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V liv Nov 2018
**** man
I don't know what to type to release my feelings
I feel like i'm going to disappear into a meaningless blip in the universe
I don't know how to feel
I don't know how to be
I don't know how to ******* KNOW
laura May 2018
i was beefing with another girl
in a two year old inconsistent blip
summer by summer, mad then silent
churning of the rapid water hourly

get nothing done at all, but fall into
a rotation without a darker cause
simply forgetting what it was
exactly that started it

whatever was curved
around the dusky breeze, bro
overtook the over the shoulder look
vortexes into a lazy bubbly whirl
in the lake we would hang out by

i’ll come around if you do
but we don’t talk
like we used to on the way
to the supermarket
but i’m on my way
to the “lost and free as i could be
me”

it’s as all i’m meant to be
supposes me, supposes you.
listening to God’s Plan enough finally made me like the song
Francie Lynch Dec 2018
You know Comey and Spicer,
Sessions and Tillerson,
Priebus and Haley,
Flynn and Bannon,
But try not to recall
The most infamous POTUS of all:

Donald the orange-skinned POTUS
Has a Pinocchio nose,
And everytime he speaks out,
You literally see it grow.
All of his well-placed minions,
And millions that can't be named,
Try to protect the Donald,
But only expose their shame.

Then one sunny DC Day
SC Mueller  says:
Donald with your team in flight,
Your term in office is finite
.

Then how his minions left him,
And they shouted silently;
Donald, you long-nosed politico,
You're a blip in history
.
Sad to destroy such a beautiful children's song with such a horrific adult song.
karin naude May 2013
the day i was created you signed a covenant before god, to be my father and was accepted as such in the eyes of the community and mine. you knew in your heart you had no intention of fulfilling this covenant. you committed the second most blatant lie of my life. without shame or remorse life in your eyes continued without a blip. you forget unlike any other contract a covenant cannot be void. your responsibility stretch from acceptance to death and beyond.
i am an answer to a prayer, a gift from god and above all i am a child of god. no less and no more.
i wonder when asked what did you do with your gift? what did you do with the kings daughter what will your answer be? will you find justification for your actions?
do not ask me on your deathbed for forgiveness, its a sham. ask me now while your healthy so i can measure the truth in your words
you transgress with ease, Sunday there will be communion. its all fake
Caro Dec 2018
Rose petals thick and heavy
Just ready to wrinkle
Strong, firm, delicate
Simple
Feigning delicacy.
Tighter and tighter to their middle
Lips curling back
Pouting open
All eventually revealing the
Veins!
Veins
Veins
Veins on the roses
From the underside spread upward,
Uncurled,
Veins.
Some so proud and broad
Some coy and curtseying
Some wide open, greeting you.
——
Some angling to the light
——
Some fading their color at the tip
——
Some!
Some doubling inward. Two twists inside!
Why? Overcrowding.
Petals wide,
petals too ready, petals broad
And she made herself a lover
——
Some older, wiser
By quicker death wisdom grows
The peaked face within
Afraid
Afraid of what is coming faster for her.
Something her beauty could not slow
An aging ballerina, refusing to retire her slippers
——
Some wider
More careless
Hippies
——
Some like a dance
Such a vulnerable entrance  
Opening up her lips, her arms, her legs,
Spouting out her tiny tongue
Aroused
——
Some so full
Hiding herself in her layers
More of her.

Ancient.
Just a blip.

Trimmed from their bush. Here to die in a vase by my bed.
Sam Jan 2018
and here are the reasons why no one tells you to go be a third cultured person:

its not easy.

