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Katherine Storm Aug 2019
He said... I've no feelings no more,
I'm just bleh.
I said...
That's okay, darling...
Bleh is not that bad,
Bleh is good for us.
As long as we bleh together...  (^-^)/
As long as you are with me, Bleh is just fine.
Arthropod King Nov 2011
It is at this point.

I usually am very effussive with words and all that, but I just don’t have it in me in this moment.

I no longer remember the last time I felt life cascading into my limbs, from my heart.

Apathy :P

It seeped into my weary shoulders.

Bleh bleh bleh bleh

Words are a waste of *****


Melancholy deeper into the upitty piper purportedly…


Silence. Silence and silence, but why…?


Snow – Nieve – Plumba – White-out – ***** on porcelain – Aruba -










***** on porcelain.

















A faint portrait of hollowed passions and GRAPEFRUIT.
I… I’m sorry, really. I got nothing. I wish I was so noble as to turn bitterness into something majestic, but what are you going to do about it, right?... Right?... Right?.... RIGHT???.........RRRIIIIGHT????? Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff, right? Ra-ra-right?



nO? OkEy DoKeY, then…







Words are stupid, They always have been. Words irritate people and cause wars, and controversy, and celebrity gossip and all that intoxicating pink, glittery smoke. I wish there was a machine, like a bird-making machine, that used dusted, vivissected concepts and turned them, unaltered, into spewed energy. A violent discharge of emotion, but no, no emotion, whatsoever, NO EMOTION AT ALL, cramped and jammed up inside like, like, like, like a trainwreck, still perplexed about the fact that it didn’t have much room to wreck havoc with in the first place, and go smash into burning-red steel debris, so it doesn’t, no no no no, it doesn’t know just what to do, and the innocent bypasser is looking, looking from a dusty cliff among the desert, UNABLE TO FEEL ANY EMOTION, INSENSITIVE, and it was supposed to be christmas, but no one’s weeping for you, no one, that ****’s out of fashion, you’re **** out of luck holmes, clusterfuck full of ****, and ****, and bad luck, sorry holmes, no way, ******* luck, sorry holmes.

Bloh bloh bloh ilhc 674VDW864 A6WD8 4wd 64 WD 64c 6 4wf c6




















Ronald McDonald, sitting on a curb, face resting
upon the palms of the hands, no happy meal for this clown,
no lipstick-painted and make-up-enhanced
smile on the face of this clown, not today,
doesn’t feel like being
a clown today, even though he WAS born a
clown, from a colorfull egg full
of Crayola polka dots, no, and no, and no,
and who would want to be a clown?
Certainly not Ronald McDonald,
and certainly not today.
And words are stupid*.

I wish tears could flow cascading out of these eyes. Redeemer tears, pointing at the crude sculpture that the chisel of undrained emotions carefully crafted inside these tiresome intestines.

Rioted tears, a revolution of tears. I would very much like to scream right now, thank you very much.













I wish I could cry bitterly, weep sorely for my fate and for hers.




























However…




There is nothing in my chest but apathy.

I have no nerve response.

Zero sensorial signal.

So… I can’t.











































Whatever.
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
yeah... and i started mastrurbating when i was 8... just before my testicles started producing *****... so an ****** was a muscular reflex... talk of abortion? i don't know what that is... a musuclar reflection, that's transcribed into a woman talking? i hear this stuff online... the whole m.g.t.o.w., but i'm only 30, and i haven't been asked for divorce... monk?! monks?! what's the whole abortion argument? to be honest? i really, don't want to know... queen sheba knew: the world would be populated by olives, copper skinned people... pro-life seems to me, like the reverse of ****... men need to be ***** by the state, to provide for their ******* children... oh wait... you didn't sign and legal agreement akin to marriage? and your a british citizen, and she's russian? what sort of legal requirements are there to bind you down to make the stated reperations? any? none? i remember a finnish girl running around cow gate (street in edinburgh) like some sort of hajar, running between al-safa and al-marwah... i gave her a glass of *****... her friends simply told me: she's looking for her boyfriend. girl was mad! like hajar!

me? i was a trained monkey up to the age of 21...
                                        prior?         a brilliant cinematic out-take
of my now, day-to-day...
                  god, what a brilliant memory bank...
i think of psychiatrists, and their *regression

