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cait-cait Jan 2015
can hearts be heavy like
the bags under my eyes,
or is my
illusion of gratitude
just stronger than
my effort to stay awake
im so tired i hate working and i hate being alone***, and now i have to write more for class ugh ****
kirk Feb 2016
Id love a big fat ****
Or a wrinkled up *******
An ugly looking hag
Who wants a ******* ****

If I had a big fat *****, with a big fat bucket
I'd lay between her fleshy thighs, and definitely **** it
My thrusting **** inside her ****, is where I'd like to tuck it
Spunking up would be sublime, when I lick and **** it

When your about to **** the fat, it takes a certain knack
Stuffed up fishy **** *****, or **** ******* round the back
A nice piece of chunky ****, with a big long sweaty crack
Fatty *** holes make you hard ,my **** would not be slack

I would ride a big large Gal, just like a waterbed
Bathroom ******* would be fun, as well as in the shed
Spunking up between her legs, cream cheese would then be spread
When both holes are full of ***, she can **** my **** instead

And after I have finished, with all of those fat *******
Something different I would want, maybe some old wrinkled witches
All wearing apple gatherers, and big large ******* britches
Older ***** long overdue, scratching long lost itches

A lot of fun I could have, in an old folks place
Disrobed willing grannies *****, stuffed right in my face
At least eight bits of gristle ******, a display of my disgrace
With each granny ****** in turn, if they can stand the pace

As I lift their skirts up their knickers I would sniff
I'm hoping that old fannies good, and they don't smell or whiff
The smell of old used granny ****, is probably just a myth
But I won't let it bother me, as long as I get stiff

I wouldn't even care, if they wore crap NHS glasses
As long as I could **** and ***, inside there wrinkled arses
I would **** them old ****** , all from different classes
Some of them in wheelchairs and some with heart bypasses.

It's irrelevant how fat you are, I really do not mind
As long as you are willing, and your *****'s wet and kind
And if you like it up the ****, then I'm that way inclined
******* ***** is quite fine, so is ******* from behind

So come on girls fat or old, all slags are a possibility
Your sexuality can flood out, there's no need for negativity
I'm willing to **** who comes along, to the best of my ability
Just make sure that I stay stiff, and maintain my agility
Carter Ginter Jul 2013
I'm sorry that I'm not sorry
That I can't love someone who's caused me so much pain.
You ask that the bad out weighs the good,
But you really have no idea.
You have no clue as to how many deep seeded problems I have,
How many issues that could have been avoided,
If you could have just picked me.
If you could have seen the life slipping out of your daughter,
The pain every day brought;
It was deep and kept burrowing,
Deeper and deeper.
Into not just my body but my soul.
Now I pay for it with anxiety
With violence
And don't forget the depression.
But it wasn't my fault right?
Not my fault that I can't break these bad habits she burned into me?
The borderline eating disorder
And the inability for any emotional stability.
So they wonder why I can't let people in.
Hell even I questioned it.
But then I realized,
That in those 5 years of hell,
Wanting to take my life at the age of 12,
I stood on my own.
And I fought my battles without help from ANYONE.
So how can I change that now;
Convince myself that things have changed,
That I'm allowed to be weak for a little bit?
I'm going to fight for this,
Until I'm my own person again.
And I will NEVER be like you,
Or her,
I'd sooner take my own life than to witness that result.
Finally let some of this out..I guess it's too hard to explain. Just a ******* up family and not any better now even though that's the way it looks. Then again it never really looked bad in the first place did it. Never left any bruises, no proof. But memories never die.
CK Baker Feb 2017
There were dividing lines
between springfield
and mariners gate
soft, subtle lines
that spoke of origin
and code
and biting union

it was all
the reason
for being;
alive and living
dead or dying
deep in a pack
of pint size resistors
hell bent on the
marsh crow
and cannabis tower
jumping the rush
with *** shots
and anchors
and tribunals

camouflage creepers
and transient floaters
marked rebellion at the gates
(skullduggery and taunt
high on their favor list)
jack straws and flat paddles
for the evening charade
beakers and flailing hands
from the foot washing baptist
(the pleasant street conservatives with their
own something to say…“there’s gonna be hell to pay!”)