When you are one of us,
different and foreign are not even a blip on your radar,
(because my life has always been detachment - meeting and smiling and beginning to say "hi", only to have to wave goodbye.)
you will always be different and foreign, belonging to a place is a wish and not a reality, home has always meant people as opposed to a place (not that people are at all constant).
leaving is normal too, just pack your bags and go go go, doesn't matter if you never come back, onto a new place now, and goodbyes are hard -- but seldom unexpected.

when you are one of us, you are shifting and turning and never never staying, always changing and moving forward, frighteningly frighteningly fast, all impermanence and hopeful, but broken promises-- you will perhaps stay in one place for some period of time.
(you will never belong)
elizabeth Mar 2018
i miss you all the time, and i hate that you don't seem to care.
your hair is changed, and i think your personality is quite altered too. you no longer seem like the person i once called the love of my life.
it hurts that you changed everything about yourself. you're practically unrecognizable now. when i see you walking, my heart beats faster, but not out of excitement. out of fear that seeing me doesn't affect you the way it affects me. it terrifies me that you're so easily moving on from me, that you could modify all the pieces of yourself that i loved, that i was just a blip on your radar, and that, one day, you'll look back and barely remember me. i ache to be remembered. you are constantly on my mind, and i know that i'm not on yours. i wish that i had hurt you the way you hurt me so that you would constantly be reminded of me when you look down and see the aching, stitched up scar on your heart. but i was kind, and i let you leave. i miss you all the time, but i know you don't miss me.
Krison Oct 2018
I have no time for politics,
talkings heads,
heads of state,
stately hats,
manly gaites.

And on, and on, and on.

With resent for only money,
those jokes so half *** funny,
and sad sack bleeding harts.

Dime store smarts
and trollop tarts,
that do not claim there farts.

Yet i hear were full of ****!

So i've no patience for.....

The hiding of the gore.
The hit and run
the watered down
fake news we abore.

And mostly i've no time,
so I will make a ryme.

For the outside is a gauntlet.
And with pen i post my crime.

So lock me up,
I'm but a blip.
The news will sup and Sip,
and **** there heads
with lock and step.

And find my hate for all.

They are cheating of there proof,
and I have had enough.
Not enough for giving up,
enough for that i tried.

I did,
you see,
It wasn't me,
But you that made this mess.

I only watched.
I only cared.

And now I've little less.

To your regard,
The mass ******.
Of all that could be swell.

It was your head
That doubled size.

And I hope ya burn in hell.
WA West Aug 2018
It is a sickness,
That lives amongst,
The focused sky
The curious child,
And the moon illuminated.

It is an endless drone,
That wrenches our stomachs,
Enslaves our neighbours,
And breaks our spirits,

It is worshipped,
Yet will see us forgotten,
A blip on a savanna,
A Oct 2018
I know I should give it a chance
I know I should give it a go
See where it may take me
Simply go with the flow

I know I should open my heart
Because my heart has a lot to give
But there's still so many people
I have yet been able to forgive

They say you will always be damaged
The first time your feel your heart break
So I'm scared to let this one in
As I don't know if my heart could take

Another tare,
Another rip,
Another shake,
Another blip

But if I'm forever running
If I'm forever protecting,
If I'm forever avoiding,
If I'm forever rejecting

Won't I end up lonely?
Being too afraid to care,
Won't I be the one to suffer?
I ask, how is that fair?

It's scary to be vulnerable,
But it's scary to be on my own,
It's scary but I'm gonna do it,
As I don't want a life spent alone.
Tap, tap, on roof tops.
Tic, toc, the clock tocs.
Inside, what a cold night,
Rain drops on roof tops.

Splish, splash, in wet spots.
Blip, blup, bubbles pops.
Outside, puddles in parking lots,
Rain drops on roof tops.

Drip, drop, on wet a box.
Flip, flop, my slippers flop.
Outside, in rain jackets,
Rain drops on roof tops.

Quack, quack, go ducks.
Beep, beep, cars and trucks.
Outside, the traffic stops,
Rain drops on roof tops.