tactic as: sawn-off shotguns, and intimidation...
regression? planting false memories into you head...
some, really didn't take to the hippocratic oath...
i'm pretty sure they didn't.
                       they seem to assume they have
some sort of diplomatic immunity...
                                      like a bull a china shop;
i'm like, you're mincing beef?
and they reply: yeah...
          make sure my ego doesn't go into the mixture,
so we can "admire" the numbers,
and use phrases like: dodo, project, species...
    nuclear family...
                                   given we're playing something
akin to poker?          i fold,
                 there's a billion chinese, extinction
of the human species, isn't really on the cards...
       white people say: shouldn't have taxed us so much;
wait, is that even a vailable statement to make?
          not really, no.
                      i couldn't stop laughing at the following
observation though...
you hear it all the time... i was doing this that and the other
aged 4...
            i was a child genius... but ended up as a supermarket
cashier...
                  people get this mozart complex...
         they think that if they did something aged 4,
or any age pre-teen... they're somehow: the genie
conjured from aladdin's lamp....
                     people always want to cite themselves at
a very young age, to argue: here i am... and i am, genius!
     try telling mozart to write a poem...
that trained monkey couldn't write you a word...
    he could knock-down-ginger (an english game) any day of
the week... but writing a poem?
               if there is such a thing as poetic genius (which i earnestly
doubt that there is) -
                    it would, or rather could only manifest itself
   in a teen environment...
              prior to? bleh bleh bleh, bleh... hotel transylvannia...
that's why i'm laughing...
         oh ****... my stomach, my cheeks... i'm starting to think
i need to put matchsticks or cotton buds into my mouth,
since the smile is joker-permanent... it's ache! it's ache!
                                                           ­    (h)ey-k(hhh) - static...
why try to impress someone by saying:
   oh when i was four... i could plagiariße a rembrandt...
sure... and who's the cute coo-chi-goo-goo?

p.s.
"sharp s"... that's a zee... ß...     s? straightened out
    and told to walk into a mirror: z...... S   Z:
  chiral dynamism, non-superimposable... well, unless
  the mirror            | is ß...     but that's not english, so... m'eh.
...
allie Mar 2017
bleh.
its worth it
but
i cant seem to wrap my head around the fact
bleh.
blehhhhhhhhhhh the only word on my mind
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2017
primarily because of daylight, and younger brother's
song: evil and harm; and last night.

you know what i keeping conjuring in my head?
     stapling the cheat's *kippah
of a pope,
to his head... and then tugging him by it through
the streets of rome...
                  i'm way past jokes,
     i'd literally staple the hierarchical to old alec baldwin's
head, and then tow him, drag him... through
                the streets of rome...
                                 i mean... you make the pope a saint?
well... that's a first, why would popes be saints
          if they can't decide upon being a pope, emeritus?
pope ratzinger (benedict XVI) is the only saint...
                 with what grace! with what grace he settled
for a nunnery!
                      **** me!        but he's not considered a saint!
that's awful, really, that's absolute filth!
    oh yeah... double point: the pope's "kippah"
                                                    (so called) -
               like these fake jews ruling over us with an iron
grip?           ever notice the ****** on the top of it?
     no? never noticed the ****** on the "kippah"?
                        it's not even a ******* kippah by then,
but a....
                                                 béret français:
and if you're into linguistics, try these alternatives:
               bə'rā (bé    ray)       thrą'sé
                                            bé'ré            φρąsay -
parle poo?
                                qui, parle poo, anglais - on-a-glare...
with! with! with a glare!
                                  oh ******* 'ell...
                          the french aesthetic for spelling: λoγoς...
and then the actual pronounciation, i.e. the φoνoς?
                                                         miles apart!
they're not as bad as the english, but they're ******* worse
than king arthur's sons.
       the comparison?   you see an aeroplane in the sky...
and then you sort of see the shoom five miles back...
                    you have to remember two languages...
the french and the english are naturally "bilingual" -
               it's not that you say one thing and mean another,
you have to ******* write one thing, and say another:
      so the λoγoς is the aeroplane... and the shoom?
                             that's the φoνoς... or the once fabled television
static being the remnants of the big bang.... well, isn't
that an ingenious name for the beginning of everything...
     big... bang...     and a ******* firecracker whilé you're at it.
so yeah, if you never experienced an asiatic invasion
   akin to a mongol horde... you will not have clear, distinct
syllable distinctions...  you'll be like a vampire saying:
   blah, blah blah, blah.... or bleh bleh bleh, bleh;
minus the hatch? hetch? hay't'ch?       blá, blá blá....
                                              alt. blé blé blé, blé.  
considering style though? reading heidegger
     is, seriosuly, sometimes akin to
                                       watching liberace play the trombone;
all those italics and non-footnote dittoes...
       a bit like watching an apple balancing on a watermelon
                                          and calling it tango.
scared Feb 2015
Bleh.
All this I feel is pain.
All I want to do is ****.
This pain turns to anger.
Anger which then turns to hate.
All back to the beginning.
A continuous cycle.
Never stopping
Thorns Jan 2019
Don't you just feel like that sometimes
Like you just want to fall over dead
bleh
But it's not that easy
Nothing is
Well, except pulling the trigger :]
When does strength mask emotion?
I'm so in control I don't feel the need to write.
Yet, I want to.
A place for me to admit my short comings,
A place to merely be real with who I am becoming.
A woman who doesn't settle,
but hides behind her face.
No one will see this pain.
Suicide before they see me cry...
No. That's silly.
Life is a bigger and better adventure than that.
Then why is it still on my mind every week?
At some point I'm alone and something happens...
It points out a fault, a short coming, a failure ..
Then my mind wanders to all the pain,
the lies, manipulations, loss..
and I can't hide from that truth.
That behind this mask,
no one knows me.
This too, is my fault.
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
why is etymology so entwined with ontology?