there's a
lingering effect
to this sentiment
(evident in the pump house stride)
the river winds
blow gently
into the night
as the huddling packers
and **** backs
chase the evening hours

it’s a bitter sweet
end of an era;
those traction bars
hood scoops
and nickel bags
will always
be the rage
Jordan Rowan Aug 2015
I'm leaving tomorrow
But I'm staying today
Before the dawn
I'll be gone away
No one watches me walk away
I'm leaving tomorrow
But I'm staying today

I've put myself
In the shape I'm in
My head is heavy
And my body's thin
Will someone please let me in?
I'm leaving tomorrow
But I'm staying today

I'm wearing rags
In sleeping bags
I'm drinking coffee
With homeless hags
I don't mean to be a drag
I'll be leaving tomorrow
Can I stay the day?
Please don't throw me away
Two book bags got shot down,
while celebrating the end of the school year on the playground.
All that red flowing blood covering the whole ground.
Destroying our souls.
Again!
And again!
In Chi-town.
Ain’t nothing sacred anymore.
Marching from here to there.
Saying “Stop The Violence”
is met by a community
that just don’t CARE.
I  CARE!
I really CARE!
We The People must learn to CARE once again.
About our community.
About our kids.
Drop the Mic!
No more ***** to give!
Rewind!
Let me re-introduce my heart to you again.
Those two book bags represent someone’s
little girls shot on the playground.
It could have been your daughters lying there
on the ground bleeding out.
“Stop The Violence” isn’t just a message for
the South Side of Chicago or Black folks.
“Stop The Violence” is the last message to humanity.
To do something now,
while there is still HOPE!


(C) Copyrighted
On the South side  of Chicago; two  young girls were shot on the last day of class, while they were playing on the school playground.
CK Baker Apr 2017
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls

Army bands prepare for march
(their trench members filling packs with canister and cane)
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle

Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms

Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues

Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from their perch
an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare

It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****)
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
are a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland
King Panda May 2016
rain
mud and grass
common prayer
good weather
good people
art
and umbrella bags
because who wants to
get wet?
unless it’s with you
I could
I would
jump into the lake
for that rock
sew
cleanse
initials made in sharpie
and unclamp
we run
around the park
the afternoon surrounds us
the woman in the bikini
passes
and we laugh
iced tea
decaf coffee
cake without teeth
and that airstream camper
you always wanted
I could live in your
backyard
I could live somewhere
not here
in silver
prostrated
with my back to the
moon
like dead
like a mummy
like a mirror
and life would make sense
life would be beautiful
like this run
with perfect amounts of sweat
and conversation that runs
waves in the sand
and tells the squirrels
goodnight, tractor
see you tomorrow

and the land that billows
is dug up
and chewed
like a goodnight poem
this run with you
takes rest
on my soul
and I crack my ribs
to take the spring’s
twilight
aroma
CK Baker Jan 2017
cedar planks line the dim lit hall
morning snow begins to fall
sepia print in a chip wood frame
embers spark from the franklin flame

rustling sounds from bunks below
records play in a tight alcove
bacon grills on the iron sheet
gloves are warmed by baseboard heat

bean bags tossed on colored ****
papka placed as a punching bag
red brick wall with mounted poles
windows filled with glacier bowls

whiskey jack on the southern rail
a frozen patch of wine and ale
pine cones fall in gathering white
brothers bathed in firelight

sleighs are on the table top
canyon road is at a stop
northern winds that bite the face
lines are up the gondola base

cornice clipped on gully goat
the rubber man appears to float
alpine depths are on the rise
peaking sun through parting skies

triple ropes and nordic luge
honored guests from baton rouge
gelande jumps on rainbow drive
nostalgia’s light and warm reply
Katherine Smith Feb 2018
darling—

i almost made it out
the house
down the slanted
           concrete
                      steps
i nearly passed the garden gate
with tired
        ivy
            crawlers
for a moment i thought i was free
no ghosts
       no ashen memories—
But bags in hand i couldn't help
and took
     a glance
            behind.
I used to hate the myth of Orpheus, I think it's because I was scared of making the same mistake.
CK Baker Nov 2018
Covenant park central
parallel, east-side west
waiting on the
print defender
(and Lichaten queen)
he appears randomly
and distorted
with a broken smile
shuffling down
the Smithright trail
in his Mac Tack
and cinnamon shades
(sun bags and thrift ware
stacked three high
on a rusted rat trap)

