
Surrounded by
a drowning sound,
lost even to themselves.

But still
they are


Knowledge has ahead of it, forgetfulness.
The crow does not stop to examine his wing,
His gaze would surely cause him to fall out the sky.
Yet there is a time when knowing is fruitful.
Reflective verse for a work in progress - Crows Cage, a graphic novel about a correlation with the life and works of Vincent van Gogh
For some reason or not,
The softness was exposed,
and like all creatures who are in danger,
I found a hard shell to call my home.
What else do you expect from me!
When you all join in a world,
So full of sorrow.

It’s a game where you’re neither the pieces or board.
But  authors of  rules.
No matter,
I shall love all the same.
Works in progress for a new graphic novel about Vincent van Gogh. These are trial pieces for both a background narrative and conversational pieces.
Ian Wissler Aug 7
With each step I take,
I slip further into Earth,
A trench of regrets.

This place is my post,
My never ending routine,
A prison of thoughts.

Cresting waves of guilt,
An endless stream of questions,
A sea of troubles.

Towering mistrust,
Lost amidst my constant worries,
A forest of doubt.
Hidden Glace May 11
The Bare-bones structure of a long poem I'm working on
Keep on the lookout for updates
croob May 10
My dad's old friends came round to our apartment sometimes:
friends whose real allegiance lied with nostalgia for my father,
who would come round for some beer
and a guilty look at my mother’s ***.

Today, as usual, she let them track mud through our little house, cackling like hyenas
and pretending to admire the art on our walls.
She let 'em do it but then we all went out on the porch and they started to tell me, as mama looked on with pursed, painted lips,
bout the time my daddy’d -
well i never ever did find out what my daddy'd done
*** that's when she slammed down the case of beer
on the patio table.

All three of them paused to look at her.
It was like she’d turned them all off, with a button that she kept hidden in her *****.
for a second they realized how sad she must've been,
they realized he probably shot himself right upstairs
and then they looked at me
like I was a dead little boy
wearing my daddy's eyes.

I missed when they’d been smiling merrily, slapping the table with each joke and
wiping the sweat off their foreheads with their wrists and
leaning back in their chairs, flicking their lighters against their cigarettes and
savoring mouthfuls of chewing gum and dip,
'*** now they were still.

“Now don’t go tellin’ tales to John,” she said, and doled out a few drip-cold beers to shut them up.

They washed the stories down with her alcohol and all just forgot about it,
or more likely,
they'd started thinking about that button
burrowed between my mother’s *******.
croob May 10
where i grew up there was nothing much to do, except for when a calf decided to escape down the road and we had to track it (rather slowly) in dad's tractor. there were muddied girls, machismo, gunshots, impromptu bonfires, confederate flags, enough dip and ***** to fill the ***** river we all swam in and hungry coyotes turning up in our driveway - but ******* it, at night the stars were fairy lights, strung in the sky by the powerful hand of a *** we all believed in.
croob May 3
my head emptied
as though bathwater down a drain, and i became simpler:
than the children kicking and screaming and skinning their knees on mulch,
than the cars coming and going and crashing and catching dead bugs in their killer windshields.

suddenly, ripples were spreading gently through the sky
like it was a body of water, being stirred to life by the clouds
like they were the fluffy fingers of a kid poking at his fish bowl,
and i started wondering what a sky even was
and if it could be the ground
if i sought to somehow stand on it.

i sat in the grass, plucked out its longest blades
like i was a brush tearing hair from the scalp of the earth,
started weaving little green bracelets, like I'd done as a boy,
and i did it until the sun had started to go down,
unable to connect the sky’s slow setting
to a passing of time.
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