seems natural to ask, etymology: the origin of words -
                                                             and ontology: how we behave?
      they seem to be knitting partners...
           the origin of words, and the nature of behaviour...
given that language is god... and we're asking the same
question, i.e.: the genesis?
              never mind...
                 i'm drinking, and i'm starting to think
the sweat oozing from my arm-pits, has a tinge of onion
in it...
      right away i'm thinking *booker t. & the m.g.'s
:
i.e. spring, spring onions...            green onions...
and then the word, i have no etymological clue, into:
  szczypiorek...   alt.?        sh'chýpíorék -
                                pióro:    a quill...
                                      derived from: a bird's feather.
the "aesthetic" (orthography) states:         ó = u...
                    but what a funny word... szczypiorek...
                   szczyp: pinch...
                                           in terms of vegetables?
                    pluck early...   hence the notion of a spring
onion... apples? they're autumn fruits... like pears...
                         or at least late summertime fruits...
       why did i write sh'chýpíorék, i wanted to show
    the punctuation principle to diacritical marks...
                         sh'chýpíorék...
    there's no known accent for the acute y...
             but there's a need to segregate the sz (sh) from the cz (ch)...
             and, lo! and behold... no macron to be added on
the h...        the best we can do is write: a "hush" as shhhh...
                 and then the waterfall:
                       chý... said a bit like chai tea latté...
   without either (a) or (i)...
                                a bit like u, falling into the depths of hades
that's y... or growing a leg, and dancing on it, via hop.
                            sure, curves and v.
                                  diacritical marks are punctuation marks...
  might as well compare it to matchsticks: | | | | | |
                     sh'chý'pío'rék how many is that?
        ' + / + ' + / + ' + / = σ                  (6)...
                               it's still, just a bunch of spring onions...
         or a case for etymology scaring ontology...
                          how else, am i supposed to juggle, the current
state of affairs, while inheriting the past, and leaving no explanation?
i can't explain the present...
                  at least the past, i can, "somehow" deal with...
          either that, or it's me bewilderment, stated as:
why don't i have an immigrant's accent?
        is it, because, just maybe, i noticed that the english
language has no accent enforcement tactic in encoding the spreschen?
         hence the linguistic "darwinism" of the biodiversity,
   of so many accents, but actually null count of diacritical marks?
       you can speak sloppy english, but still speak the ****** tongue...
   i tried learning french once... **** me... turned out to be a disaster...
german? that's like talking chemistry... the germans have
   not concept of syllables within words, e.g.
                            polymethylsiloxane polyhydrate
thank god there are two words, rather than one, a tangle of spaghetti.
    a bit like intimidating a vampire with: bleh bleh bleh, bleh.
   but that's what english has provided,
         it's hard to not speak with an accent, if the phonetic
encoding doesn't have intra-word syllable distinctions,
  or scalpels, or diacritical marks for that matter.
      the russians were just as lazy, they made the ь into a letter
rather than some economic "punctuation" mark:
   i.e. if language and trigonometry? the russians never managed
to reach the concept of the third... i.e. tangens...
  they place the diacritical "mark" (i.e., it's actually become a letter),
side by side with all the other letters;
   ******* retards... like gay hebrwew... with its two adams
     א‎ (alef)       &      ע (ayin)...
     it's not gay? the prefix and suffix principles...
       and a bunch of castrato boys singing in the vatican the alpahbet:
a- (prefix)  what's left when you cut the a off? -lef....
           the same with a-        and         -yin...
             it's gay... two adams.... vowels that have a higher status
above all the remaining vowels (e, i, o, u) -
                         no other hebrew letter begins with a vowel...
         if that isn't gay, i don't know what is.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
when i write in english
or remember the fact
that my mother or
father spoke it first,
i tend to stick my tongue
out, and...
look at the
belly-button of greenwich
of the supposed worth
of the world's magnetic
interests...
anyone not speaking
english always speaks
of the english as:
you always think you're
the belly-button
of the world!
    well... not after hong kong
you're not...
leeches of america,
             americancan-nah;
always with the new york
always with the l.a.
always with las vegas...
**** me!
        what's wrong with
the bible belt
and hefty steaks?!
                or anchorage?!
that's what the english-speaking
world doesn't understand...
    the entire world thinks
of them as the belly-buttons
of the entire human organism...
centre of the world
they say...
    pompous internet brats
they say...
   am i willing to defend them?
on the principle of
simply speaking their tongue?
no... not really...
   there's no infection of
american patriotism
   in europe akin to speaking
this tongue...
    it's only second...
           the english are patriotic
about football,
whim-blee-don...
     bleh bleh bleh bleh...
             st. george neutral:
it's called being polite to the point
that you'd rather a punch
in the face...
      or at least that's
                    what it feels like...
i have one disneyland in
mind at this point...
          ssss-witz-er?-yep-land.
      of no mortal, to no immortal's
gain.
they're still minded
                     as the belly-buttons
of the world...
  i swear the roman empire didn't
last,
   and the ancient greeks didn't last...
in terms of a subjective angle,
  you can almost taste the object
decaying in the study of history...
       within the orbit of repeat...
     that's how the english
are known in the continental world
of europe:
  you always think yourself to be
          the belly-button of the world;
watch the panic, when
the centre of attention shifts;
complete political paralysis,
                     and the ageing queen,
who, if celibate, would have
created a revival...
  but now the joke in the family,
or rather the ghost of diana
runs in the family...
                   that accursed family.
Nicole Oct 2023
Head heavy
Chest empty
Brain swimming endlessly
Stomach churning
Throat burning
This broken heart is destiny
Spiraled thoughts
My mind is taut
The OCD attacks fully
These stupid lies
Waste so much time
As if you'd ever think of me
Amanda Fawcett Mar 2013
You asked me how I am doing
and I said “Good”
You asked me to be honest
and I said “I’m fine”
You told me to expand.
I replied,
"I'm not good at all.
And I want that to be simple enough.
I'm not being exaggerative
or selfish
or birthing drama for drama's sake.
It's just that I am here.
Here on silly earth,
And I feel alone at crossroads in my life.
I am under no illusion
of my incredibly blessed
or undeserving existence.
But that's just the problem.
LIFE is starting now.
And for the first time,
I have had to make choices
choices on my own
choices
that
(according to mother)
will shape who I fundamentally
become as a human.
So that's a bit distracting.
‘You need to remember not to let people down.’
‘You should consider how you love someone, not just when to.’
‘You ought to be more assertive or it'll all come crashing down.’
She reminds me of my
uncontrollable imperfection
on a daily basis
Not necessarily through her words
I doubt she wants to inflict this on me.
But the way way she stares at me sometimes
from across the room.
Silently.
Like she’s trying to admire a painting
that secretly
no one quite appreciates
or understands
but everyone seems to find profound meaning in it
so you go along
with the show.
Which I wouldn't have a problem with
if I could wake up refreshed in the
morning.
And not tired
like I am.
All the time.
I’m tired of being fifteen.
Because inside,
I don’t feel fifteen.
My mind turns on fifty year old gears
churning up one hundred year old
philosophies.
But
The age in which I currently must suffer through
is misunderstood
and incorrectly represented.
Teenager is a word parents
shudder to hear.
A word elders instantly accuse.
A word authorities doubt without reasonable basis.
The drum pumping my soul
is in fact a solo ensemble.
But
I am naturally clumped in with the lot
of marching bands
that clash and crash,
stomp and slam their drums
as they parade the flag
of fickle rebellion
into the air they barely know.
Don’t get me wrong,
the stereotypes of my age and time
are drawn up
from some truth,
but one truth shouldn’t result
in one outlook.
You don’t roll dice with
only threes on the faces
or only ones.
So it is hard to watch as
everywhere I go,
titles and labels
are being stuck into me
like toothpicks in a fruit salad.
And first of all,
just because society cuts me up
and breaks me down like a pineapple
you can buy with leftover quarters
doesn’t mean that I’m up for grabs.
And secondly,
No one should be branded
simply because
it is easier to ignore them
than to know them.
Don’t hear this as a “oh she’s a teenage girl” moment
hear this as a “she’s a human and wants to be heard without your filter over her words” moment
So, I’m having a hard time with that.
Not to mention the rest.”