Tap, tap, on roof tops.
Tic, toc, the clock tocs.
Inside, what a cold night,
Rain drops on roof tops.
andromeda green Aug 2018
time is a funny thing.
i've convinced myself that the life i'm living right now,
will barely matter in the next 10 years.
every small setback i ever face,
is merely a small blip in this universe of my worries.

there is a quote that i once heard half a million lifetimes ago that i think about almost every day.
it says, "every time you think what you're facing will be the end of the world, stop and think to yourself for a moment, in five years, will this matter?"
and i would like to say that i live by this quote,
and i do,
but sometimes,
life will get to me.
sometimes a missing homework assignment will feel like the end of the world.
sometimes my audition feels like it will be the end of me.
sometimes the tiniest, or seemingly biggest, obstacles seem like an impossible block in my life.
i know that my hours spent doing homework and trying to keep up with my schedule will be nothing.
i know that everything will get better.
i know that i will be okay.

but i simply can't believe that right now.  

- a.g.
a draft i wrote a little while ago. please comment any thoughts.
Michael John Dec 2018
iii

five minutes to go
do you wonder
what to do

do you ******
your neighbour
or find a better

view
or put your affairs
in order

tilt your hat
go what..
five minute

warning..?
kiss your cat
apologies

i did that..
and that
and that..

jeez
that was
fast..

tie your
lace
admire

your
face
say

your
prayers
mind

your
own
busi­ness

pass
the
bones

check
for worms
change

underpants
some days
five minutes

kiss the
way
back and
forth

i shall
return
burn


ask what is
the time
go blip..
Wake up and don't look back
Let's get this ship back on track
You took the wind out of my sails but for me I will prevail
As this blip is never going to hurt me

I said some stupid things and from now I will carry on trying
For it was all in the past and the future looks good, steered away from your vows and your lying
The oddity and your empathy will linger in my brain
But my eyes have seen some sorry things and from here I will refrain

Telling me of your past and a load of it pure trouble
Most of it just made up like a sketch with Fred and Barney Rubble
So don't whisper sweet nothings in my ear finished off with a loving kiss
As the meaning was there but never been bolstered, as those lies were nothing but,

A False Promise

JJB
Julian Jul 2016
Fragile egg-shell mind on dawn’s highway bleeding the segue between times traversed only in momentary dreams or in enduring excursions

We drag our droll and quaint 60s baggage like the luggage of a safari made of concrete girding a cavernous expanse of unheralded ground

With our ears oriented to the floor, we leap out of body never to deplore….never to ignore….never to miss the blue bus of our drafted imaginations, so carefully culled from brash elitism

I trounce the intervening time between being friendless and an ironic end, and an irenic comrade becoming the dearest amazed but always aplomb friend

We simper in our glorious traversal, and though bedraggled through an ornamented cavern we linger just long enough to be celebrated

Then a blues riff emanates from a vapid bar, and finally someone heralds my exhumed memory still rusty with the pavement of encased concrete on an empty or full tomb

So I wander in my mind to that roughshod Paris glassy tincture a romanticized gild of proper sensibility crafted in the tongues of lizards emulating the tongues of serpentine Anglicans

As the power of love transcends the love of power, both are afforded serendipitously upon the stately occasion of a fitful revolt where heads literally rolled and deaths still unfurl from the slippage of a violent malevolent eternity, crafting a new creative way to expedite the smite of preventable scourge

So Jim, I see your picaresque side and your wide-eyed love for a listless ship anointed of a crystal blip just detectable long enough on RADAR to become the statistic to crack the slim WHIP

No wigs are needed at this formality, no figs grow from trees forty-five years buried and almost a full month unsung

Pitiable cretins of an invented insanity, they scoff at my ravenous and portentous heart for its excess and for aligning with an upstart verging on only a specious insanity

Why in all humanity could a month be mustered with every defense of history and yet for it to be so widely flouted as a risible exercise in futility

The irony that the artistic glamor of a past vogue becoming a revival that is often toked only to one song but never to the memorial of great cavernous and commodious imaginations, staggers with dismay where otherwise the mayday would be a disaster but still a great day

Then I look at a triggered-fingered omen of a death so ominous yet so brazenly confronted as the ambassadors of time provide plaudits to a fearless martyrdom

Why such a sad spate, why such a stringent but malevolent fate a malediction on a family whose crest is not crestfallen like rolling waves but ornamented with gravity impounding its own weight

