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Lizzy Oct 2014
helping myself
with the help of some helpful voices
helping me live
to breathe with some assistance

fill my lungs
the taste of your air
will serve as a substitute
until i can stand again

fill my ears with deafening sound
swim in my veins and fix me
cure me of malaise
soothe my aching bones

help me help myself
help me help myself
help me help the lonely
help me help the ones like me
i went to self help fest last night. it was ******* perfect
Chris Neilson Jul 2016
They're all going to Festwich!
a festival in Prestwich
some bands are rather kitsch
with anticipation the air is rich

Half a mile from my abode
it's only down the road
rock bands set to explode

The chopper's in the sky
fireworks set to fly
i'm not going, why?

It was sold out months ago
my reactions were too slow
I'm now feeling the blow

They're walking past my window
dressed down with a place to go
to a rock n roll tribute show

Rock chicks, metal heads and loons
bands playing my favourite tunes
sporting Led Zep's runes

It's happening all so near
I need something to bring me cheer
I'm crying into my beer

They're all going to Festwich!
I'm going to build my own mosh pit
in my garden where i sit
where i'll stay 'til it's moonlit
Rock n Roll baby!
Steve Page May 2018
My wedding bands,
my three gold,
three strand
wedding bands
don't fit any more.

They remain unmoving
with no room for turning.
They don't hurt, they're just tight,
because they haven't grown with me
as they might have,
could have,
should have,
would have done
had I paid more attention
to the coming undone.

They remain,
but they don't fit anymore.
My three gold, three strand,
stuck-in-the-80s wedding bands
don't fit me anymore.
My mum asked 'doesn't that hurt?' as she held my hand and felt my ring finger.  More than I can say, I didn't answer.
You found me
stuck staring
at rearview mirror reflections
of wintry, dusk intersections
of everything leaving me
all at once.
A forced exhale
of asphyxia caged
in collapsing lungs;
my mouth,
a fountain spring,
that coughed out
pools of blood.

I wish I saw myself
the way you saw me;
not a red traffic light
wounding speeding cars
on winding streets,
but an antique heirloom
priceless enough
you'd only wish
you could keep
in a heart-shaped box
you saw in dreams.

But, I'd cut my tongue,
paint my lips cherry shades
to blend with cells that'd stain
handkerchiefs you'd offer.
Make you believe
this isn't going to foster
because you are indecision,
unfinished watercolor landscapes
of summer forest fire skies,
a sun-kissed Pacific wanderer.
And I am true crime
untouched evidence of break-ins,
remains of faulty locks and lights.
I am mosaics misaligned;
static, seabed cracks
from forgotten fault lines.
Gaping fissures of sand,
and salt that won't let me stitch
frayed skin-deep fibres
barely holding me in.

Oceans would have to empty themselves
into whirring cyclones and high tides
for our selfish sense of touch to collide.
Ice caps would have to sink
deep enough to even bruise my skin.
And I wouldn't want to watch
more Shakespeare end
before it begins.

See, I am the one
with sharp edges,
but why
did you have to be the one
to clip my wings?


There is only an abyss
without a trampoline,
a safety net,
a bed of waterlilies,
I could fall in.
And I am so tired
of paradoxes
and ironies;
of always being wanted
by someone who doesn't even
want to be kept,
of always being mended
and then left
with more dislocations,
and fractures,
one after another
each taking longer to fix.

Now, in shapeless parcels,
without return addresses
sent out into the void
these words will echo
of love
I never intended to borrow,
and shadows
of false hope
you never thought yourself
capable of
giving away.
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
Austin Sessoms Apr 2012
metaphors are
rubber bands
we may extend them
as much as we like
we may shoot them
at our classmates
we may impress
our professors
with the shapes
we can contort
them into
but the more
we extend them
the more we
wear them out
and its very possible
that with all of our
stretching and extending
we could render
our metaphors
useless
*snap
Friend A Oct 2018
Tick, Tock... the clock begins to rewind,
Look into a past of what I left behind,
The warmth of the sun, everlasting free,
And there we stood, a time of just you and me.

Hearing the cicada buzz its song,
Feeling the dew rain and its drops,
Reminiscing memories that I long,
Glancing a future as time, stops...

The past slowly starts to wither,
And yet I still hear your soft whisper,
So many regrets that I wanted to say,
But even so... you and I parted ways.

There was dream of us once together,
We would laugh, smile and hold hands,
Proclaim a love we gave to one another,
And live as one with our wedding bands.

Only the lonely,
Haunted by the only,
Know the longing I feel,
Of the love that was real…

We kept our hands tight forever,
And our hearts grew and grew,
As each star shines in the sky,
Each counts of my love for you.