“The rest?” You asked.

“You know,”
I said,
“How I have to decide what school
I am going to commit to
which is slightly like choosing
between your two parents.
You can’t pick one happily
and freely
without knowing what could’ve been
if you lived with dad instead.
It’s tricky to wake up in the morning.
It’s tricky to get out of bed
because I know that sooner than later
I will either be moving
that bed into the basement
or into a dorm
which won’t be on the campus I really desire
because God knows I didn’t
save enough pennies for that.
My whole future is before me.
Almost literally
considering the number of pamphlets stapled
over the dreams I carved so meticulously
out of my ‘mind wood’
with my ‘What do you want to be when you grow up’ knife.
So that’s intimidating.
And all those “it’ll work itself out” speeches
that surround me
don’t make the choices
suddenly blare across the radio
or start blinking from neon signs
telling me what to do
what to chose
what to be.
In the end,
all those “don’t worry about it”
and “you’ll figure it out”
do nothing but put a knot in my gut
that no amount of research
or interviews
or Friday night pig outs
can untie.
Because this stuff,
these moments as I build my foundation
for my single LIFE with little slippery Lego blocks
are not made with cheery hand-outs
or inspiring quotes.
LIFE is formed by me
choosing which Lego brick color
choosing which Lego brick shape
and of course
choosing which people will
help me to construct it.
It’s tricky
It’s messy
It’s loud
and it makes other things
hard to focus on.”

“Other things?”
You said.