A fugacious tomb, an eternal flame, a swan song announcing an independent authority on a prescient demise mashed and deprived

A single shot rippling through the broadened space between clasped eternity and a histrionic disgrace as a psychological confederate pays lip service to a reiterative applause

A cousin hardly American in a defected record of incendiary plumes of a hoarse hatred of waxen discs and flying discs alike,  climbs out of a bonfire mounted purely out of vindictive spite

Then upon a great white buffalo a wrapped package of Californian love before California ever alighted like something beyond an avaricious dove, saw a rocky park and a hearth of illuminated darkness the singular spark

Captain Morgan knows the jackknife applause of a botched deal morphing into a disbelieved spiel. A shibboleth of enormous mystical weight crashing down from an ethereal abode and heaven heavily saddened cannot hardly appeal

Then a loving spoonful of crystal blue persuasion led me to Ethel’s regimented keepsake and for once in my life nobility and I became a grateful waif. But temerity laughed, splintered spacecraft, and the wooden paws of a bearish applause led to resurgent clarity

Blinking stars shattered by knighted and raw applause punctured the liberated might of a sentient hortatory savior grasped by the internecine wrench of a waxen time

An indie track slides by unnoticed in an aleatory time, and the threadbare whine of centuries of lament becomes a dastardly barn set ablaze with the fury of ancients and the scurry of faineant patents

Perfidy slides in recess, and in gentle forbearance the winged angel lingers like a halo on conifer and spring above a remedial ring

I dial frisky celerity tingling the dangling claws of a raven’s screed and in plunder of all history’s pilfer secrets I eagerly weave a tapestry Indiana Jones himself would be proud to watch

Not the riotous ruin of a mystery tour of verdure crippled by genocide but overcome by the revived life of raised rain razing the moments of indelible pain

But the culmination of a proffered time taken at its word for its every careened bird, for its every brazen gird. The manger of proctored stars calls us home tonight and home forever. Life in quaked timorous stumbles suddenly no longer so fitfully absurd.

The quixotic plundered of pirates and emperors in direct emulation of some crooned pastiche of whittled integrity, surges above any encased blurb and any vain testament to a pyramid rigid in destiny and ragged in desultory and sturdy sincerity

Multiplying the ineffable by the division of arable divorced from edible is too creative to be eaten as pabulum when sparks curdle flickered moonlight crimson and that become golden only to the last laugh of ennobled ragamuffins

Frankly the desert of melliferous gorillas abetting the lark of a heavily vetted camarilla engaged in the sinecure of a rigged wall on a main street to block the tall from the lame bleat. Stocks grazed, costs engaged on a littoral beach at the end of a Bossy promenade

This prayer is a cutthroat collapse of a merry spare, a ribbed ****** waiting to plunge into the antithesis of female despair, but sincere in its restraint that vixens courted in love aren’t courted in litigation of a wagered dare

Ambulances chase Deloreans through the desolate moon-stricken skies of a time agape with fleets of phantasmagoria on a Cliffside too wise to ever mince words or excise cries

Skulking the red-teared caverns of entombed films and lampooned tinctures on a passion vetted only for certain and utter deracinated disguise, I wallop with winged men in a single soul armed to the teeth with inveterate tithes to eternal internments of poached and endangered gazettes

As growth older in wizened skin bets on epithets rather than epitaphs for rinsed peace and triumphant clefts we leap above in orbit of only the bellowing nether of blown tolls and untold souls aggregating the esoteric grasp of Alexandrian tomes

The denumeration of certainty is a carousel of wonder, a splurge of time ripped asunder with majesties of paparazzi scuttled impacts a throttled iniquity of regalia’s indicted blunder frenchified but still clean with inestimable sheens

With twenty-five dollars, a dime an assist and a nickeled reiteration of currency already so personable it is divine and sublime in crazed desist I watch the embroiled natives clash in denatured violence with the warriors of a crossed repast hearkening to an old land much of ire but too much of grandstand to ultimately last