An open ended
panel van
crashes the curb
as a long-boarder
dodges the tail
and kicks up some dirt ~
the plumb tree
and sunbeam double wide
hold steady in the fish eye
as the warehouse carny
and tire-less 510
shine brilliantly
on the dull and
dripping scene
CK Baker Apr 2017
to exonerate the clipping
we took the back road to oswega
the tudor house rabbits
had long lost their heads
(presumably to the *****)
and what remained
of the scape
was dead
and dry
and orange

that happy home
on the brink
of cattle loop
was now gull grey ~
the needles
and stragglers
(from shady bay)
remained in numbers
on the outskirt
of the park

the fabled town
of horse drawn tours
was stone washed ~
on the back of
government docks
sat decrepit toppers
set on high tide
against the lighthouse
and its measured song

flutes and fiddles
and acoustic sitars
ride the accompaniment
nose rings
and signage
in the hands of
staged protesters
the sickly spit strewn
with tidal run
and ocean bags

hedgerow trimmed
alongside the sea walk
rolling hills bend
before the chuck
mint juleps
and flop hats
peak the parade
clydesdales
and royals
blinded in back
Espresso manic Oct 2018
They always said the sky is the limit,
But they never said how to get there.

When the twists of life tried to keep me down,
i ran away.
When they came back for me,
i packed my bags and ran.
The bags slowed me down and yet, i couldn’t leave them behind.

During my escape i planned my journey and met more travelers.
Their bags seemed as heavy as mine, but our grips were adamant to the load.
Eventually i dared to fly.
Flying was easy. Up in the air, where gravity’s pull is weaker
made my bags lighter, and I soar higher.

Did i dare fly too high? Did i forget about the bags?
Oh mama, no one told me to be careful of flying too high.
Now i’m back to running,
running for one more breath of pure air.
faith Dec 2018
run from your life,
run from the strife,
escape the pain,
there's nothing to gain,
from the hurt in your heart,
it's time to get smart,
pack your bags,
renew your tags,
speed away in your car,
it'll only leave a scar,
don't worry about her,
the reminder of who you were,
leave that life behind,
empty out your mind,
don't rethink,
you're on the brink,
it's a new chapter,
just think after.
v V v Feb 2011
I continue in darkness while
supposed light shines in the distance;

distant and unattainable
beyond a purple fog on its hands and knees
feeling its way through the night
like an angel of death.

Where is the light so many refer to?

I’ve died a thousand deaths but only seen
the purple fog nothingness creeping like
a rising river

tumbling over sand bags.

I have not seen light.
Published at Pyrokinection in January 2013
Jesse stillwater Apr 2018
The midnight sun is heading north

These bags are packed with dreams
and the memories of who I’ve been;
To scatter forth like gathered seeds
on fallow hope,
strewn at the mercy of the winds

The genesis of spring unravels
the knotted darkness
Another winter’s aftermath
hidden back on the back shelf
The distance between back then
and now,  is widening
each  Dawn  to  Dusk

A  gust  of  sunlight
plashes ripples
across the still waters
of  depthless  peace

and,
my hands are no longer tied
behind  my  back
by winter's grasp

Seasons  oft  do  change
perennial  as  the  tides

But I don’t want to see
another ocean runaway;
I don’t want to know how
another fleeting moment
ends


Jesse Stillwater
7th  April  2018
L B Sep 2018
My friend and I talk about it
Neighborhood got decimated this year
One after another the corners of community are gone
We touch the elder memories
as one might touch a head in blessing
as loved ones pass

We linger longest over John

Found dead after ten hot days
by other-worldly hazmat crew
flanked by cruisers
with their special, yellow truck
and zipper bags

...found 'im
glasses folded neatly on the night stand
in his jammies
all tucked into bed

No one thought it strange
that strange young guy would die
already decomposing in his head
Lost
among his personal effects
his fleet of rusting cars
and half-assed projects
Deck tacked to garage
his herds of “pets”

Easy to pretend he wasn't really there
between jail stints or some imagined threat or theft
of crap
haunted by the shadows of his persecutors
caught in motion lights
and cameras' blinding evidence of
jungle-jumble and malfunctioning car alarms
going off in the wind
Everyone's out to get his stuff
We could dismiss him--

mostly
sorta

...except for times
he mowed his grass at night
or hand-built “the lunatic tower”
just for mom
from scavenged scraps and
hammered hours
power-sawed
through the housing codes
and horror of the neighbors...
...Such a special spectacle...