“Other things.”
I reply.
“You know,
those books I have to read
those graphs I have to draw
those tests I have to study for
those miles I have to run
those words I have to memorize
those labs I have to finish
those annotations I have to complete
those poems I have to parse.
Just THOSE.
Don’t get me wrong.
I don’t mind school
Unlike the kids who complain
that they are forced to educate themselves.
I have no problem learning.
In fact, I want to
long to.
TEACH ME, WORLD!
TEACH ME HOW TO UNDERSTAND YOU IN EVERY LANGUAGE I CAN!
It’s not the books
or the deadlines.
It’s the people.
Bleh.
The people.
The cowardly childish people
with their smug clothes
and horrendous attitudes
that you can smell just over
the stink of their pomp.
Truthfully,
I feel for them
because they don’t feel for themselves.
and because there is little way to prove to these kids
that they can be them
not doctored them
or decorated them
the “them” they thrive to be
not the “them” they try to be.
So I’m surrounded by people
icky people
whose glares and stares
and whispers like cold ghosts
leave me too feeling torn between
being myself
(whatever that even means)
and being accepted.
I want to be free
to try new things,
but new things are poison here at school
new things are demeaning
because they’re demanding.
So,
I have moments where I say
‘Be you. What does it matter?’
But then when I am alone
at the table
at the only open table
with the last chair
the one that squeaks if you
rock to the left
when I am
listening to the music no one knows
and reading the book no one chose
thinking about the movie even no theater shows
that’s when moments of guilt ridden
loneliness bring me to say
‘Put yourself away for now.
Put in a pin in it.
Come back to what you want
after you’re done being what
society thinks you need.’
Because
it is hard to be loved
by one sided people
it is hard to be loved
when the world wants you to say
what it wants to hear.
Us teenagers think we wear invincibility cloaks
So we never have to see those under the invisibility cloaks
‘Don’t question it!’
seems to be the motto of most I meet here.
Because who wants to learn,
who wants to try
if it makes them question their comfort?
And of course that all just touches the surface
of that other thing.
The thing I don’t want to really talk about.”

You pushed me to tell you.

So I did.
“I’m afraid
of God.
I’m afraid
of Death.
I can’t go off of blind faith
like I did when I was young.
I can’t accept ‘Jesus loves you
this I know’
because this I don’t know.
And no one
Not my parent
Not my mentor
Not even my Bible
can give me enough hope in this regard
to bring me to accept not knowing.
This amount of stress is me
Sits as a damp frog
Pestering me to choose
Croaking up unformed opinions
in the form of tar
that I get trapped in.
How can I believe in something
How can I devote my life to something
How can I pray to someone
that I am not even convinced has cared
for a thousand years?
I want to think God knows my name
that he is above me as
those shiny, divine painting portray.
But they’re lies.
And people expect me to believe
that he is smiling down on me like
a new daddy over a crib.
He isn’t a father to me.
So, I feel lost
and confused
and scared that I’m wrong
and even more terrified that I am right.
I’m scared of
God.
And I’m scared
to die.
I don’t quite think I even know
how to live yet.”

“Oh,”
You said.

“Yeah,”
I whispered.
“I know.”

We both paused.
Remember?
My arms rested
at my sides.
Heavy.
Yours swung across
your chest.
Nervous.

“So you’re doing great then?”
You managed to slide through a smile.
“That’s good to hear.”
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
i do "think" that telepathy exists,
but only between a man and an animal,
the piercing stare of a cat lazing on your bed -
squinting almost "saying":
where's the *****,
   and where's the chess board?
i'm unlucky owning a ginger
specimen...
   black holes are
telephones to god?
   i prefer the mind of cat
and telephoning the devil:
he's usually the more informed one
given god's omniscience, other omni- etc.
imagine that gymnastics i have
to go through, to bypass
a cat's meow and read his
eye-contact...
   as i said: you'll get the investment
in the "investigation" once you've
read bulgakov...
oh sorry, no mark twain? oops...
must have forgot,
or burped a champagne bubble
from my gob, say hello to daisy,
****.
       you still breeding those
types of virgins these days?
lucky me, i get the cinema
of islam resurging and invading...
all i can do is, sit back,
and joing the chorus of applause.
even though cats sleep so much,
watching a cat sleeping never
leaves you feeling lazy...
always... itchy, for some reason.
maybe their autistic nonchalance
when awake...
        but **** me,
i "ask" him:
   händel or foster the people?
answer resides with the latter.

p.s. that's diacritical arithmetic,
isn't it? it's not some grapheme innuendo,
right? i know, i can count...
ä = paa (hiding the surd h to
either laugh, or breathe - catch 'un...
extrovert says hello with regards to what
introvert confuse, a tongue twister of
                          æ... is that
vampire for blah blah, or... bleh' bleh bleh bleh?
i was seriously going to posit that
comma below to insinuate the pause:
i.e. ultra syllable stressor) -
em... why make writing boring?
readable, page-turning?

          can writing at least resemble
its retarted yet autistic genius cousin
mathematics?
      i find more easy narrative
wiping my ***, on the throne of thrones,
listening to ac / dc's thunderstruck
song tapping the beat to avoid
getting a cramp from massaging my
prostate; so... go figure what's appropriate
given whatever circumstance
also requires a napkin and a fork.