Itching for a holy field husk of peerless ties listed as rumpus and beer, a two-packed smoked by bludgeoned blokes careless in irascible sputters of a muffled doom, a Vegan becomes the author of too many sacrosanct homilies becoming defiled witchcraft brooms dead on arrival too many lionized tombs

In plaudits and the scause of an amplified “what if?” of an olfactory nightmare of petrified fog of effluvium bogged in Wade and in heat it is always clogged, sinewy libations of toasted preemptive revenge become a powerballed hog

A castle in the sky founded on Franklin but scourged of wineskins brimming with a distilled time, a swift repartee becomes the whispered ladder of saints blather becoming not rather other than a Dan Rather spatter

A door breeched by a broached inconvenience of amphigory beyond common reach, I clamber excess and whisk the lingered love into destiny beyond any word other than a beseeched preach of nothing tired but everything inspired of noble love with abundance often to teach

Fireworks of turned tides of fallow tithes to aliens beyond any conceivable bribe the bushwhacker writhes but survives staying alive without even a hint of garbled jive a 27th floor glass elevator is quite a resplendent ride

Wellsprings knowing radical rolled tides of errant dice also themselves guilty of confessional tithes to the monolith of avarice at the nooked cranny of an evaporated time we whine as the police sting the album rained with songs too lugubrious to sing but in their elegy every lonely heart has a propinquity phone of souled resonance ring

Iterative mastery of a mathematics of love, loss decay and the dross of a dental Occidental floss, the sweep of screened queues become questions of inestimable importance to foreign dues on a horse with no name but so consumed with fumes

A fright occultist thriller prowls in a waylaying daylight, masquerading an innocent confection for a rescued triage of a dawn stabbed with knives in our last dying days of trembled plight

He resurrects only the wraiths of detest, squinted at by the putrefaction of summoned cardiac arrest and littered with bullets that somehow can penetrate even impregnable bullet proof vests the wrapped carcass of the mummified husk of ready despair offers itself a ghoulish and raspy prayer

Synchronized in a low roaring swathe of rollercoasters too immersive to ride, the terpsichorean obscurantism of deliberately shattered fragments becoming blurbs dismissed with hijacked deride the carnival of a summer sun becomes the ocean of limitless love becoming endless fun

We forget the drawl of the droll old tales that haunt like specters in the closet and beneath the bedridden valetudinarian of an effrontery of shackled fright, we sprawl the innumerable caverns of prophetic insight afforded by the pantheon of history enter stage left, depart stage right

And with their insight I write and write, I grasp the tusk of democracy and wage an insurrection against the doubt of plodding limitations in otherwise immaculate sight

*** and tyrannosaurus rex, of litigable offenses leading to pardonable arrests, the gated entryway of a poetic splurge leads to the demiurge of a demotic enlightenment and suddenly the frank becomes the frazzled retirement and that haunting hounding bunny transmogrified by a shattered eye averts the car crash that careens ponderous engines out of limitless twilight blue skies.

Diamond lightning in pristine skies escorts the telegraphic totems of riddled modems from 1967 to 2016 and suddenly all venerable personages converge on a teeming scene of a union unified by a universal dream. To become everything and yet nothing and out of light and darkness to become a beatific beam
WHO MADE THE WORLD?

"It was a dark and stormy night..!"
as stories often start.

But - it wasn't.

It was no story.

And there was no such thing
as night.


And there was a complete absence
of weather.


Night( or day )hadn't yet
been invented.

Neither had the world
for that matter.

Creation was still
about two hours away.

Dear God hadn't even given it
a second thought as yet.

And yes He had thought about it
and Him thinking...usually made it so.

He had still to get His Mighty
Finger out.

He the Great
Procrastinator.

He had  become as one
with those University students

who would crawl about the earth
messing about doing nothing until

the final moment
the final dash to get

the assignment in.

Alas He had made them
in His Image.

There were things he would have
liked to fix if...

WW1 for one
oh and 11.

The atom bomb.
Climate change.

He saw all things
as time was

all the one
to Him.

