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Abigail Marie Apr 2014
You cause
a break inside my organs
Pointing out my flaws
our differences.
You are at peace.
I sit jittering, worrying
what everyone will think
of when I didn’t care
you made me laugh at
Changes.  You’re not right for me
Nor I for you, but I can’t help
What if?  Then I remember
you’re not what nor
Everything I want.

You are an intellectual snob you
have a depth about you
I would love to delve in,
a psychological study
that even the best critics would praise,
but I don’t want anyone else to have been there
or ever go there.
I cannot hold on to you
tear me away while
You’re haphazardly gluing us together
We’re a kindergarten art project
messy, trying to see
Beauty within the confusion,

You asked me
Where am I most at peace
4 years old.      
I could be anything
No fears
I hadn’t been ripped apart.
I was the girl that said everything,
until I felt the need to screen my thoughts,
like the filter you use to make your coffee
each morning.  I wish that’s where I was,
having you tell me
that you like your women like your coffee
Dark and bitter.

I can look past your chauvinistic ways,
not giving a **** about anyone.
You’re not really closed minded
You just act like it,
which annoys the hell out of me
Sometimes.  I wish life was simple.    
But then
I would never know your complexities nor
Feel the things you help me feel,
like hate for train whistles
or the burn of gin hitting my throat.
you introduce me to
offstage trumpets, bad movies.  Your politics,
your brown eyes      
and how you can hear frequencies
that most everyone else can’t.  I worry
that you hear
the fear in my voice and heartbreak
With every word I speak.

When were you going to tell me?
Or was that your plan all along?
To throw me out
like yesterday’s coffee grounds
or cut up scraps
Used and unwanted.
I wish I could tell you
to tell her you don’t want her
but me instead,
you don’t, I don’t want you to.
I want holding hands, laughter
comfort, personality, humor, intellect.
You want that plus things
I can’t give
But you always take.

You are your coffee
disgusting, caffeinated,
the only patch that helps is
comforting words you never spoke.
We had many conversations
of your desires, lusts, mistakes,
but I was burned,
by lies, distrust.
You left, like always,
a harsh, acidic aftertaste
on my tongue.
A Watoot Mar 2015
ph5 acidic

ph6.7 slightly acidic

*I do not sugar coat boldness.
A piece of me.
Annie Sep 2014
Green eyes,
wish they'd stay
but only when I cry
and my eyes are red
from the acidic tears
only when I'm high
and my eyes are red
from the smoke roaming the air