right?

i can't imagine a world where written language
had the 1 + 1 = 2 rigidness ascribed to it,
what with the play-dough of
diacritical marks and punctuation marks
running rampant revisions...
  a microcosm? well that's diacritical
syllable distinction...
  a macrocosm? well that's punctuation
syllable distinction...
    all in all, comes the atom: letter,
comes the compound: word -
comes the sentence: chemistry,
   comes the paragraph / book -
                                the per se, alter. god.
Dotch Applestein Feb 2014
You chomp through your Cheetos
and wipe the orange dust
on the white leather seat of
my sofa
Your laughter echoes down
the hall
the walls find it contagious
but my brain
my brain
my brain pulses with anger
exertion to the surface
of my skin
back and forth
back and forth
down the hall
I get the stain remover
and finally enter the family room
and you're not there
no one is
and neither is the stain
I remember I'm alone
wishing these things
a big
white
empty house
wishing to get angry
with meaningless
stains

and you're never there
where are you
hanaB Feb 2014
lingering memories..
that last string hanging hard
that vase cracking slowly.
tsunami tides.
frustration and anger.

my default vision i guess,
all around was beauty and melody.
everything swept with a thunder.
i see.
those bullets not worth.
#yolo
Jack Torrance Apr 2018
Just ******* bleh.
****.
Alice Kay Feb 2013
Must make money.....

Must do all my school work.....

Must work out and lose enough pounds that I'm not fat anymore...

Must regain all the trust that has been lost....

Must find a way to make everything better again.....

AHH

How to prioritize????

You can only put so much into one without completely losing all the others.
my life right now :P Not complaining of anything....but there's no way to choose sometimes!! -_-
Alex Something Dec 2013
Is it true what they say?
That there are other fish in the sea...
Are you the one for me?
Or am I just chasing dreams?
A lover I never knew,
A longing I've always had.
A curious thought turned inside out,
And the good times turn to bad.
I sit alone watching the moon drape over the clouds.
A little whisper in the dark assures me of my fears.
Another night I'll never remember in all my years.
Can I hold on to what's left?
A glimmer of a hope of a dream inside my head of what was to come.
Or will it pull me down to sequences of hell that repeat on prime-time?
Can I let go to find that I'm just dangling my feet over a curb?
Or fall to see the ground rushing to meet me?
And I know, I know - that the pavement always wins,
But as my next life begins,
I'll end up swimming right back to you.
Come hell or high water,
Every mother and their daughter,
I'll swim the whole sea through.
Cause I cant see any fish but you.
Candie Aug 2014
I stood on the seaweed green carpet in my room
I can't sit on my bed
I figured I should go out of this world standing tall as opposed to the
Cowardice I'd been living so far
It wasn't that difficult to get my hands on a gun
My father had an antique revolver in the back of his closet
Behind his box full of well-aged whiskey
And a small package of bullets
I loaded the silver bullet of hope
My ticket out of suffering
And heard it click into place
Now came the second part, and perhaps the most difficult, of the deal
This gun provides the lethal power and capability to blow my brains out and I
Muster up the man power to simply pull the trigger
A shaky hand lifted the refulgent gun to my temple
One shot and I would be gone
A sense of relief crept up and overwhelmed the acid waves in my stomach seizing its chance
My mom was out at the grocery store and would make a stop to do some back-to-school shopping for me
I didn't have the heart to tell her she would just be wasting her money
And my dad was at work, the bags in his eyes from working long nights would droop more and the crevices around his eyes would multiply when he found out about his son
My siblings were at their cousin's house and I'm sure the neighbors wouldn't care of the ear splitting noise
As my finger pulled down an immense pain grew in my head
The dull blue walls began to spin
I found myself on the carpet and a river of crimson flowed down my arm and soiled the brilliance of the revolver.
Gray and black dots speckled my vision and the blurry picture went completely out in my left eye
Slight vibrations of footsteps thumping up the stairs pulsed through the carpet
There was banging on the door
And eventually someone breaking the door through
I just wanted to be left alone to die, didn't they ever see it?
Manic sobs of a women and,"My baby, not my baby!" rang throughout the room
My lips parted as I attempted to say,"It's ok, I'll be ok, I can finally be happy" but nothing came out
Only blood
Shaking fingers stroked my hair desperately and I saw a piece of my head come off in my mother's hand
She cradled my head in her lap already presuming me dead and sobbed silently into my chest
Smearing blood onto her delicate face
The pool of crimson turned into an ocean
And I dived right into death
Thorns Feb 2019
Hope you feel better than i do
Todays my moms birthday...
i feel so nervous
im tired
my stepdad called me a *** and goth over me being emo
and almost killed me for the 3rd time
i feel like the cover of a fricking Nirvana album
bleh
I don't kno any more
Jacobo Raymundo Apr 2013
The steel door has closed
Stopping the flow of
Psychotically devoted emotions
From pouring out of my heart
And into the words that you read
My words are bland
Yet met my feelings have spice
Why can't I put word to feeling today?
Matt Oct 2015
Listening to a podcast
On the four noble truths
And the eightfold path