And now these unknowns
how could He

have even
thought of them.

How to fix that ****
bungling bothersome Brexit.

And what was it
exactly?

Or that annoying orange blip
that ******* liar Trump?

And Gove(ugggh!)
and Boris( aggghh)
come what May they

would all
have their say.

What had He
been thinking.

Maybe it will
untangle itself or

He would have to cut
through the Gordian lot

with His
mighty sword.

Bit Biblical that.
Or a flood perhaps?

He could blame it
on that climate change.

He knew that Brexit bit
wouldn't do but

it would have to
do.

Worlds will be worlds.
Then He yawned.

"Whatever...whatever!"
Nicole Whitticar Sep 2018
Take my hand and let me take you back to a time when
Time did not matter, when one second was replaceable with the next-
Easter Sunday, making mud pies in our little Purple dresses,
back to making junk into something fictional
And believing in everything make believe.
We climbed castles, discovered bigfoot, found our prince
All in a matter of seconds- and we never ran out of time.

Time- a matter of perception
Quick sand, sleep, death.
There are many things to slow down this barrier to living,
But nothing to make it go, to make it tangible.

If we were to place time on a scale it would measure into
A timeline of dinosaurs and hieroglyphics, of disasters and
The great discoveries of the ocean's depths- however, I am
Speaking of time as an emotional blip.

To measure time as we do our emotions takes away from
Our perception of that blip- of irretrievable time unaccounted for.
We must make time our foundation to understand it will always be there.
It is what you make of that time, how you allow that
Blip to affect you, that makes moments into concrete memories
faith Jun 26
when my brain wanders
i’m reminded of pain
all the meds can’t cure it
but they make me more sane

  when i look in the mirror
  and feel nothing
  when i realize i have sad eyes
  tears forming start to sting

    when i count the scars on my body
   shocked and reserved
   i manage to not mind them
   and miss the hurt

     physical pain is euphoric
     reminding me i’m just a human
     cutting brings me breath
     like when i got the wind knocked out of me
  
         this is the cycle i need to break
         i can’t keep feeling pain
         though it’s a familiar friend
         i need to vanquish faith

           i feel the only way to do that
           is to leave this world
           a blip fluke of a human
           just.. forgotten dust

              not dissimilar to the dust in the pills
              keeping me here
              momma give me strength
              i need to feel you near
6 - 25 - 19
Boris Sitnikoff Nov 2018
O blessed escape
Where I see more worth my time
To reap benefits seemingly eternal
At the expense of creditors’ mere mortal attention

When I finally sit down
To pay back the world my fading debts
Is when I desire most to arise my love and come away
Running toward the great happening of
Things which have not yet been materialized,
Yet burning ever more brightly.

I’m burning,
Yet to stop, drop and roll would quench all hope.
Instead, I must run, jump and flip to life;
For a mere blip is my fiery death
In a radar as it scans my Father’s ocean.

And so too is the world,
Yet stopping,
Dropping,
Rolling through space,
Tortured by the heat of my Father’s fire,
Lacking the substance of things hoped for,
Blind to the evidence unseen,
Preparing toward the great Domesday

In vain;

For certainly,
Between the world and me,
One of us will last
Forever.
ian Jan 29
dear dance boy,

summer romance

is the sort of thing reserved

for straight girls

and their romance books.

so it’s probably good

that i was never very interested.

the majority of my life passed

without so much as a blip on the romantic radar but

things change and

it’s not like anyone i’d ever seen

compared to you.

quite possibly because i didn’t know you

though i certainly felt that i could

if only i gave it time.

i wasn’t stupid enough to approach you

but i was willing to indulge myself in daydreams because

it was peak july and

reality was barely a construct and

you were that sort of summer fantasy

i never thought i’d want to wish for.

of course

i have a type

that type being men

who rid any attraction from my mind as soon as they open their mouths

and you were no exception.

you slammed me back to reality

with all the force of a tsunami

without a second thought.

and why should you spare me?