wish green eyes would stay,
but I am stuck with brown
and theyre kind of a bore.
Mitchell Duran Feb 2013
Goodbye Prague, to a city I never thought I'd know.
Goodbye Prague, to a heaven that is lined with shattered beer bottles and stamped out cigarettes the junkies and the hobo's here still manage to get a  few puffs out of.
Goodbye Prague, to a hell that was once hovering with the feelings of control, manipulation, and more control, but now is twirling top speed to a land unknown.
Goodbye Prague, you seductive ***** with your cheap liquor, beer, and cigarettes, smelling of aged mahogany mixed finely with an acidic burst of fresh *****.
Goodbye Prague, I do not know when I will see you again, but I hope that I do and that I never grow so old that I forget you.
Goodbye to your abstract animals smeared black, screaming in the exploding summer sun. Goodbye to freshly cut pigs heads and cow flesh, hanging in your storefront window, tempting every passerby like the *****'s of Amsterdam.
Goodbye to every cobblestone that shines after a fresh rain or snow, slippery to the newcomer, an annoyance to the amateur, thoughtless to the old timer.
Goodbye to the potraviny's stocked with two crown marked up ***** and space vegetables shaped and colored in a one and only kind of vernacular; without you, I would have half-drunkenly stumbled home towards dreams of menial headaches and shadowy beer or perhaps to The Oak to drink alone.
I scream so long through faint puffs of carbon nicotine clouds made illuminated by the icy orange street lamps 800 years old glow!
I scream so long to late metro's and early trams!
I scream so long to the roaring rocks who reflect the faces of aging clocks!
So long to passed out bums and unforgiving metro officers. So long to dollar fifty beers and the fear of getting deported. So long with counting silver crown to make even, seeing my math prowess has lessened. So long embedded needles and bottle caps deep within the snowy cobble. So long listless wanders all their money thrown away until the month of May comes to knock on their door. So long alleyway romance 100 crown notes and old men in their rickety fishermen boats. So long sad masked faces who in their forward march sit stunned seeing fortune picks only some. So long through the grey mist stabbed with neon signs that attract the youth and the mad. So long to the feeling everything I had to say was the wrong thing. So long to feelings of foreign familiarity whose ball and chain were slowly starting to rust away. So long in song to the player's of Riegrovy hill whose voices I just couldn't stand. So long I've come to understand everyone's got a choice to live or wish they did. So long to the wide swept hills of Petrin, where angel's of lore go to rest atop dusted fresh snow, among the dotted new born vine. So long to the sound of wet metal against metal, a scream of order carried on the blue man's shoulder. So long to a city whose architecture reminds me of old men's faces and whose color reminds me of elderly women's dresses. So long to smoking in front of children without a second thought for their health. So long to racism that is wicked, but grunted genially - the executioner smiles at the accused - the gravedigger's weep for the dead - the ant makes a break for a hill not his. So long forlorn love whose only remedy for a cure is the beer sitting in front of you. So long to wondering what's going on in the world, when all I want and got is what's right in front of me.
Farewell Prague, you shadowed street walker, a cloak of stars around you, finding all that owe you  your due.
Farewell Prague, you in the morning eyes half mast, snow crunching underneath stony white.
Farewell Prague, miss-handler of crooked time pieces stating the obvious, ignoring to blame bluntly on youthful alcohol abuse.
Farewell Prague, you took me up the hill and through the woods where ravens, black as gutter ice, crackled down at me like showers of New Year's fireworks.
Farewell Prague, you gave me peace where I once thought I was unable to have.
Farewell Prague, you befriended me, then ordered me a shot that made me cough, then ordered me a beer so we could sit and truly feel what it is to sit and wallow in our time here.
Farewell Prague, you entranced me with view after view to a city to stubborn to die.
Farewell Prague, I leave you like you would leave me.
Farewell Prague, to your fat snow flakes that drop into wide eyed children mouths, tasting of iron whiskey rye, though they do not flinch at the taste.
Farewell Prague, I leave you with a hush of a whimper, bitter as the cold, and indifferent as the server's over at Cafe Lourve.
Farewell Prague, with a thousand miles of graveyards, where ghosts barely have the strength to weep.
Farewell Prague, I admit I never knew how to love until I came to visit you.
Farewell Prague, as I stare out your cracked and smoky tram windows, my thoughts not my own, shop windows and naked, screaming men, their cigarettes bouncing in between their lips like a jack of spades on smack, where at last we see that life is only a worth a **** if lived.
Farewell Prague, I see the cards there on the table and you're winking at me while I stand at the backdoor, and what's more, there's a secret you've got to give that I refuse believe.
Farewell Prague, to your open sore catastrophe of society, KFC on every block, and Starbuck's on every other, and on the other other are the lined' wino's shaking open handed and spread for a case of cardboard vino.
Farewell Prague, to the nasty smoker's in trams that just stopped caring.
Farewell Prague, to a city rhythm generated by an ignorant originality and uniqueness, where the same has no name and the the plain jabber on about their jobs in their pretty blue jeans.
Farewell Prague, because to say goodbye would mean we don't have that friendly tone.
Farewell Prague, I see to sacrifice oneself for the comfort of the elder or the opposite fills me with agitated obligation stationed in a vessel older than I've ever lived - yet I know it, for it is me.
Farewell Prague, you are a lost lullaby caught in the wind of an elastic multi-colored pin-wheel, shining riches of the rainbow into the eyes of children, who all whistle when they snore.
Farewell Prague, a button upon the Earth, like every man.
Farewell Prague, a love song sung in the depths of a damp grey hall, rivers all around, so the sounds too much to drink were outlandish in high emotion, juvenile commotion.
Farewell Prague, we were young - not caring about the future, but of course, with worry in our hearts for worry is a sign of human being human; yet, still, we asked nothing of one another and you gave and I gave and you took and I took and we walked underneath one another's blanket's until we were no longer cold and the winter showed to be just an annoying individual at the party.
Farewell Prague, to your lack of complications, making simplicities acceptable again.
Farewell Prague, to the snow that never stops falling, all while slumbering within dream until the seam is ripped so the old can die.
Farewell Prague, I've shined every marble staircase and washed every tram window; you owe me nothing because I like you.
Farewell Prague, to the long nights bleeding away at the table alone, the lady fast asleep, lit by the dim orange glow of the twisted streetlights below.
Farewell Prague, to the long nights forgetting pains of existence and accepting every solution to ward of resistance.
Farewell Prague, our long talks and hovering walks, always forcing me to balk.
Farewell Prague, at last you got the praise you have always deserved.
Farewell Prague, to hot humid nights filled with *** and butter in the summer and cold bitten cold of ***** and juice a la winter.
Farewell Prague, to bad service but good drink and food.
Farewell Prague, you curious tale the bravest man would waver to say.
Farewell Prague, to bridges galore and more dead leaves then wrinkles on my crooked face.
Farewell Prague, at night the sheen of liquor wears off only if you let it be so.
Farewell Prague, to all the those lonely mornings bent head into book on the way to work.
Farewell Prague, how long till you grow to be young again?
Farewell Prague, how long till I admit my defeat to you?
Farewell Prague, how long until I accept I'm the last fool in this world?
Goodbye Prague, the last soldier is standing, but the war is not yet won.
Goodbye Prague, to your hazy stars glimmering and shining for an indebted audience.
Goodbye Prague, the sun breaking through ink spilled colored clouds, the birds chirping, the dogs barking, and us wondering where we started.
Goodbye Prague, your churches are empty so the sins of man run rampant and at last the prayers of men go unanswered; we now abandoned to fend for ourselves.
Goodbye Prague, the puncturing purity of your ways make me giggle in delight as I listen to the cool piano man play; his eyes on the horizon shattering like toppled china.
Goodbye Prague, at last there is a time where we both get what we want.
Goodbye Prague, the verandas are chilled with the dew of winter and the snow glitters like bitter diamonds as the fool tips his hat to shy away the sunlight.
Goodbye Prague, every rain drop that fell upon me was a gift you can never take away.
Goodbye Prague, the fool adheres to agnostic rules but the cruel here see no reason to sue.
Goodbye Prague, I think therefore the dust of escape reflects the waves of the river Vlatva.
Goodbye Prague, to your lack of vowels.
Goodbye Prague, when the night wavers hear the Beherovka weep into its own glass, love leaving her forever making no note to Kissy.
Goodbye Prague, tram driver's unforgiving in their merciless need for schedule.
Goodbye Prague, the last homage to the war standing like a shining diamond neath chipped and shattered rubble.
Goodbye Prague, a listless memory mentioned only in drifting dream.
Goodbye Prague, every loving glance smelling of freshly poured beer over newly fallen snow.
Goodbye Prague, to your hardness, your beauty, and your madness.
Goodbye Prague, your days wet with rain, stricken by sunlight, reflecting white emerald into the window panes of passing trains.
Goodbye Prague, at last you got what you deserved.
Goodbye Prague, now I can weep and say I have trampled upon your cheek and slunk through your veins and trudged through your blood and skipped through your hair and saw every line - both sought after and nought - you have acquired through time.
Goodbye Prague, there is no reason to get excited, you are free.
Goodbye Prague, I see the silhouette of the trees that line your hills and I am forsaken to see the leaves turning from jovial yellow greens to disregarded and disparaged furnaces of dim fire reds and browns.
Goodbye Prague, the people within you deserved all of the credit.
Good Prague, the people outside of you deserve what ever they believe they do.
Goodbye Prague, you family to families with common sense and love rampaging through your barley stained veins.
Goodbye Prague, perhaps there is nothing under your rubble, maybe already all is lost for everyone, everywhere, but maybe, you living the simpler life, can show all that life can be so.
Goodbye Prague, you gave me letters, words, lines, commas, apostrophes, and dashes, paragraphs, pages, and eventually, a story; I leave you marked.
Goodbye Prague, an old friend whose hand I shook but knew would one day turn my back on.
Goodbye Prague, the bite of your cold generosity and your bustling love leaves man with nothing but to bike back with no chance of triumph.
Goodbye Prague, street cleaners clean up your wear and tear from the mothers and fathers that bore you, some 800 years ago; ageless, you loom longer than they would like.
Goodbye Prague, battling sleep as the ***** raps for more and more, none that the man has.
Goodbye Prague, the night is curling in as the wave crashes to the short and I am the lost sun looking for a place to rise, trying to get to the sky.
You poured your words down my throat
like acid that burned through the insides of my chest.
And it was not my ribs that pained me,
but my lips.
They stung with a desire to be kissed again.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
death does bind and make some of keeping
kind (that queens and  kings would like to
usher in like spare change when buying ivory)...
seem majestic...
    we alter what that reality
states... paupers' hands and
pauper's mouths...
        dare i feel sly or in need
for the armour of fear, at
a seeing a feeding ground?
is that: dare i? or must i?
     i nevffer heard of a greek
that ate-himself to invert
the metaphor of what poetics had to offer
in the first place...
          how dear the price...
and how dire the lion imitating a fox
on cold and wet outer-suburbia streets
of essex... should a machiavelli
  prance about, like some stańczyk,
for a need of a choir of woe...
and oh the sadness: how it echoes!
        in one grant on the crucifix:
for a sponge-soaked grasp of wine refused...
this be the deity?!
          you refuse wine on the cross -
is that a surrender of honour?
            when you're already on it, why should it
     so give me unto their religiosity,
but for god's sake leave me alone and have a drink,
what's so honest that it needs to be said?
  and what wasn't said in the last three decades of
of the 20th century?
               i bow, i quasi-dance and play the stańczyk
role, like someone about to embark on
the enfant terrible role...
           as an empty stomach would make you feel
to have a "need" to write something...
               i'm thinking cheese,
and parisian dough baked into a croissant...
and goo...
    the motto stands: the hungry man can think
of nothing but food...
             and if you're lucky enough
your temptations range into the dialect of
                 i'm just thinking of king crimson
and the eton mess...
     and why you'd see fashion models drop in
2 seconds if they had my diet of *****,
given their champagne ingestion...
   i used to do bulimia... but it wasn't about laxatives...
two things down my throat: ugh!
that's the right concept, isn't it? like **** stars
talking about training their **** like any
other muscles for depicting the fetish?
    same as the oesophagus,
   you want to really do bulimia? *******
down your throat... it's like ****,
but something different at the same time...
    like ancient romans used to do it...
i bow... and hope some are eager to continue down
this vein of "thought", or how
                       θ   can equal        φ,
and the door finally opens, and chimeras as released.
i swear to the hebrew god:
  ******* down the throat, no laxatives,
it's what undid the citizens of Pompeii -
fake eating, simply fake the impulse to eat,
then eat.... and regurgitate it back up...
like this theory i had today:
could lactose be categorised as an alkaline sugar?
well... fructose and all the other sugars seem
to be acidic, since they rot teeth... i'm starting to
think the sugar in milk is alkaline...
           the sugar in yogurt is alkaline (naturally),
i don't know why but i'm starting to think
there is a pH spectrum of sugar,
       one side being acidic, and one side being alkaline...
i drink milk in the morning and think
about eating ice-cream (but never do)...
              lactose is categorised as a sugar,
so where's the kantian categorical imperative
on that?                 it has to originate
with a concept that sugar has to have
an acidic and an alkaline spectrum...
               what with lactose akin to haemoglobin
and the Fe+2 centre... then lactose must have
a Ca centre... calcium...
                   i don't have the time to write
the concrete Ca+2 or -2 or whatever it is that couples
this substance... it's an alkaline sugar,
it's not an acidic sugar... it's apparently the thing
that makes strong bones...
i drink it and think of eating ice-cream,
i sometimes had a breakfast of black coffee
a spoonful of sugar and a spoonful of melted butter.
The Noose Oct 2014
Engulfed by the deluge of magnetism
Senses torn to shambles by desire
My being cannot fathom
The unyielding sensation
Of weightlessness
It ravishes
This acidic intensity.
rjh Dec 2013
Do not fall in love with the boy with an acidic tongue.
If you do, you will never be the same again.
You will find yourself sneaking out at four in the morning for just one kiss.
You will never stop thinking about him.
You will always want more.
He will burn holes in your skin with his mouth and heal each and every one of your wounds with his fingertips.
You will get addicted to him.
But he will drain every ounce of life out of you.
And it will be a slow and painful process.
But it's sure to happen.
So again, I warn you,
Do not fall in love with the boy with an acidic tongue.
CandidlySubtle Aug 2014
I’m squeezed like a lemon,
My feelings so sour,
The juice, so acidic,
Burning me within,
It leaves a hole in my stomach,
Expanding into a vacuum,
******* away at my mind,
As false memories of you,
Steal away my sanity.
liz Nov 2012
you are tomato soup