My akward body
Is still the same

My akward body
It will not change

I read on the back of some protein bar
"This bar is for the doers"
"For the busy,"
What a bunch of nonsense

I live inside a computer simulation

Non-doing
Non action

You know one day I realized
That no therapist
No amount of praying
Would ever fix my shoulder

Why did this happen to me?
I just want a normal shoulder

Good people like me
Suffering with a disability

Oh well

Same dull face

Yesterday
I lay against the rock
On the public library lawn

I listen to podcasts

My car is being fixed
I will walk akwardly
To the post office
Then to the gym

Just going through motions
Again and again

It's all meaningless
Plain to see

An absurd planet
It seems to be

The urge to eat
The urge to have an ******

Repetitive urges

Chipping golf *****
Relaxing I suppose

Bleh, blah, bleh

Ignored by women
I don't care

Look at that beetle
Walking over there

Human life
Is awfully dumb

Miserable taoist
Says a kind hello

A conversation with
A caring person
Would be fun

But my prayers
Remain unanswered
Guess they are not
That important anyway

Listening to more podcasts
On this day

Some cereal, yogurt
And oranges
I did eat

They really were
A delicious treat

Walking in and out
Of forest trees
Extinguishes all desire
Is how it should be

Beautiful and vain people
Everywhere

My dull earth body
I walk akwardly
Who cares?

From dust I came
To dust I shall return

This is my poem
Now its your turn
Matt Jan 2017
The email served
As my official letter of resignation

They wished me all the best
In my endeavors.

I don't have any
I just want to go here
Go there

No goals
Or endeavors
I don't
******* care

1+1 does not equal 3
But it does on earth
So **** me

A rational mind
In an irrational world

A hurky jerky coaster
Can make you hurl
Deana Luna Aug 2013
life
in his arms
is different.
./


now
maybella snow Oct 2013
soft hearts
melted into
shapes of
hate
There was a time before me
There was a time where the land would meet the sea
A time before the bird nest was built in the tree
A time before I met you
A time when I wasn't the one you bumped into
There was a time before you two
katrinawillrich Jan 2015
In the middle of the internet theres a hole the size of the peoples heart

Wrapped in
Bubble fusion
irregular class pass
vision byway of the
whisper game
to the front of the bus reboated out of highway water

rascals groove
flow locking echos print d na na na na bleh tires rolled through our mud but we making ***** smiley faces
Emilia B Apr 2019
Every time I stare into my reflection
Blood starts to surface
I’m not one to be offended by rejection
But the reflection refuses my stance
I’d call myself an infection
The hairs on my neck start to dance.

I feel like an outcast from the world
I'm definitely there
But no one seems to care
Just because you can’t see me
It doesn’t mean i'm not there
I'm like the stars in the daylight
But you can see me clearly In the dark night
Isn’t it ironic the way I express
My mind feels blank but at the same time i'm a mess.
Matt Aug 2016
Doing the same thing
At the same time
Bleh

I couldn't imagine the
Horror of it all

It's 11:25
And I just ate
Some peanut butter

He is excited
To get his medicaid
Part of a health care system
That does not function well

She laughed at the fact
That I had 68 cents in my account

Hah so funny
Yes I'm poor
So are you

You haven't done
A ******* thing in thirty years
Except watch the evening news

So you can just shut up
A Jan 2018
If I could, I'd build a little cottage
Splashed with my favorite pastel colors
A kitchen full of all my favorite foods
And a bed with a fluffy comforter

My cottage would stand not near the mountains;
It's walls untouched by the gentle ocean breeze
The silence is deafening without the song the Louisiana crickets' sing

my home would live in a moment in time,
Far far away from this place
I'd shut the door and close the blinds
Clasp my hands begging to stay

Don't make me go back
The present is rarely enough
Every day just going through the motions
Knowing there are things I can't overcome




Each moment becomes a memory
And memories can be made to be perfect  
I can build a home in the best of times
and hope later for forgiveness
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
here's to getting drunk and writing *******; because mozart did likewise; or said man of the following verse: shouting into a plastic bag thinking it might make a pop' sound. **** get's technical, it's basically a comma on top, akin to diacritical markings; i'll mention the **** star later.

n.b. you emphasise the pop and descend into sound, well that's chiral for emphasis otherwise reserved for italics or bold (text). just about time, when language had to become as complex as comp-sprechen, or that famous censor of oath words: &$#@!

