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Time...

Tell me — how much does it cost? ****, I don’t know.
I’m just trying to keep watch on the blessings I’ve got —
but more and more, they seem to stretch thin... like needle
and thread, barely holding the seams of me together.

I’m fading in connection. A rock flips — and I’m ******,
yet still trying to show decent manners. A “decent citizen”
in the dirtiest world — where the canopy of utopia is just
the Tree of Life man’s always itching to cut down…to sell
its fruits, to chop its wood, just to make pencils — so we
can write stories about it in our edited history books.

Love…

Tell me — what’s a dropout lover, anyway? Not one
who failed love — but one who stopped trying to graduate
from failed attempts. A degree in hopeless romanticism,
and a Master's in being a bachelor — but if time is really
worth it all, then tell me… what all do you really have?

Just a handful of yourself and a whole lot of doubt.
Now... what’s that about?
Two ties to a screeched past —still scratching
at the crust of blessings, just praying the miracle
comes wrapped like a lottery win. I've got creative
thoughts on command — I’m a poet in general,
drafted into survival, writing lines inside a starving
chocolate box, where sweet words can’t keep you fed.

They say they’ll pray for you, but it all feels like a
soft-spoken nothing; a sugar packet of sympathy that
dissolves too quick. Good intentions catch my eye
from time to time, but I’ve learned to watch the fine
print, because love these days comes with a return policy.

They spread your “daily bread” with butter, but the knife
I return is always too blunt, so when someone messages
out the blue and I ask, “Okay, what is it you want?

Rung by rung, I hang here, along with the clothesline
of everyone’s ***** laundry ready inside; to air it out.
Willing to play into the villain — but never mind that
every villain was once just human, walking around
with personal vendettas to air out.

But I remember a child — nuzzled into sleep, dreaming
of the nozzle, not a pacifier… reliving wars they never
asked to see, in a world  that’s grown cold enough to
make you breathe in snow and spit out fire, burning
down the globe just to feel some heat.

We own so little, yet feel owed so much.
We carry too much, but hold on to nothing.
All that we know… is that even our knowing
has become a debt we never asked for.
MetaVerse Jul 4
ınk a new line that drips upon a page;
poetry plays a point that letters spell.
when feet are running meter's rhyme and rage
the poet writes of love that's worth the tell.
a statement made of stanzas rings a bell
in ears that crave the rhythm of a verse
rehears'd in dulcet tones that maybe yell
at times when feeling love is but a curse.
volta Velveeta cheese an early hearse
and bathroom book of verses by anon.
musical fruits smell better smelling worse:
ıf music be the food of loveplay on.
     in octaves, sevenths, sixths, fifths, fourths, and thirds,
     poesy *****-footing plays with words.
Time comes and time goes. Timed perfectly, sometimes.
It times its tricks, in time. Like well timed rhythmic rhymes.
For time’s no time-thread, or a time-tangible thread.
Yet time spins time-webs into each time-plagued head.

Whispers from before time, in the time-chiming clock,
That aching tick tock, That promises time will not stop.
Might time be a stream? No, times flow is no stream.
So, time, times itself through seams in our time-faulted dreams.

Timed moments count beats in time, till the moment time snaps.
Then just in time, time resets, and traps our time in timed traps.
For time just times its mask, in a time-shadowed guise.
sometimes, time keeps us blind in a maze of time-layered lies.

Through time’s timely weaving, as time unwinds our  mind.
Strictly timed, are moments we live for, never found in good time.
For time isn’t timeless, though time insists that it is.
Time’s tricks are simply timed tricks, with no time-starts or ends.

Timed pauses in space and time, seemingly timely at their best,
But time steals those perfect times from the time that we invest.
Yet time in its time-vault, keeps no time. No, not at all,
Time rises through ages, timing ‘till its time-laden fall.

When time times our time, it feels like time, this time is real.
Yet ill-timed illusions distort the times that we can feel.
For time isn’t timed timely, nor timed to our tune.
Time is bound by time,  like the timed oribiting of the moon.

In times of confusion, we time what time says isnt there,
As Time sifts through our grasp of time. like time, itself, is air.
Yet time will timely tell that, Sometimes, time is a myth.
Oh, the time wasted I've spent, believing in times timed wits.

And that’s assuming time is flexible, by assuming time is fixed.
And on that note,  this is all assuming, that time even exists.
Carlo C Gomez May 21
Now that I think about it
I haven't heard
a crossword
from her
all day
Ivan May 16
do you still wonder
if they think of you?
think wonders do you
if they still do?

I do. I did. we did.
I wonder if they care
that I thought of them
when I did care to wonder

how wonderful!, if it is

so...
Damocles Apr 25
Drink of you like a fountain of youth
Is all I want to do when I open your bowels
To see if you digest anything I’ve ever said
Did it get lost, rattled around in the maze of your head
The rats riddle your guts with disease
And all I’m left with is spoiled love and rotted meat.
So I'm really into metal and horror, I try to blend those in my writing from time to time.
Monkey Writes Apr 19
Never — not ever! — do we not have
NO MELON, NO LEMON
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Prices are NEVER ODD, OR EVEN
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EVIL I DID DWELL,
LEWD DID I LIVE
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Come save a bunch!
And say hello to
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