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Michael DeVoe Mar 2012
At my high school reunion
Years from now
In the old gym
They'll ask, whatever happened to us anyway
I won't have an answer for them
It'll be a shoulder shrug
Upward palms
And a colon backslash face
They'll move on to my son
Or work
Or school
Or some distant memory which will undoubtadly begin with, "remember that time"
And most likely end with, "those were the days"
And while they move on with their conversations
I will still have a colon backslash face
And my mind will be in a completely different time machine than the prom queen and the class clown
I will
By the end of it all
Have devoted what I can only imagine to be significantly more time than alotted
Thinking about what did ever happen to us anyway
And when I go home to what I anticipate being a beautiful, intellegent, loving wife, girlfriend, fiancee thing
She will
For a moment
Or possibly two moments
Not measure up to you
And I hope she won't notice my colon backslash face
That she'll end up smiling until she falls asleep

The morning after my high school reunion
I will stand in front of my mirror
And for much longer than two moments
I will not measure up
To the man you could have made me
And I will notice
I will start by ******* in my gut
Running my hands through my hair to try and imagine myself with a different style
I will analyze my wardrobe
And half way through auditing my music collection I will fall to the floor
I will cry
And with you in the forefront of my mind
I will
In true movie scene fashion
Whisper to no one
Whatever happened to us anyway
And worse than not having an answer at the reunion
I won't have an answer for myself
In an empty living room
Because I really don't know whatever happened to us anyway
One day we were
The next day we weren't
It was so adult
I was so civil
Even our break-up will be the best I ever had

The day before my high school reunion
I will cut my hair
Trim my arm pits
And clip my beard
I will iron a suit
Pick a good tie
And I imagine
In front of a mirrror
I will
Be proud of the man I have become

In the years going forward
And leading up to that high school reunion
I will
As a matter of life's course
Have no other occasion
To ask myself
Whatever happened to us anyways
But never the less
One night
Years from now
That question
Will leave me paralyzed
Scared
Heartbroken
Lonely
And even if
I am not alone
My pillow will remember
For one night
Or maybe even two nights
How to smell like you
And my arms
If only for a half a moment
Or possibly one whole moment
Will
With no luck
Reach for you
A collection of poems by me is available on Amazon
Where She Left Me - Michael DeVoe
http://goo.gl/5x3Tae
Ruth Forberg Jul 2010
Look up lucid, write it down.
Read a book, then skip town.
Share a smile, sell an frown.
Act a fool, act a clown.

Tell stories, try and match wits.
Complain, complain, give two *****.
Catch your tantrums, throw your fits.
One hit wonders are still hits.

Shut the door, dim the lights.
Crash a party, get in fights.
Shorten days, lengthen nights.
There's no wind to fly the kites.

Watch the sky, see a flash.
Watch the road, miss a crash.
Colon followed by backslash.
A vampire weekend beats a monster mash.

But no one cares when you're human.
That's all you'll ever be.
No regrets, only lies to set the liars free.
Tricky whimsical mistress calling cards in effort to ******* all the trades, did you make her hit list? Missed me, you cynical simple hypocrites the dodge got me the **** out of the way and struck mayday with swiftness. Quick kick me out of the prisons for shifty self lifting over barbara’s wired fences, I’m relentless and restless so lets just end this and forget this, I’m angry and after much less friendship than forensics. Automated autopsy for the auto industry, the death of a sales clerk who outta be the enemy but instead we celebrate his tendency to sell his soul for our ovendulgances, Over seven seas of wishy washy tidal waves, all for city crushing some for finding wives, most for breaking levis and I believe all for soaking your leviathan levi’s. Its cool, it only makes them look more vintage. Pay homage to home owners with gun holsters with loose ammo aimed at the abdomen who work there ***** off, to pay for rockets and not blasting off, the thinking cap is off and my gut instinct is locked and loaded up to the pistol pulling motion that my emotions are exploring. Pardon the Patron in my person, I’m all for derooting for the home team version of the underdog under pressure to understand the burden of playing for a chance to play again. Mission accomplished there’s nothing to accomplish, we’ve done it mr. president, now tell me when we can stop it. We’ve lost it, and got not a lot to show for it except some sweet, sea-foam green graffiti on top of your “vote for me” posters. Pose for the camera angle wrangle up your strangle-holds to warm you up, November’s getting cold. And not to be so impolitely impolitical its just unusual how much better I feel with I dissect the system and then die right there with em.
Tricky whimsical mistress distressed she heard from a witness  that some future mother died tonight he stayed inside she took to the SKIES and DOVE, depressed mode impressed himself when he’s alone, he voted for gravity to be the casualty as long as her light was shown. Sown into his baby blanket baby blank face wont take it as well as she did, and she did well. Nah, she did good. Its understood that understatements under estimate the estimated when thrown into a ratio of how far we have and backslash or can go. Oh ego in my hand hold, let go and eat ****, drop far below a parachute and pray for your landing to be tragic. Prisoners, prepare to loot the loose change when theres no more defenses, Cuz when Barbara goes down, as to do her wired fences. The noose hangs delicately on malevolence street across the corner from the coroners office where someone is staring at me, brutally. I pay homage to my hostage holding home-owner hiding the hypocracy of hissing out a nice try. and roll over on the notion of note worthy nihilism he’s a nice guy but we don’t necessarily see eye to eye. Adrenaline you win again you sin sipping sack of lack of sobriety, Don’t cry to me when irony takes out the fight in me, I’ve got my synopsis, its so chaotic that everybody wins.
c Apr 2018
Ask me what kind of **** I am into
And I will take you on a magical journey
To fanfiction dot com backslash Harry Potter backslash NC17