and creamy.

your path is marked
by risen temperature in my esophagus.
your path is parallel to my spine.

and you rest in the warm vats of my stomach
but you are warmer still.
no real need for digestion.
you are but orange liquid.

but sometimes you burn

tttttttttsa on my tongue

your steam-less appearance fooled me;
there is no need for cooling

hot hot tomato soup.
Graff1980 Jun 2015
Here is to the bitter eye of the even sky
The acidic beverage I imbibe
So I can feel just a little more alive
For that cardiac killing back breaking
Blood spilling sweat distilling nine to five

I'm embarrassed to admit this. The night before last I ate an excessive amount of Sour Chewy Sweettarts. If you've ever had them you know that just one or two have enough toxic chemical dust sprinkled on them to make your mouth numb for several minutes. Well I got into a rhythm of eating one, then adding one to it, then another for three, then four, then five, then  six all the way to seven at one time. In that experiment alone I consumed no fewer than 26 Sour Chewy Sweetarts and even that was after having warmed up with several single helpings.

Sour Chewy Sweettarts were at one time marketed under the name  "Shockers". Let me tell you they should have respected the truth in advertising inherent with that label. The intensity of tartness conferred from all these ***** Wonka treats was remarkable and very well could have been the most face-squinching sourness I've experienced in my fifty-plus years.

The unfortunate downswing of these hijinks is that I developed a chemical burn that spread across the entirety of my tongue all the back to and including the area where my uvula hangs.

It's my own stupid fault. I could feel the chemicals eating through too many layers of cells long before the administration of candy pellets had reached four, even five-count multiples. By the time I had the seven pack ****** down to gel the burning was so bad I had to squint my eyes. The question that found priority amongst all that came to me at that moment was "how long is my mouth going to be so alternately sensitive and numb that I won't be able to eat my beloved jalapenos and spicy vittles?" A couple of days later and that answer still has not been found, although progress has been made to the point where I have faith it WILL indeed know how paranoid I can think sometimes, surely my mouth will never heal from THIS god forsaken self-inflicted injury, after all, I deserve it, hence the term "SELF inflicted". It's nothing but payback being it's usual self. If I never get to taste the wondrous seasonings of a well-mixed chili recipe cooked to perfection by someone who really knows how to make chili...if I never sigh with uninhibited satisfaction after downing a swig of Dr. Pepper or Miller's High Life or Guinness Stout...if I never again will be able to tell the difference between prime Angus beef and succulent Maine Lobster it is for good reason that I've been deprived of these tender mercies. It's because I knew when to stop and I kept on eating, though tears had begun to form.

No, it's more than that. It's because Universal Forces were all the while begging me, whispering in  my ears, "Stop! Stop! Enough! No more!" What would have happened if Joseph had ignored the Lord on that cool December night? Gabriel let Mary in on what was going down, what do you think would have happened if she'd gotten jealous of Joseph and disregarded the angel because he didn't have quite as much clout as her husband's Messenger? What would have happened? Nobody knows. But I know what would have happened if I'd heeded the advice of the benevolent spiritual  beings who were trying to warn me to lay off of the Sour Chewy Sweettarts. I wouldn't be sitting here typing on the hp laptop about how I got the chemical burn from hell.

But it seems like valuable lessons may be learned at every turn. So it is that with almost every experience I am resigned to also look at this one as the hard earned silver lining. Just what exactly have I learned? Well, first of all I've learned that it would probably be a good idea in the future to regulate severely the amount of Sour Chewy Sweettarts (aka Shockers) I eat in one sitting. If I ever eat them again, If the emotional scars of the chemical burn will free me in my sweet tooth's cravings for Wonka Sugar to ever again opt for the sour stuff. I learned that eating Vlasic Kosher Dill Pickles with such a freshly de-sensitized/throbbing chemically-scorched tongue is a prospect that shares much in common with a full day of taste-testing ghost peppers. Only on a slightly smaller scale does the briny pickle juice pack it's own searing acidic punch.

Other lessons? Oh I'm sure I could fill a book with lessons this has taught me. Writing that book might be the most useful, benevolent gesture I ever offered my fellow man but I don't know if I can do it. But if I did, this would have to be the first couple of lines on the very fist page:

Make sure you're going to have a LOT of alone time the morning after.