people are cruel

and my face and mind have never quite cooperated

why would you allow me the satisfaction

of a moment’s peace

why would you bother

to see me the way i saw myself?

you weren’t anywhere near

the first person who misgendered me that summer

but you were the first time it stung.

and yet, sometimes i still think of you.

dance boy and poet boy

oh, the sort of romance novels we could have made.

but romance novels

are for people luckier than I.

i was deep in my state of dreaming

and you snapped me out.

life

refuses to be kind

and we

will never get along.

you woke me up

and left me to drown in the ocean

but I’d like to hope that even i

am worthy of the warmth

i dreamt of before we sank

i still fall for pretty boys.

but now

when I see their easy laughs and flashy smiles

all I see is a predator

bearing his teeth.

sincerely,

poet boy
3/5
olivia Aug 8
I write with a pink Bic now

My phone is white and out of storage and I’m not connected to the
   cloud because it freaks me out, so every time I delete a picture, she
   asks “are you sure?” And I “delete anyway”
My high school best friend’s cousin’s husband just died and I’m
   wondering why I’m weeping for a kin I never grew akin to, a mere
   stranger, a subtle blip in my matrix. But his poetry
   is beautiful, I know that. And his music is beautiful, I know that.
I drank a root beer float tonight and the night before, or did I eat it? It
   reminded me of buying 99 cent slushes at Convenient. Or the
   “healthy” slushes I bought to accompany my soft pretzel everyday
   in middle school.
On the terrace, everyone else ate hot dogs and I looked down,
   holding my soggy French fries and wondering what else there is out
   there besides ketchup and mustard: like in Princess Diaries when
   Julie Andrews puts mustard on her corndog. I always thought
   that was so cool.
Or when Mia Thermopolis sit sideways in her giant comfy chair after
   throwing darts at balloons filled with paint aka “stupid cupid stop
   picking on me” or is it… “hitting on me”
Remember when Ben Day asked for pictures and when you sent cute
   selfies in your sports bra, he responded, “okay, but can they not be
   of your face?”
Or when Ben Wilson taught you that “hurt people hurt people” and
   had “ultra conservative” on his Facebook page underneath political
   views and you had go ask what that meant. I Corinthians 1:13 or
   something like that was always my favorite bible verse because its
   the only one I ever learned by heart.
Hail Satan.
We all rot under late capitalism.
But I didn’t know that then. I know that now, but not then.
Now I wonder mostly about the ethics behind “procreating.” I wanna
   bear fruit, but I can’t even stand the thought of myself burning in a
   fiery pit, let alone my spawn.
But,
My stepsister is pregnant. She found out the “gender” today, “boy.”
   My nieces and nephews have had a very gendered upbringing, I
   guess I did too: barbies and bratz and Betty spaghetti.
I know everyone always says they just want a “healthy, happy baby”
But I have a crippling nicotine addiction and manic depression, I’m
   not healthy or happy.
Do you think I was the idea my parents pictured when my mom peed
   on that stick and got a plus sign?
Probably not.
I hate to disappoint.
They can live in the glory days when my cursive handwriting was
   better than anyone else’s in my second grade class. Olivia Layne
   Ulmer on that brown, dotted, lined paper.

With a yellow no.2 pencil.
Graff1980 May 20
These words make promises,
take verbs and nouns
herd together fun sounds
to create new meaning,
to sift sand from the strands
of fate,

but wait.

These stories
are not that great.
When we line up
the good and bad stuff,
sift through
the **** they give you
to make some meaning
we are missing
the sad fact,
the truth that
these narratives lack
any order.

We want it so much.
Meaning makes us
less sad,
but the truth
is neither good nor bad.

We put a period
on the end of a life
then write
about another side,
but as far as I
can tell tonight
there is no proof
of an afterlife.

Fear and loss
makes us accept
the lies of the inept,
puts us in debt
and out of our mind.
Till time
takes all that is you
and all that is me.
Less than a brief blip in the history
of eternity,
blinking out before
infinity can see anything
worthwhile about our being.

— The End —