What turns me on is Ginny Weasely in the restricted section
With her skirt hiked up;
Sirius Black in a secret passage way,
Solemnly swearing that he is up to no good;
And Draco Malfoy in the room of requirement slithering in to my Chamber of Secrets;
I am an unapologetic consumer of all things Potterotica,

And the sexiest part
Is not the way Cho Chang rides that broomstick
Or the sounds of Myrtle moaning,
The sexiest part is knowing
That they are part of a bigger story;

That they exist beyond eight minutes in ***** ***** *******,
That their kegels are not the strongest thing about them,
And still I am told
That my **** is ‘unrealistic’.

Not quite as ****** as flashing ads saying 'just turned 18’
So you can fantasize about ******* the youngest girl you won’t go to jail for.
I’m told that my **** isn’t quite as lifelike
As a room full of lesbians begging for ****,
Told that this is what is supposed to turn me on.

Don’t you give me raw meat
And tell me it is nourishment,
I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.

It looks like 24/7 live streaming
Reminding me that men are going to **** me whether I like it or not,
That there is one use for my mouth and it is not speaking,
That a man is at his most powerful when he’s got a woman by the hair.

The first time a man I loved held me by the wrists
And called me a *****
I did not think 'run’,
I thought 'this is just like the movies’

I know a slaughterhouse when I see one.
It looks like websites and seminars teaching you how to **** more *******,
Looks like fifteen-year-old boys bullied for being virgins,
It looks like the man who did not flinch
When I said stop and he heard 'try harder’.

If you play-act at butchery long enough
You grow used to the sounds of screaming,
It is just a side effect of industry;
Everything gets cut into small, marketable pieces.
I will not practice ****** hands
I will not make believe dissected women,

My *** cannot be packaged
My *** is magic
It is part of a bigger story
I am whole
I exist when you are not ******* me
And I will not be cut into pieces any more.
I love throwing out my fave poems here!

Brenna Twohy is a poet and performer from Portland, Oregon. She is a two-time Portland City Slam Champion and was the 2014 representative to the Individual World Poetry Slam. (taken from her Google page). She is a part of Button Poetry collective as well. Check out this poem and more on YouTube (just type in the poem title). It is muuuch more riveting of a write when she speaks it,
Pax May 2015

In poetry I unload to explode
To break free from all the dynamite
I usually kept hidden
My passive nature makes me resistant
to its pollutants.
Sometimes they’re more like landmines
Awaiting for someone
Who stomp the wrong buttons
Then detonate
And explode between my shouts
And cries.

In all honestly
No matter how resistant I am to become resilient
my core is too vulnerable to crumble
By a simple backslash of toxic tongues
And suddenly I fall in my knees to simply walk away
No battle is worth an effort
When you know it’s just pride
Battling himself.

The poem speaks for itself, but I just want to confirm yes, I tend to bottled-up my feelings. That is why sometimes I easily get depressed. I don’t speak-out a lot or just careful not to hurt anyone with my words. So in poetry I rant almost everything so that it will not eat me into depression.

Its hurts me when I look back, to those people who say mean things to me that I simply ignore because it’s not worthy to argue anymore, they tend to get stuck on their own opinion, too closed to have an open mind.
Pax Dec 2016
You who have done wrong, who thinks your right.
In subsequent to your anger towards me,
you have no [right].
Still i ignore your snubs
treated it as a bluffs.
Glad that you ignore me
at times, even if you bore a grudge on me.
I'll received it as a parting gift
to forget whatever causes of grief
you've done.

I know this words will never reach you,
cause in life i don't want to give birth
to more misunderstanding. I am already
misunderstood and mistreated at times.