But that's just plain good advice.
Warren-Johnson Oct 2017
They enter our lives with sinister plots that we do not see.
For we choose to be real, and expect others to show the same virtues,
We forget that in our strength of sincerity and,
Stature of what society should've been made to be,
We fall prey to that, far worse than wolves in sheep's clothing.
They be of human form, but we have hearts,
They be the acidic species,
Just there to use,
Just there for their gain,
A putrid lot,
Just there to watch their works erode the effect.,
The effect shown through a simple yet ernest smile appreciating friends,
Wake up! see through their semblance,
They pass off as friendship.
This title they claim be not theirs,
Oh no they are to be of that,we choose to dispose of.
They are of the past.
We will always see more like them,
Who enter our journeys,
For we are free loving,
Selflessly making acquaintances who should carry the title of My friendship with,
Ardent fastosus.
A title worthy of not much to those who know me not.
But as I value My  Friends see their sincerity,
They too see me for the friend I am proud to be.
A title I regard with much dignity for they bless me with their hearts open and call me Friend!
So begone you foul lot of underhanded scoundrels you have no place here amongst friends.
We know the worthy,as we see ourselves in them.
You get in, yes for we do not look out for the likes of you,
I know not how to be that vile insipid parasite.
Rather,we seek people we can look up to.
People we can learn to better from.
Who speak not with intent to harm,
Or just where they are to gain.
Finding joy in others hurt,
No we seek a superior being who is unlike you.
Someone really pure.
Oh just no false pretenses,
Oh and, so this all was not actually about those unworthy no rather,
The contrary!
To them an ode!
A tribute to my Friend's.
Anthony Williams Jul 2014
I knew the orange on the orange tree
you had an ache in your shoulders
uncomfortable in an unnatural way
yesterday I passed you talking to flowers
you hadn't moved you hadn't strayed
but hiding in the leaves was a forced disguise

the omens told me something quiet and unceasing
reminding me of a slumbering domesticated cat
dreaming of cutting yourself loose from truncated ease
dropping down from the branch with panther steps
licking fruit lips ripe with revealed acidic petals
riddled with a past you revelled mixing in with zest

shocking chances stepped in for the next dance
sleep taken aback by wings cut from a dark sky
the sidewalk pitted and cracked beneath the pounce
relief escaped the twigs with a spring like waking prey
pressing into night foliage shaken from a nice balance
as I saw you take control with nothing to mask your face

on the surface too smooth for violence
was laughter of glowing gloom to embarrass
and deter such rebellious arrogance
with a twist struggling from a lame curse
its flavours sharp against your sweetened perfume muscle
expecting you to build a limestone shed for tears
rather than take on the night with a mind to wrestle

the outside aches for your physical attraction
gaining courage from the purpose in your eyes
tense as the tightness of your dress' intention
demanding that my hands draw from such lines
the sinuous heat of pulsing flesh's invitation
curved upon seeds not chaste but not quite refined
which I try not loving with some cool disambiguation

you left me the taste of syrup of grenadine
too reputable to ripple vain red tipple eyed
on a table spilt with pink gin and mandarin
sharp teeth tingling a tartness into my hand
sliding slowly at a tilt like drops of sweat on skin
focus dwindling into the clasp of an escaping shade
wrapped carefully under soft rice paper and then
tucked under a heel with a pointed kick like a blade
only to feel you relent and burst open
soft in appeal again and again
by Anthony Williams
Ann Marcaida Jan 2013
I. Neptune’s Theater

A rock spins through the universal tumbler

and its warm blue pools calcify

as turquoise Neptune in his cloudy blue bath bath

builds a lace castle with his fingertips

Sculpts a submerged eden of crimson and emerald

where painted parrots chat up cardinals

butterfly and angel fry sway with wave pulse

and foliated coral fingers beckon from arched windows.

Neptune’s children are flat and bright, spined and notched

free yet entangled in lace mesh ecosystem

beneath an array of bioluminescent stars

as a gangly pretender watches and blows bubbles.

II. Sapien Siege

The hot acidic hand of death grasps

the mesh rends and tangles

the ecosystem shattered

reef’s loosed children scream beneath planet’s stars.

Butterflies impaled

cyanide-swooning damsels

mesh-tangled angels hauled heavenward

coral to potash, corpses to coal.

The pretender to the throne blinks

rubs blurry lenses,

kicks plastic fins

and moves on to the next show

Unseeing and unaware

of the luminous filament in his wake.

Self-appointed divinity,

deus ex machina.


Ann says: All of the animal and human characters in this poem (except Neptune and The Pretender) are named after coral reef fish. Coral reefs, one of the most diverse ecosystems, are expected to be largely extinct within one human generation. Deus ex machina is Latin for “God from the machine.”

Copyright 2013 by Ann Marcaida.
Copyright 2013 by Ann Marcaida.

All of the animal and human characters in this poem (excepting Neptune and the quadruped) are named after coral reef fish. Coral reefs, one of the most diverse ecosystems, are expected to be largely extinct within one human generation.

Special thanks to my poetry coach, without whom I never would have gotten this poem to publication quality.  Also to anonymous reviewer G.W. who helped to steer me in the right direction.
sparkjams Oct 2012
the evil man funk wobbles in
with a grin the size of a whirlpool
sister, please go back to
the society of your selves
I didn’t even look at him

horse on the bandstand
run for your super lives
you’re gonna enjoy this twisted
this acidic mouth wash solution
your little punch in the mouth all the time
all the long while
I’m building fabulous from the ground down
party in the underworld I’m so invited
Frank Ruland Jul 2014
With a dry mouth and
starved palette I
   bite into the bitter apple.
Oh, what an acidic
What an acrimonious

I am filled now, for
The single sample will be
forever imprinted in
madness and memory.
I knew all too well the
fruit was tainted,
but not the knowledge
that comes with it.

I need a chaser--
hemlock, cyanide?
I just need to
rid myself
of the bitterness inside.
The wisdom wasn't worth it!
Lou Dec 2018
June 29th, 2017
It’s been 1 year, 4 months and 19 days.
For 1 year, 4 months and 19 days.
Count the acidic tree rings
Nearly 504;
A.m. eyes
On East Ferry,
in contrast of noir
I say, man;
June 29th, 2017.

It’s time to get a new calendar,
Cause I count 5,000 dollars later
and not a sense of a cent
was fined for my remorse.

I’ve been fine and fined.
Holes in my pockets
dropping seeds of change
planting fines

Into puddles
and potholes
showing deep interest
into the alignment of my car
stalling my engine with debts.

19,000 dollars and growing later;
I learned what trigger warnings cost
and ironically
I wrote a paper on it.

Don’t get me, wrong I am grateful
But, I had to rip holes
into all my jean pockets.
I mean, **** it,
I never had much going in
And I should quit smoking
My lighter is dead
Only blue and red
Sparks lived well in my mirrors
On, June 29th, 2017.

From the wall I was chained to,
I enrolled into college
My mom drove me home from my first class.
My lawyer wasn’t much of a lecturer,
He spoke math for 1,400 dollars

250 and 9 weeks.
106 a month for 52.

That’s enough math for this semester.

I drank with my night instructor on Mondays after 9,
He wanted to hear my music
We drank whiskey salted potholes on Allen
I counted his tree rings to 4/4 measure in regret;
20 years steady.

I graduated on a Tuesday morning,
I didn’t call him back to thank him for the irony.

I acknowledged our acidic rings
With glass cheered laughter
Swallowing thanks for each other’s company.
9 weeks and I don’t recall ever leaving the room.
43 went after,

And today life is that,
Paid for in lessons,
No need for pockets

I am those potholes
bumping coffee all over me
20 mins late to my first class.
I can repave them
but they won’t stay filled
It’s OK to want smoother roads to school.
I’m late but I’m here

I’m a mess.
******* would see art.
People have his eyes on me.
I want to be framed and splattered
on the walls of your home
A household mess .
It’s OK to have a passion.