Tick, Tock... time begins to wind again,
Blinded by future's heavenly streams,
Came back from a world of was and when,
In the end, everything was just a dream...
moonboy Jun 2014
rumour has it mirrors shatter
at the thought of you having your fathers eyes
I hope you know that if you're looking for a sign
you might find it tying to choke out one last goodbye
at the end of the night
you'll find it wherever home is
I know you hate the smell of smoke
but cigarettes are all I know
so I'm asking you to put up with it
you have every reason to be furious
but I'm hoping you'll take deep breaths and see
how calm they make my blood stream
I only started smoking to ease the pain
it was that or a needle to the vein
a bullet to the brain
too much going on up there anyways
it all just needed cutting out
so cigarettes just made sense
I talk about them in the past tense
but the one between my fingers seems to disagree
open your eyes and see
through all the smoke and mirrors lies me
a double entendre for how things used to be
and how they are currently
the writing is on the wall
in every ****** love song lies a promise
to make the next one stronger
and they keep promising that but the time between gets longer
and all of a sudden the bands broken up
and the symbol of love you used to **** to
is broken like the bond of your parents love
I love you is an apology
forgiveness is given with every similar reply
I love you means that I forgive you
for being broken and for breaking me
because picking you out in a crowded room
is something I've become accustomed to
god I can't stop thinking about the look in your eyes
on that night in July with fireworks in the sky
the last time I remember you saying goodbye
because I shattered at the thought of you having my fathers eyes


smoke and mirrors
06/22/14
9:10am
j.s
William Keckler Nov 2014
Atari clouds are digital ziggurats,
and rather minimal at that.
The sounds are Amiga.
Welcome to the eighties.

Your hair is big,
your clothes are odd,
and Nagel is a minor god.
Welcome to the eighties.

There is a plague
and ACT UP's rage,
but Reagan will not act his age.
For six years, he will say nothing.

Generation X gives birth to Y,
future hipsters to vilify.
All music is vinyl or cassette.
Rocks stars still wear epaulets.

There are two Coreys, podded peas.
Terrorists stay overseas.
Boy bands aren't quite yet in vogue.
Menudo carries a heavy load.

Ricky Martin is still straight.
Cimino ***** with Heaven's Gate.
Cindy Sherman is everyone.
Johnny Hinckley got his gun.

Welcome to the eighties.
CK Baker Jul 2017
hickory nuts
and wind trees
are keeping
at the old buckle bay
light house corners and
shaker church craft
slip anchor on the southern tip

secret legions
and phenolic board
tuck in at gout dock
bands and nations
and miracle speak
fill in the center hall

sand hooks
and water domes
cover wharf road
***** bay toppers
and seven horse chugs
scatter the swollen upper deck

packards and pushers
and rusty back rails
skirt the night
lanterns and sterns
and navy gulls
steady on task

sand cakes
and drift wood
held tight on
the mystery tour
yellow tails
and tide pools
flat line
at royal reach

paddles
and cables
find ripples way
smugglers and smitties
take cover
from a
northern gale

down on
pocket shoal
there’s a graceful hue
~ they’re serving up
belons and xan…
it's time to get in
for a fill
sunshinecoast porpoisebay sechelt
Knit Personality Mar 2017
A baby's cheeks, creamy and soft,
      Would tempt the angel who seeks
To touch a heaven 'neath her loft—
         A baby's cheeks.

A plumpness puffs the chubby peaks
      Where roses bloom as oft
As streak their slopes with runny creeks.

Kissing the cheeks with peach-fuzz puffed
      That near speech with the weeks
Will send the spirit's soar aloft
         A baby's cheeks.

* * *

Étude Réaliste by Algernon Charles Swinburne 1837-1909

I.
A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink,
      Might tempt, should heaven see meet,
An angel's lips to kiss, we think,
         A baby's feet.

Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat
      They stretch and spread and wink
Their ten soft buds that part and meet.

No flower-bells that expand and shrink
      Gleam half so heavenly sweet
As shine on life's untrodden brink
         A Baby's feet.

II.
A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled
      Whence yet no leaf expands,
Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,
         A baby's hands.

Then, fast as warriors grip their brands
      When battle's bolt is hurled,
They close, clenched hard like tightening bands.

No rosebuds yet by dawn impearled
      Match, even in loveliest lands,
The sweetest flowers in all the world—
         A baby's hands.

III.
A baby's eyes, ere speech begin,
      Ere lips learn words or sighs,
Bless all things bright enough to win
         A baby's eyes.

Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies,
      And sleep flows out and in,
Sees perfect in them Paradise.

Their glance might cast out pain and sin,
      Their speech make dumb the wise,
By mute glad godhead felt within
         A baby's eyes.

#
An important recent discovery.
The momentous buzzing of battling beasts
Gets lost between the cracks of creeks
You and I, we take our seats
And wait for the show to begin

I wanted fire so I brought flames
But you are like water, so I am tamed
Patience and love, they are the same
You won't catch me asking for either

The sound of malicious marching bands
Outside my door as I sleep they stand
And await my green light crescendo hand
But here it is, locked up in yours

I served my sentence for baring teeth
At those who hung me up like wreath
So you, you are a quantum leap
I am no longer fearful of taking

The air it always sounds so still
On either side of my broken sill
The silence it will hurt until
I hear an impulsive tapping

The gorgeous drumming of Gatling guns
Remind me of your silver tongue
You leave me like a hit-and-run
Please come back; I want more