I just want to live-up to the silence of my comfort.
My independence is enough
to have a strong mind
and a stable heart to withstand
all the backslash of tongues.

a quote says:
everybody needs somebody sometimes
well i don't need one when I'm still able.

raw
"siya na yung may kasalanan, siya pa yung may ganang magalit and mag damdam. ang kapal, talaga..."

Now I understand that Bullies have low EQ(emotional quotient). They just tend to have fun at you all the times without realizing that they've done too much. It been long i haven't wrote something like a journal. I just want to release this thoughts running on my mind.
Waiting4TheStop Dec 2016
Gal?
Pal?
Wait, what now?
How?

Bound to get some questions from this, some hate; a backlash. The funny side of this is my middle name can basically be a backslash.

Some will say I don't have to mention.
Others will say I'm doing it for attention.

I'm doing it because I don't know.
I'm putting my confusion fully on show.
Whoohoo! Yippie! Let's go!

I don't have to be shy.
So what? Sometimes, I feel pretty much, like a guy
Perhaps, the majority will stigmatise.
For you see, my gender does not fit into a pretty little box, at least not in society’s eyes
(C) 2016
Maria Imran Jun 2014
You were a colon
and semicolons you detested
I tried putting a comma there
like grammar lady suggested.
but our life, it seems, is an underscore
or an inverted question mark blotted
because whenever I ask for space
or try putting us back within a parenthesis,
you usually slash me―or backslash me.
This is not, however, how I had imagined
us to be. I always wanted a life smooth as tilde
a prime time together, without fearing bad weather
I wanted us to fight against negations,
but like a dagger kills relations
or a bullet, we died inside too…
It is a broken bar now, and it hurts
at the highest degree of pain.
Can we still back into space though,
or is it about time we put a full stop?
alexis hill Feb 2016
bringing it back
to rhyme and spill flow
poetry runs in the veins
and blooms in the brains of many

inside a semi psychotic introvert
lies the hyphen
a hyphen is a heavy distance
separates the language
pauses in between are dead weights
cast into dark waters
like rocks of obsidian

dash-

I stare into oblivion
cry out to the sky
Van Gogh fingertips
a starry night
except the black is infinite
dancing with the skeletons
now it's a sorry night

slash/

I know you just so you know
and I know that you've heard of me
I'm just another common tragedy
with uncommon avenues of
apathetic issues and dissipating attitudes

dash-

turn the corner
all potentials stopped
Google image of this world in a picture perfect negatives and reels with false filters
hold up and wait- this print is fake
too bad your life is photoshopped

slash/

and you know what this has done to me?
it's made me mad at you.
I've walked the map in many different shoes
measured the globe to find its
latitude and longitude

dash-

better go back west
better slow that beating chest
testing limits and abilities
with anxiety comes atrophy

backspace . . .

this is more about sacrifice
and the pain I feel inside
about how I pass my time by
passing time...
all good things come to an end
sometimes
so let the rain fall
let the stones be cast

backslash//
Darren Whippe Apr 2021
I know there’s something wrong with me
There has been for a long time
I know I can’t smile like I used to
This grin is a crude forgery, the cheap kind of counterfeit you don’t want to accept is fake
I know there’s something missing from my programming
Something small
A comma or backslash that is vital for executing the intended functions
I’m 11 point font on a final paper
Your professor might not notice it but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s inadequate
I’m the shoddy locks on a downtown apartment; just for show
I am imitation crab
Cheap
I am the live action remake of a beloved childhood cartoon
I’ll never be able to capture the magic
I am a bathroom sink dye job
The colorless strands muddy the result
I am the green skin hidden by a cheap ring
I am the leaves in your gutter
Out of sight, out of mind
I am a municipal oversight
You won’t realize there are loopholes in your laws until it’s too late
I am the rushed ending to an otherwise wonderful novel
Disappointing
I am a pulled muscle you can’t quite forget about
The sleeve of an old hoodie you worry at when you’re bored
I am the weekly meeting you can’t get out of
The ‘before’ picture
I am the dead batteries in a fire alarm
A fatal mistake
I am the cracked camera on a brand new iPhone
A burnt out light bulb
I am a dress that gets ripped in the wash
A pink shirt that’s leached into crisp white socks
An unwanted stump tarnishing a perfectly manicured lawn
I am the behavior you can’t train out
The shakes that won’t go away no matter how long you’ve been sober
A slant rhyme
I am a dead outlet
A fraying charger
The flat tire you never learned how to change
I am an A.I. that will never quite pass for human
Manufactured mannerisms
Improvised idiosyncrasies
I am the package that comes broken
The chores you never quite get around to
A new building you won’t live to see
I am a botched haircut
An infected piercing
I am inherently flawed
Tainted by the trespassings of my forefathers

— The End —