Look into my tree rings
How old am I?
Its restorative to count
27 rings of rebirth
Look at me still growing
I believe I can grow in Paradise-lost fire
Or in Buffalo salt

I am my flaws
I counted them

My alcohol abuse,
One beat of 2,653 in 2017
I don’t know how to put an apology
On a music sheet.

The Jazz fills my potholes in the morning
before these hallways

My grey area is stained glass in Villas library,
Each step is eclectic
From shoe up and over is stand still art

Lighters flash cigarettes burning
But prints pictures of thankful new memories

With all of you in it.
Thank you for helping me with today’s date.
Its for a course I am taking in college. I hope this doesn't shade me as a fool. I'm kind of self-conscious of this one and hoping for feedback. Thanks.
Luke Colbert Jan 2013
Someday I wanna stack neon cowboy boots til they reach the solar system. I wrote Leslie today and she said, "Hey, love is what I got. Remember that." Pennies are x’d out. Cut me Sally. Only 1 apple-tooth *****. But now I realize that that didn’t make any sense. Tell Christina that I work at Arby’s. She told popcorn that we are a portrait of an American toad. Sorry. She won’t talk to me. She hates me now. I know it all. World will end for me under a fallen tree. Confusing is love. Serious, sadly enough Christ is dead *****. That’s my boyfriend! Sad Sad Sad Sad Sad Sad. Let me down. 2288 is a strange………………… number to sell a video for. I smoked *******. RATS, SCROTUMS, YOU’RE A *****! Scoot over you ***** ***. I don’t even know you or *******. Hayley, now that I think of it, is a tight, beautiful, powerful…… I hate her. She has blonde hair and I look way too much. I’ll go shopping now. Tina will hate me for lusting Hayley. So I’ll go on to Mr. G himself. Shazaam! He is in a boy prison where the boys are molested. I cry. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Watch out, I do this to everyone. I love myself only and can drop you without hurting. But I love Christyn. Despite Christina’s rage she is still just a rat in a cage. She does it all! It’s her! She, her, she. Hershey. I love you Christyn and my mom is my dream. I stay alive, maybe rooting for the Green Bay Packers. I want to **** in Grayson’s face. I have to go, my milk is over there. He has lice, but it doesn’t matter cuz he takes his hair off anyway. Colon cleansing for sale! And I got a new girlfriend, she looks a lot like you dear. They pass me up. And if they don’t it’s only cuz I smoke acid(that’s funny). Or I don’t want to have ***. I hate ***. It’s Casie’s fault. I thought it was OURS! I ****** HER, SHE WAS MINE!!!!

Hello ******. My gums are bleeding everywhere cuz I play so much. Why can’t Hayley like me? Why is Christyn faking? Why go home? says Eddie. James is in prison for **** he did. Robert is in prison for stabbing this dude. It’s a good thing that my new cats are gone cuz I’d get hell. Black man is funnier and prettier. I eat Arby’s stacked in my trashcan. Why do they laugh? I’ll just stop now. I’ll **** myself cuz of you. I saw Rachel walking today. She’s sooooo pretty. Untrendy cuz I love her so. No rap, just Beastie Boys and marijuana. I take showers with Stephanie on the side, so don’t be surprised. She cuts underneath her legs. I want to hold her for lifetimes on a mattress of air. This is good ****. Please help. Aye Davinita. I’m not happy without your dreads, Docs, and beautiful…… But Hayley is too. Tell her that. She’ll **** me. I’ll never be enough for her. I’m white. What?! How do I not blow up?! Gotta go **** a monkey. So ****** me soon. Sleep sleep. Hayley, Rachel, Casie, Michelle, I rest in peace now.
Wrote this on LSD back in 1996
Jenna Vaitkunas May 2014
A Response to Thought Catalog

Number One.
"She won't touch your stuff
because she doesn't want to do anything"
Which also includes leaving her bed
before six pm
meeting your friends
or seeing the movie you've been begging her to see
since the trailer came out last year

Number Two
"She'll probably forget you borrowed
money from her"
or to pay the bills,
or your birthday
or getting groceries

Number Three
"She's a cheap date"
more than likely because
she doesn't care where you go
but she wants to be back in her bed
the minuet she gets into your car
because now her insecurities
are buzzing in her ears
and clawing at her throat

Number Four
"She probably doesn't want to
meet your family"
sitting in her room terrified that
she's not good enough
that she will never be good enough
and they won't accept her

Number Five
"She will probably get drunk
and you can have *** with her"

Number Six
"You can get free drugs!"
she knows about her missing
pain pills and antidepressants
but she won't say a thing because
you love her, right?
it's selfish of her to think she needs those
she has you. right?

Number Seven
"She has poor memory
and a short attention span"
Unaware of whether its Monday or Thursday
or if she ate this week

Number Eight
"She won't talk that much"
instead she can soak up your words
and turn them against herself
until they infect her insides with acidic words

Number Nine
"She'll pamper you because
she's sensitive"
Here's the newest game you wanted
I hope it makes up for me not being good enough
Here's some money, go out with friends
I don't want to bring you down

Number Ten
"It'll make you look better"
She's a charity case
a lost cause
who lost herself
but she's *so lucky
she found you
She's like an accessory
that you drag around
she'll make you look perfect
won't she?
It's supposed to be simple.
Dating the dead girl walking.
besides the fact she'll
bawl her eyes out every time
you grab your keys
or the fact you have to deal with
the burden of having to hide
your mother's steak knives
so you can sleep in peace
without worrying whether
you will find her lifeless body
on your bathroom floor
Number ten
You can romanticize
the pain she goes through everyday
while her hourglass hearts
last grain of sand falls to the bottom
but you will NEVER
be able
to say you were the hero.
This probably sounds worse written than spoken but eh
Adam Childs Jul 2014
Living freely in this world
My vulnerability, feels so lost
As it seeks the skies to escape all
Perched high away and hiding
My heart forsaken
For my vulnerability
Has left

The little bird has flown

My retreating heart lives behind
Many layers of frozen ice
The warm waters of my heart
Have all frozen over

Come back, come back little bird

A teardrop falls
For I see the loss of potential
In this frozen pond
Where waters should be warm
My heart should sing
Great rich jungles, it should bring

My pride wounded by this world
I stare into my murky depths
My standing in this world falling
As my legs are taken
By the jaws of a giant beast

Far away a bird twitches

My stomach twists and turns
Absorbed I am into the belly
Of a great giant crocodile
I begin to feel my vulnerability
In these dangerous warm acidic waters
As I merge into a crocodile
And high above a bird leaves his perch
As the ice layers break
With the force of my tail

New eyes see the self importance in people
Of this earth, with all their arrogance
I will bring you back to earth
For I am the last living dinosaur
Born from a time when T.rex reigned
And even the birds had teeth
For I still live in waters
Where Piranha's seek to
Frenzy on living flesh
And I am to be scared of you

I warn all of those who wish to disturb
My open and most precious heart
That rests in silence over my pond
For your flesh will quiver
With the sound of my ancient growl
And your eyes will panic
With the sight of my jaw

A quiet bird flutters closer

Bring your bitterness and all your sourness
For I am hungry and love rotten meat
And your disregard feeds my fury
Circle my pond
Where my heart rests softly
With rich and green waters
Bursting and growing in love
For I am not scared to feel

And I will lounge and grab
As a tonne of me, slaps itself
Bang, ******* this earth
For I am here to feel it
And not escape it
But you will be blind
And lost in my depths
I will turn you over and
Your arrogance will feed me
As I grow stronger
You will be ripped limb from limb  