and you will hear no song without the word allah,
and you will not hear
                will not hear
                            a word said about the tetragrammaton,
because it's so, the constructs of language
   can provide categories for the arrangement known
as the tetragrammaton,
        and when it does become apparent,
what gives meaning to thought,
   as a higher tier of what later becomes a *hegel

or the: thinking about thinking,
   and the much esteemed follow-up of what
is like a sinking ship of beggars asking for morality;
i said the word allah, because it's the most
understanding word to use when figuring out
the sudoku equivalent of a lament configuration:
so it opens...
        and so too i see what needs to be seen,
how wahhabism abhors music, and how people
are starving, to simply hear it...
             are we people who really care
to write out an onomatopoeia of an ******?
well... reverse psyche teaches us this:
  that we are indeed bound to write something more
complex than the sounds we make during ***...
animals disguise their pleasure from ***
and therefore remain gravity prone,
sinking in the re-       toward infinity,
again and again, and again - always the same...
modern saudis abhor music, wahhabism
abhors music... yet the adhan: the call to prayer...
and didn't muhammad warn against
the dajjal?
                   the polyphemus,
                   that diabetic ****** that was ibn saud?
so few curses applaud the resurrection of a name
these days so abhorrent...
                then the poetics comes in and we have
a metaphor for something already not
               properly equipped... formerly
it was a television, but now the computer screen,
and hey presto! two eyes!
                 that life would somehow turn uncomfortable,
as it turns out, it has thus happened in saudi
arabia... the killing off of music might as well
equate to a sudden dodo policy of all other birds...
   truely, the shahadan can only be pronounced
in song and in tears...
                 the tetragrammaton i can think of,
and appreciate,
    but i can't appreciate the nag hammadi library
nor the dead sea scrolls...
          my heart forbids such emotions,
for i see a valley and a shadow in it and this shadow
becoming the valley itself...
but thus sung: you walk into a catholic mass in
a church, and they're mumbling their creed,
  like it was indeed a satanic mass incantation,
believe me when i tell you that you need to
experience it: go to a polish catholic mass and hear
this mumbling, hear this cult-like status
   of reciting the creed...
  i'd rather look at a swarm of mosquitos
and hear **** all... that's how scary that thing is.
no wonder then, for all the gothic architecture,
gargoyles 'r' us... so why didn't the eskimos
**** out a horror, given we share the same harsh
environment?
                  the jew didn't have to say anything,
play me anything, he gave me something to look at,
but given that there are 3 monotheisms,
  and that re-confirms the brothers zeus hades and poseidon,
what can be done?
         just as much as what we owe to feel -
what we owe to what's to be necessarily felt...
  for me i wear the y.h.w.h. "niqab" to see past
christianity, and looking past it i listen to something
islamic... at all times: it's very human, unrealistic
to be unified, but still, once in amsterdam i met this
egyptian, and he exposed me to le trio joubran
with the song masar, i had a few beers prior
took three or four tokes from the joint,
then he put the headphones on... minutes later:
i was monged... that slang enough?
   done gone, whatever... i listened to the ****
song with my eyes closed and was consumed by shadow,
and nothing...
                    i could have been imitating a ******
addict to be honest...
   when you become so detached from the world
around you, marijuana and alcohol and really
detach you even further...
     so this pretty dutch girl was looking at me
and i have her the V-peace (not the welsh longbowman-V
about to eclipse the sun with arrows in normandy)
sign and smiled...
                     i could have linked this to a spiritual
homoeroticism, but then she smiled back and replied
with a V-peace using her hand also...
         which kinda reminds me of
watching this sasha grey video about geeking out,
and how, throughout the whole video i'm just
picturing the conversation to a james bond movie:
for your eyes only, and then start thinking
about the niqab... or something along the lines
of self-induced oppresion...
     all this "anti" dialectical "opinions for opinions' per se /
per says" (heidegger's point:
  if you live a simple life... language will have
to become complicated, you can't lead a simple
life and think your language will seem "incomprehensible",
spend a year with a cat and hear meow all
the time: you're bound to come up with some
weird punctuation, as antidote to psyche)...
   so all this anti "dialectical" persuasion lasts
for some time... beauty attracts ugly,
but then beauty turns ugly, and ugly says,
something on the lines: this thing... this reservoir
of oil in the sand? it's not water,
     it's not the water in the sea and the water in lakes
and the water in rivers and it's not rain...
you can't recycle oil...
    sasha grey was really talking about a theoretical
niqab, wasn't she? or did the host just bring up
the salem witch trials?
                 oh i'm not a convert,
   even with all the overtones that i might be,
but given that i'm not working from the concept
of the big bang but rather from φoνoς
i appreciate the word αλλαη... it's a cushion type
word for what you dare only say when lament
approaches... either that or the stupid: why me oh god!
i like that spelling even, it's like the greeks never
laugh, or what's the basis of laughter, a H...
                how would you even say that αλλæ?
like blah blah bleh with a stereotypical Transylvania
accent of vlad the **** genius?
            cos η (eta) doesn't cut into either t or a,
but into the prefix e-    which makes it a grapheme
equivalent married to epsilon (ε)!
          the **** did we inherit?
i love the argument that comes from
  i don't care about your feelings...
                i don't care what you're thinking,
so why don't you simply shut up?
                  ah the pulpits and popes akin to
urban the 2nd...
       thankfully i'm just feeding silence (break line comma        over
^,or what i like to call the white, the canvas of defeat.

^yep, there).

— The End —