And maybe, the worst kind of hell
Is where our demons play so well
They make each other swoon and swell
But really - are we any better?
Scarlett Aug 2018
my clumsy limbs
                           held together with wet cement
              taught rubber bands
                         struggle to bind my flesh

I am but a mess of unimportant matter
another aimless being to fill the space    
unique for my twisted thoughts  
hysterically pleading with a calm face                    

speaking warped words i do not mean
         lips sealed like the lid on my boiling ***
                      dumping oppressed feeling into its contents
                                     bubbling over sweetly burning my raw skin hot

blistered I hide behind my cotton disguise
my misshapen body covered in a gruesome sweat                    
     sickening wounds throb for the sight of others                          
witness my plague of dry sobs and cigarettes                        

and so i shriek silently like my sister and father
hold my tongue saturated with sour emotion
my poorly constructed moth-eaten being
self sabotages in a desperate motion
the oppression of a disheveled being in hopes of better presentation of self for others
Justin Griego Feb 2014
On this Ritalin,
I am slow
Brains aren't racing
Thoughts don't go
Oh, I'm so productive
Ask anybody; they'd know
But my creative spark suffocates
Under the Ritalin filled glow.

I can't even tell you
how hard it can be
When every word you say
doesn't go past me
I can hear every syllable
Every motion I do see
Then my brain melts at the pressure
Not spouting off wittily

They say I speak normally
The words come out so true
But to me they sound labored
So slow and confused
I have thought into every motion
of my vocal cords abuse
And feel every vibration
to my tingled lips amuse

Some times I'm real happy
no way my spirit'll shake
Some times I'm real sad
It's more than I can take
Sometimes I don't feel anything
That's a feeling I just can't shake
Sometimes I feel everything
And I'm waiting for my head to break

My doctor never gave me Ritalin
As a kid I never did have
But now I'm all grown up
And this time I've a' bottle in hand
I used to let my mind race
Daydream of robot bands
Now I've let these pills run coarse
N' hourglass runs on Ritalin slowed sands
(AIP)
Steve Page Nov 2018
This isn't about front lines and deep mud,
it's not about sacrifice and bands of brotherhood.

It's not calling for silence or for national pride,
it's not about cenotaphs and those left behind.

No, this a thank you to one Ernest Page,
Gunner Sergeant, Royal Field Artillery, 182nd Brigade.

Thank you for ducking, thank you for dodging,
thank you for lasting, thank you for living.

Thanks for returning back home to Brockley.
Thanks for asking Gran and building a family.

Thank you for dad and for little Aunt Betty,
for Pam and for Pete and for cousins aplenty.

Thanks for Rose Cottage, for trips round the lake,
thanks for loud laughter and sleepy eyed late

mugs of hot chocolate and medeira cake slabs.
Thanks for my sisters, thanks again for my dad.

Thank you for surviving, and all that implies.
I owe you it all, I owe you this life.
I have my grandad's WW1 French English 'conversation book'. I have his stirrups too. He died when i was in my teens. I remember his cigars and his smile.
Morgan Mercury Oct 2018
I once thought there wasn't any life outside of this town,
but I was okay with that because it had everything I needed.
But what do I know?
We are all so young,
running through parks,
climbing up mountaintops.
Strolling past all the shops
and driving around this town going nowhere in particular,
I thought that it simply could not get better than this.

We loved each other like the stars
I thought that nothing could separate us.
We were sure to last,
but little did we know
that all these days will belong to the past,
and everything that we always did
now live on pages on thousands of papers
and in pictures tucked away in a box of old things.

Happiness was in the air that day
when we all were together once again.
The moon shined bright that night,
lighting the path that we once drove down every day.
This city just seems so small now that I have broken all its walls.

I drive past all the places we left marks on in this city.
The now vacant houses that once held so many memories,
the lunch table where our love blossomed,
the midnight drives to the movies,
getting excited over slushies,
and the lakes we learned to float.
I look back on all these places
and think about all the things we ever did,
I simply thought that it could not get any better than this.

Setting the new year on fire.
Dancing to the sounds of Grease.
Picking peaches in celebration of spring.
Watching all the bands we ever loved.
I would forget all my stress and worries thinking about it all.
Can it get any better than this?
                                                                  
I want to thank this town for all the stories I wrote.
All the times we felt like children.
All the times we rose with the sun.
All the times I felt loved by all the people that were my stars.

As I'm driving through this town and watch it grow smaller in my eyes,
I imagine a time when I was not alone.
I know getting older can seem quite strange at times,
but what do I know?
All I know is that there is just so much to see,
and sometimes the grass isn't always green as it used to be.
But as long as I have these memories,
it couldn't get any better than this.
2018
Inspired by South London Forever by F+TM
Anima Torch Jun 2016
First thing's first
I awaken at six
Only to sleep until seven thirty
There
I ate breakfast and
brushed my teeth
After
I went to
swim practice
The fun kind
With relays
That my team won
Lapping the other
Then we got
Pancakes
Next
I put REAL
Clothes on
And took an hour
To install
A half metal mouth
With green bands
As a surprise
It's a surprise for my friend's party
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