A little bird comes closer

My heart free from noise
A silence nestles in me
And all innocence is seen
Beautiful souls float freely
Butterflies dance and play
And my beautiful vulnerability
returns in sweet song
And rests softly in my jaw

A strange paradox becomes so very clear
With a little bird we hold so dear
Trying to answer a questions of how do we remain sensitive but also strong ,
I just thought i would chuck it up , I think the middle needs more work
Fa Be O Apr 2014
I cut one swiftly,
the acidic elixir dripping through my fingers
unto my inebriating, rustic drink.
Day 5- Write a three line poem about lemons without using the following words: lemon, yellow, round, fruit, citrus, ****, juicy, peel, and sour.

this one is going to be particularly bad because i feel silly xD
JL Dec 2011
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Close your eyes to the fractil light dear friend
Climb up to your sunsets and sundowns
Wash them of all lonliness
**** that hot afternoon sun
Far out man that's real far out
Television Air Conditioned
Gas stations
Are heaven on those afternoons
Well I can swim right in the Atlantic ocean
Right across to you
And we can build bombs together
To blow up the stars
You're fully aware of the power of fate
Handing you a ciggarete
Looking for a suicide
Looking into big blue eyes
Your looking at another lie
Green Eyed Blues Oct 2016
My brains where it rains
Acidic and rudely natured
The lighting is kind
I, a professor of emotional nomenclature
Classify, define,
File away
Brown leaves that blow a way to defy
Tree roots eating countryside
Rural deceit
Running to grow, left breathless and incomplete
A lover of storms lost in its throes
Slowly destroyed
With each gust
Pieces escape this place
Until there's no reality left
Conor O'Leary Dec 2012
1 + 1  isn't math.
It's life and it isn't hard.

1 + 1 is love.
A universal concept
of criss-crossed hands.
Blue eyes to others
hugging their gaze.  

1 + 1 is war.
Two acidic cultures
colliding and sizzling
at contact. Blood
Hot. Black.

1 + 1 is curiosity
Glassy eyes on charcoal talons
Wrinkled trunk 'round tail of dog
Feeble finger ravaged by thousands of legs
Paint Africa upon my hands.

1 + 1 are footprints
of mud on the porch.
Yours between mine.
Toes so close and mud still fresh.

But for those,
who have the most unfortunate
pleasure of removing
themselves from
1 + 1 = 2.

How sad.
Life's a Beach Aug 2014
Soaked with sorrow
Temperament melted away
Leaving only a feeling bereft
And the burnt up char of
JK Casilda Dec 2018
Being away from home makes me able to do anything I want without my parents having a panic.
I mean they don’t know that every morning I have my cup of coffee despite being told I’m acidic.
Or that at least every week I go try different coffee shops and order an espresso with less milk.
Really? Am I a coffee addict?

I mean…

Who can say no to the aroma soothing your nostrils   and leave you
                                                                ­                 craving
There in your table sits your very own cup, waiting
to be kissed from its very seductive rim, parting
            your thrilled lips, burning
            your yearning tongue, providing
your soul the bittersweet taste of the coffee you love
And as you sip that blessed liquid
                           Like lightning it electrifies you over your taste buds
                                                                ­                              to your throat
             to your chest then back up switching on every nerve in your brain.
You bathe in that wonderful kick of caffeine.
And you just can’t help but close your eyes and enjoy this hot bath from a long cold rainy day.
Listening to the every chemical reaction
feeling that sublime sensation
now creeping into every part of your body
telling you
                     that you are no longer your own property.
Then you suddenly get reminded of the last time you had your coffee.                               The abnormal beating of your heart
the fireworks in your head
           the ringing in your ears
                       the whispers of voices from your back
thezjdflksjcxkdjfghdisquiet of the night and
            how it left you gasping for breath
   drowning in the sea of your tears of regret.
It’s frightening.
But being scared makes you hear your present heartbeat, slowly, rushing
like it’s 8 in the morning
You’re alive.
It’s beating. You survived.
You savor this forbidden sensation for as long as it lasts.
                                                          ­               But nothing lasts forever.
When it starts to wear off, of course,
               it all comes back to the tongue.
Here comes “The Finish”.
Funny how acidity
is the strong point of coffee
but a weak point of you.
Cold sweat runs through your back
and a sharp burning feeling starts in your stomach.
Your tongue                      touching the ceiling of your mouth
                  is now starting to burn an unpleasant, undesirable sharpness,
over-fermented bitterness.
The bittersweet becomes            just the bitter.
You open your mouth like puffing out cigarette smoke
breathe out               deeply and slowly
your tongue searching every corner of your mouth
trace the lining of your gums
for that elusive sweetness
that once filled you with     happiness.
In despair you’re left with nothing      but the bitter aftertaste.
Like a whistle of the kettle that tells you the water is boiling
The reminder that you had coffee.
For a moment you want to cry—why can’t you just cry—but if they tell you not to cry over spilled coffee then
         more reasons they’ll tell you not to cry from drinking coffee
Because who cries over coffee and why would you cry from drinking coffee?
You ask yourself
        left with two answers:
You’d cry because it’s bad,
           or you’d cry because you once had something so good.
See even the most natural task on Earth like drinking coffee gives difficult life choices, too.
But before you lose your mind thinking about
The aftertaste,
        your breath,
        your heart,
        the whistle,
        the bittersweet,
the bitter,
               the sweet,
  the aftertaste,    the bitter,
You feel the cup between your hands
            warm and welcoming.
A faint light from this darkness
has started to devour the blackness.
And you open your eyes.
You no longer hear the whistle of the kettle nor the rushed beat of your heart.
Even the bitter taste in your tongue felt like it’s been there right from the start
And you just no longer care of the aftertaste that takes ages to depart.
You look at your cup with your loving doe eyes.
You’re ready to take in another sip of your coffee
not minding the aftertaste                      of that same unrequited love.
This was originally performed as a spoken poetry, my first in that field.
arizona Sep 2012
Leaves, like scattered puzzle pieces, cover the two lane road.
Curve after curve.
Turning onto a gravel road, the rotten wood sign reads “Ca t r Mou ta n O ch rd ”
There, a sea of apples pull you in.
Branches bent, reaching out for your hand, so you can take one of their own.
Sacrificing itself for your own incontrollable gluttony.

A couple, exploring each row of reds and yellows.
Filling up baskets along with emotions.
He fumbles with an apple as she picks one off the tree.
He climbs the rickety latter and hands her an apple from the top.
The sweet, acidic taste explores her lips and then down onto her tongue.
Something he longs for.
The apple core from a once glossy, red apple lies in her sticky fingers.
A hayride brings them to the top of the mountain where
the cool autumn breeze dances across their faces.