******* crazy-- John!

He was enough for one day at a time
like when

he flung that threatening bolder
on his bilco doors
for percussive effect

Get off my ******' property!”
(not using his “inside voice”)
“Next time, that'll be your head!!

He announces his intent
to not get mad, behave himself
to call the cops on me instead
Fake-dialing
While his mother screams in dread
“John is off his meds!”

My phone is set to speed dial
911
__

“How did we miss this?
How did we not miss him those quiet days?”

How we miss him now
How quiet
Every neighborhood has one,  and I do miss him.  John provided endless daily entertainment and angst.  Sometimes he was a truly friendly neighbor; sometimes, truly scary.  We had many long conversations.  My beloved cat, Bailey adored him.  I took that as a good sign.  John cried when Bailey was found dead.  I have entrusted them to each other's care in heaven.

Jesus, forgive John his failures and his torments.  I take his place dutifully as the local crazy.  :)
ConnectHook Sep 2017
White folks: pack your bags and go.
Our nut-brown world is quite offended.
Make your shame-faced exit NOW,
and leave your mansions unattended.
Wait—before you pass the doors,
it's time to settle ethnic scores.

No more ragtime Minstrel show.
Our Moorish science took it down.
Black lives matter. White, less so—
now move your pale face out of town . . .
but first, shell out for racial shame
Caucasian losers of the game.

Cultural pride is ours alone:
kings and Egyptian queens we were.
The glories of our race, well-known
bedazzle in a darkened blur
(clear to Africa's descendants—
puzzling to you white dependents).

Blackness lent your world its light,
taught the Dutch to tend those flowers.
Scandinavia grew bright
under our beneficent powers.
Negroes gave your blondes their beauty;
helped those Norsemen shake their *****.

The Seven Wonders of the world:
we built them all. No vain conjecture
dims our banner, black, unfurled,
above eternal architecture.
Arts and knowledge gained from us
are what we threaten to discuss.

We invented math and science
which you robbed from Timbuktu.
Swarthy wisdom's brave defiance
caused Old Europe to renew.
All our treasure that you plundered
testifies: your days are numbered.

Classics of our Greeks you stole:
Philosophy was never yours.
Shame upon your racist soul;
for Bach and Mozart both were Moors.
Misappropriated treasures
call for ruthless hard-line measures.

Latino fate falls next—but, where ?
Jews, Turks, and Arabs: are you. . . white ?
Orientals everywhere:
choose your side and join the fight.
Blackness rising! Late the hour;
heed your call to fight the power.

Crackers need to check your race—
stop rooting for that ****** clown.
Rednecks all up in our face;
racist throwbacks got us down.
But as your statues bite the dust
your light goes dark (you know it must).

So move on out, oppressor, thief.
Long have you held our nation back.
In some white galaxy seek relief—
but here the light itself is black.
Stars are racist. So is the sun.
Now let God's great black will be done.
Truth is stranger than:
http://tinyurl.com/yc9va3pl

Candace Owens understands . . .
gleck Jan 2016
People say that growth is a lifelong journey.
Talk about the scheduled trip like it's to the most holy place.

I can leave I had a talk with my attorney.
I have packed my bags and I'm ready for the new taste.

Where is this fantastic place called the future?
Leigh Mar 2015
Eyebrows like barbed wire,
Skin like leather,
Silver hair always carefully in place,
And a handshake that held your everything.
It's etched into my palm.
Beneath the kindest eyes I knew
Bags were packed for the Winter.
Every item picked thoughtfully for her:
His life
...


A short tribute to my Grandad George who passed away. One of the kindest and most selfless people I've known.

...
Brandi Aug 2018
One squirt, one pump of my Christmas in a bottle
The ultimate cure for late summer anxiety
Which most certainly exists when one's life has changed so drastically And will soon be put to the test
Literally...piles of notes translated into tests

HOW DID THIS BECOME ABOUT SCHOOL??!!

Being lotion would be liberating
So smooth
So satisfying
And if you were part of the signature collection
You would likely be a fan favorite of sorts
A must have in a bathroom cabinet
Purse
First (or last) date
Bringing delight in a nice portable cream

To my bottle of lotion
Thank you
Stay awhile
I don't mind the occasional mess you make in my bags when the cap is open

Keep the candy apples picked and ready
All year long
And to all a good night

                                             © 2018
                                        Brandi Keaton
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