Inside the barn, transformed into a restaurant, smells of fresh apple cider.
The shadows of their faces dance across the table from the dim candlelight.
One coy smile leading to another.
Their eyes meeting for a quick second after their feet barely brush against one another.
A subtle laugh from both as he looks at the menu nervously and she looks out the frosty window.
The words to him are just a blur. His eyes scan up and down but his focus ran away hours ago.
Two young lovers about to open another door in a house of the unknown.  
His fingers silently fidget anxiously with the small box in his pocket.
His heart begins to race and his face feels flushed.
He catches a drip of sweat before she can notice it.
Then, excuses himself.
This was an exercise for my creative writing class. It was suppose to be a poem with a lot of description. I hope I served it well.
Yenson Oct 2018
What if they had a War and nobody came !
my sentiment all along

Actions so transparent and telegraphed a mile long
absurd anchoring, even more absurd triggering
so absurd as to be meaningless
the hotchpotch logic of simpletons on acid
The banal manifestations of the anodyne retards with advanced hysteria

Think unruly kids on Colombian marching powder
think advanced psychosis with total stage ten delusions
Watch mass hysteria contagion
Logic was never there, rationality bolted beating Usain Bolt
Inveterate liars and fantasists now control maddened throngs

Oh dear! they decided I am madly in love with acquaintance
neither I or poor acquaintance know this
But let not the truth get in the way of a soap opera by the insanes
After All meaningless triggers and Delusionary prompts
keep the sheeples busy in People's Power utopia

They are all having a war, nobody has told me about it
I don't understand their language yet they are very eloquent
Deep in their imagined Neuro-linguistic Programming or mental pygmies playing Pavlov Dog theory of the semi-illiterates  

I just realized why cancer is prevalent amongst them
They carry so much poison and emotional ******* in their beings
It pollutes and eat away at them internally, they get cancer!

Never have been interested in little minds and liars and thieves
Have little time for dumb people, the toxics and the sheeples
What makes cretins think I take anything of theirs to mind
what can I learn or gain from contemptibles
I don't feel inferior so why would I want to learn
how to slander and defame others to bring them down
'Slander is the GREAT LEVELLER voiced one of them
poor inadequate soul, poor pathetic degenerate

I look twenty years younger than my years, no wrinkles
Just slightly greying, mind as sharp as razor
Because I don't carry acidic *******, hate or foul nonsense
in my head,
Because my mind is full of worthy knowledge
because I am not an ignoramus with attitude
because I am not a shameless coward or an empty headed nonentity
Because I am not amongst the madding crowd
I am not an insignificant pointless HATER with cancer in waiting!

I am NOT a SHAMELESS RACIST white THIEF discrediting the
Victim I STOLE from
an OBNOXIOUS gang of SOCIALIST crazed subhumans cancerized
by jealousy and envy
Madeline May 2013
and the fire smells like acid
and the moonlight looks like rain
and the ground, my feet don't feel it,
and suddenly i am filled.
with fear and with longing i am filled,
the brooding fear and the desperate longing.
the brooding fear that he won't know -
he will be missed.
he has been loved.
and what if i, at the end of it all, am only lost?
and the moonlight looks like rain
and the ground, my feet don't feel it
and i'm fearing the absence
and i'm waiting on the pain,
and i'm fearing its absence
because my heart, it's going numb,
and i swear, i can feel it,
the turning-away of feeling,
the willful numbness,
the manifesting fears.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
and i'm the dumb one that said
you weren't dumb
and you were the intelligent
one that said hello,
may as well enjoy the rocky
mountains with mt. rushmore
shave; to keep it all under wraps
of a hollywood movie that
never made it from scripts.
yeah you asked to be treated as dumb,
and i asked to be treated as a wizard,
evidently both of us became middle class
debates on parenting:
white man's neck muscles became
black girl's hypnotic celluloid hip arsenal,
and i faked a combo of each in comparison:
while rolling a wine barrel
up a steep hill for a laughing horse
in exchange for three magic kidneys
that were categorised
as baked bean & ******, oh lawd the giant
came from the heights,
with the magic goose ******* out golden
swastikas rather than eggs of date printed 1933,
holocaust unknown khaki shirts prior the schwarzhemd
recycled for marble marrow statues,
like gold carat plating of statues with beneath
only cheap metal... but then the atomic authenticity
measuring cylinder in u-turn to provoke
such animate extension into theory of inanimate things
that animate things provoked inanimate things to ask
whether the one promise be worth blind acceptance
or eyed destruction via logic itemising in coupling
of two base words - after all neither psyche or logic are
acidic words... they're base words... but coupling two
base words leaves an aftermath of acidic reactionaries
more prone than the singleton word **** that's acidic.
judy smith Jun 2015
To beat the blues, declutter the mind and trim that waistline... there are far more reasons to stay hydrated than to quench the thirst. Here's how to do it...

Hydration is central to the most basic physiological functions of the body such as regulating BP and body temperature, blood circulation and digestion. But having enough water is one thing and keeping the body well hydrated another. Hydration comes not just from sipping water but from a diet high on water. One needs to have a variety of fruits and vegetables that have a naturally high water content to replenish the electrolytes in scorching summer.


"The primary way of hydration is drinking plenty of clean water ******, but about 20 per cent of our intake comes from foods, especially fruits, vegetables, drinks and broths. Hydrating food not only corrects the water balance but also replaces essential salts and minerals," adds Manjari Chandra, therapeutic nutritionist. Aqua foods provide volume and weight but not calories. Grapefruit, for example, is about 90 per cent water and half a grapefruit has just 37 calories. High water greens and fruits contain essential vitamins and minerals, bioflavonoids (compounds believed to prevent heart disease) and antioxidants that slow down the aging process. They are also high in fibre, which keeps you feeling full for longer and helps the digestive system run efficiently. They can provide al most all vitamins and minerals and correct nutrient deficiencies.


If you thought the list of hydrating foods ends with the usual suspects like cucumbers, watermelons and tomatoes, you are wrong. Some offbeat natural hydrators include leeks, spinach, peppers, carrots and celery. In fact, celery comprises mostly water... qualifying as a great snacking option. It can also curb sweet tooth cravings, which will help you stay slim and keep away from acidic sweets. "Eggplants are a fabulous weight loss kitchen staple. This versatile ingredient has low calories and is rich in fibre that boosts satiety. Grape fruit has been hailed as a weightloss superfood globally for its cardio protective, antioxidant and appetite-sup pressing qualities. This high fibre, juicy fruit has the ability to lower blood sugar levels and control a voracious appetite," says Jia Singh, travel, food and wellness writer.


People usually don't consider water as a mood enhancer. However, studies have proved otherwise. Even mild dehydration can alter a person's mood, energy levels, and ability to think clearly, according to two studies by the University of Connecticut's Human Performance Laboratory. Mild dehydration is defined as an approximately 1.5 per cent loss in normal water volume in the body. It is important to stay properly hydrated at all times, not just during exercise, extreme heat, or exertion. This is because water gives the brain the electrical energy for all t, its functions, including r thought and memory processes. When your brain is functioning on a full reserve of water, you will be able to think faster, be more focused, and experience clarity and creativity.


We all know the importance of exercising, getting enough protein, calories and rest in order to build muscles.But water consumption is as important for muscle wellness and lubrication of joints. Water composes 75 per cent of our muscle tissue! So, if your body's water content drops by as little as 2 per cent, you will feel fatigued. If it drops by 10 per cent, you may experience health problems, such as arthritis and back pain. When you're well hydrated, water provides nutrients to the muscles and removes waste so that you perform better.


Strawberries: They rank highest in water content in comparison to all other berries. Berries are powerhouses of antioxidants that are cardio protective, good for your eyes, skin and nails and even help prevent inflammation and chronic illnesses.

Carrots: They are almost 90 per cent water, are rich sources of vitamin A and C and have tons of betacarotene that keep cancer at bay.

Zucchini: Zucchini is a popular summer squash made of 95% water. It is a good source of dietary fibre, vitamin A, C and K, folate, magnesium. It is best to use it fresh and raw in salads because cooking leads to loss of water.

Bell Peppers: Sweet bell peppers are amongst the veg gies with the highest water content. They are also a great source of vitamin C.

Iceberg lettuce: Health experts often rec ommend substituting it with darker greens like spinach or romaine lettuce for higher amounts of fibre and nutrients such as folate and vitamin K. It's a different story, however, when it comes to water content. Crispy ice berg has the highest amount of water amongst the lettuce family.

Spinach: It may not be as hydrating as iceberg lettuce, but spinach is usually a bet ter bet overall. The leafy vegetable is rich in lutein, potassium, fibre, and brain-boosting folate.Read more |
Vivian Jan 2013
I hate this empty feeling
In my stomach
Acidic and cold
Like someone punched it

I feel sick
I think I combusted
Wouldn't be surprised
If you loved it

I hate myself
I hardly speak
Because I hate what's underneath

I'm horrible
Understand that
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
Smooth, smooth, fringed by yellow smudged, hard plastic
smooth, left to right then a painterly inconclusive running
out, the stroke all 60” expires into the yellow, then a firm
vertical orange stripe, a bookend, a hot surface elevated
upon a warm yellow bed, exotic, turmeric, heated from
below, as though from another world, a future planet found
in Manga, gum wrappers, belonging to the wedding
wardrobes of older women, and those with impossible
shoes, maybe a scarf, definitely lipstick and small Japanese
cars, decorative paper, a can’t-miss logo, as when I close
my eyes in the act of love, holding your kneeling body to
me I lose myself in a pattern of flashes, the bright play of
light and colour, a sensual play of pigment, blue and red
wavelengths, fuchsine, electric, electric, and the aura of
artists, such latent energy, hidden passion, rich in ******
fragrance, edged with desire.

The path of the brush now right to left yellow exposes a
yellow bookend at the left hand edge, there is a roughness
here in its covering of yellow, as though applied in haste or
in a single gesture with a large brush, it is thick, thick and
rough, but the yellow is almost present, a hint, a reflection,
as in the petals of the Bellis Perennis, you open your mouth
breathing, breathing your lips frame such perfect teeth as
day arrives,

Left to right, the paint thick then thinning to a broken
tailpiece revealing yellow on magenta, again, again, again, again,
how little I yet understand your body, the innerness,
the sheltered regions of your desire, I am afraid to harm this
preciousness, be disrespectful of the tapering valley where
love’s caress and kiss meet, are multi-dimensional, the
rectangle is not charcoal, but deflected, hesitant, to the left
the darkness of chocolate, to the right a greyness, a *****
grey, a dusty dark dog, loamed, a depth then play of
shadow, dark, textural as your maidenhair under the covers
above my right hand as it spreads my fingers across its
darkness into deeper darkness, a flat stone, its left end
washed by the cold tide, olived, clothed in mourning, there
is unpleasantness, some distaste, a little fear, the unknown,
the unknowable.

Daisy petals, opening in the morning light, the clapperboard
house on the Block Island beachside fresh-painted every
spring, immediately weathered, porcelained sea shell
textured, turned, tumbled, a dawn sky after rain,
ceramicised fungi, plain flour, acidic, taut, the moment
when the heart and breath seem to pause as we join each
other’s flesh as though this cannot be cannot really be.

Unrhymable this flower shade hued pigment deep saffron
vibrant, phoned, not quite of the fruit, a different tang,
sharper without sheen, magenta beneath its smoothed
surface up to left and right edge, (but for the yellow
frill beneath), lip covering, silk-scarfed, not autumnal yet, but oh
those Californian poppies, those desert landscapes as the
sun sets,

a single uneven gesture thrown left to right, an island
in silhouette with a rocky foreshore spreads into distance,

a bed of sylvan jade, an oasis, this an aerial view of tree
tops modulating to grassy pasture, a down-stroke western
boundary, an edge of surf on its northern border, perhaps
the brush formerly coloured has left its trace,

the main body of this Australian desert seen from the air,
Sidney Nolan’s bush, aboriginal earth, coloured mud,
unguent, the sense of liquid in your kiss, its warmth, the
very tip and corner of your lips, the brush of hair as you
move your head to my chest, the rubbing of hair on hair,
under your arms this play of sensation through the lips’
touch, then the shore, the sand no sand though, only in the
brochures, daffodilled perhaps, unsmudged, fresh,
vigorously golden, well-watered.
Steve D'Beard Nov 2012
Pounding bass.
Sub-sonic strobes.
Synthetic smoke.
Alone on the dance-floor
I was glad to see another
clubbers curves move in rhythm;
Uninhibited by the foot tapping brigade
who watched with intensity.

You edged ever closer
Till our smiles became infectious.
An uncertain bond of understanding,
amid an endless rush of acidic bleeps.
Mystically shrouded in transient beats,
we strangers come together in unity

Your hips move to the pneumatic bass
as transient hardhouse and
tribal breakbeats embrace,
The foot tappers again resume,
Spontaneous rushes
and some sulphur that is sour to taste.

We may have unzipped and consumed
to electronic tunes,
but the tune remains the same -
Beautiful stranger dream a dream for me
because now all we have between us is
this track accompanies the poem as the eulogy to the unamed stranger who crossed my path that evening
Adam L Alexander Jul 2010
Blood searing my veins
Cauterizing countless lacerations
My wounds seep with
The acidic taste of my life
I sit-
Unaware of my soul
Leaking out every pore
Dripping slowly away
The greedy
Cracked concrete
Drinking up my essence
Until all I am left is
sycokitten Nov 2011
our little druggy girl's
actin like shes in a whirl
twitchin likes shes gettin hit
baby must be out of it
eyes blown wide
shes terrified
someone says shes trippin bad
other asks how much shes had
hystarics start bustin out
were losing her theres no dobut
once panic set in
no way she'd win
stumblin about
she starts to shout
tripps back
loud crack
shes so *******
brains got spewed
sirens blared
someone cared?
see the flashing light
escape into the night

morning paper said
they pronounced her dead

a kind word for
the girl who swore
once upon a time
she'd always be fine.
gg Sep 2013
I think you must be acidic
and I just litmus
because the way you kiss me
turns me red


You are acidic
And I was a base
I felt everything at once
and then nothing at all


You are acidic
and I am only human
You are long gone
But the burns are still here
Meg B Apr 2014
A lone wolf;
Solitary soldier.
Too comfortable you have become
stumbling down a path
for one.

Blinded by
eyes closed
to the world that truly lays
your chosen screen
of wool
woven, cross-stitched with

Hands you refuse to hold
as you boldly
down the dusty trail;
howling out silently
so no one may hear.

Sporting a
of self-loathing
and fear,
vulnerability the
enemy you choose to slay,
for surrendering to
a state of
naked, raw
seems more frightening
than the darkest dungeon,
stormiest night.

Gulping down
another shot
of loneliness on the rocks,
not even a splash
of soda,
for you like the way it burns.
Inhale solidarity,
snorting your
acidic dispelling of
chosen not to be felt.

Sometimes, though,
in the quietest of the night,
sitting on the lip of a deep
you may whisper
in a tone you would hate
to be called sweet,
and the mask comes off;

till 2 PM,
waking and at it again,
alone, a lone wolf
at emotional
and takes another

— The End —