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"chewable" poems
I wander along the stores which make the pitch dark less scary although you never know who may pop up and that would not be Prince Charming who can break through his spell with my love, so that instantly the shop window is a marriage bed with sky blue curtains and we get an enema because of the spurning the chewable tablets to let go of the past and to seal our future only dressed in a crown with the red plug in his **** and the green one in mine The girls from my work escort us to the bed which we mount under applause Their hands lay us down and rub us up for the grand finale
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Nov 25, 2022
Nov 25, 2022 at 3:37 AM UTC
Canopy bed
hi bloodline, blood warm, crush kisses red as a dress chewable dandelion interstate of honeybunches and grinning stars over night lily light and forever thighs spit shine your moon beam
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Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 12:50 PM UTC
Spit Shine
you, soidal like a wave that comes creeping under my cages. covers. and the hairs in your ear.  stand still enough so as not to get caught- in empathy under a reaming sleep. i tricked you into going for a ride while the roads were still wet. there, nothing left to do. and i, the lisping slit filled to a two fingered fist. front feet dragging across the threads of a plastic waterbottle mouth.             the bullet passed through. wetpennies.numb-deep in the lungs the slippery film of a chewable vitamin still clinging under molars. socks slipping down into the toes the air swept aside into a new season, lips flared a weekday in the back seat and when i sweat i check the threat of thunder storms on my weather app. and it calls out to us:                    have an awesome day and a fabulous weekend have an awesome day and a fabulous weekend don'tfuckwithourhearts don't let me down hold on to it. don't go believing in better things and in and around the ocean, i need a fake friend now repeat it back to me. fix all my mistakes. **** me at the right time. kick me in the skin cells keep me. itching at the skin
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Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 1:25 AM UTC
black haunches
[February the twenty-seventh] My hair is unwashed and here is blood in my spit. There is *** on my shirt, requires care to notice. I have a headache and took two chewable aspirin. *My hand on my **** Five, say, ten ******* salute! Ready, Aim, Shoot!* I played with a toothpick, pushed into my gums whenever the professor looked quizzical. I pick my nose whenever I'm sitting, smeared where -I can, -it sticks. I can feel bits of mud, gravel on scalp between hairs. Been digging, you see. Sand in the bed, too. Gets in on the feet. Feels like ants. I walk in from the site. I feel armless, a little regretful I started writing this. -Took vitamins -Did reading -Call parents -Get sleep When Carter woke up I hadn't even closed my eyes yet, had'm locked dead on the grain woman on my screen, hand beneath the blanket--But oh, how the sun came in. Carter couldn't move at all. He was sitting on that one. There. I knew I was going to die that day, sometime, did when I opened the shade and Rachmaninoff's op. 14, №6 You Are Loved By All played. I didn't, now, but I might have a kidney stone.
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Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 10:46 PM UTC
There Was Blood in My **** and I Want You to Be Concerned
I'm sick of bringing welcoming baskets to my brain-dead neighbors; They reek of reoccurring favors and fading candle labor; I mean... It's to a point I fell asleep by the wishing well; And woke up counting sheep frolicking piggies playing kiss and tell; Debunking trumpets of cachet telekinesis; I'm a hidden sinning villain with chewable junk as his personal Jesus; Evade gratuitously from all kinds of communication; Never wanted the attention, but I caught it's contamination; And my face melted; But kept a defunct smile just in case; I need to worm through the dross and cut myself into the chase; I'm a motley of misinterpreted mayhem; A clothing shop for a wandering vagrant's cloudy stray phlegm; Trying to comfort the uncomforted; My life is just a Death Row inmate's last words with unwanted conjunctions; But somehow through misery I pride myself imageless and infinite; Reeling in the years to blow that last smoke before the finish;
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Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
Derailed Trains Make for a Good Home...Sometimes
I follow myself around my flat, feeding the time my contemplations; it’s already dark by 3 in the afternoon. I carry my turmoil with pins in my pockets, i keep my hands inside. Depression boils all my frozen insides, makes them bland and chewable.
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Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 5:15 AM UTC
The warmth of Depression
I taught myself to feel pain before I knew what it was. I felt the scars of the future like they were already burned into my skin. I've felt the heaviness on my shoulders while it was still light. She was the child who felt the stare of a billion eyes, and she was the child lost in the crowd of her own mind. She grew up with her mind but never realized it could turn against her, as chewable vitamins turned to pills and warm milk turned to ***** Soaked faces and open wounds turned her into her own enemy, as she thinks back to when she predicted her fears. Every paranoia slips her into another trance of endless doubt, as the life drains from her face and her thoughts drown in the sea. She is the last note ever played on an out of tune piano, and the first note to be played at her own funeral. Sometimes, happy endings don't happen to sad beginnings.
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Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 8:32 PM UTC
Happy Endings//Sad Beginnings
You promised Never To hurt me But I knew You would Grind me up Take me— A chewable Antidepressant There for Your joy (God willing). You said you Never Wanted To love me It was just A Thing That happened— I was just A Thing That happened (To you). I Always Wanted To love you I worked I cried I made waves Happen I thought It would be Cruel If they didn’t (Work now). I Never Loved you But couldn’t Let you Know— You didn’t Deserve The pain (You caused). You were The one In love But still The one Who threw me Away— The most Gorgeous Thing (In the Recycling bin).
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Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC
Glass Bottle
If I rhyme, Maybe you would find my words beautiful, Finding something profoundly disturbing more chewable, Washed down with wine and cuticle, Your fingernails scraping down my throat Don't. I don't. I don't need that **** Maybe you would find my words beautiful. But ugly and disjunct, sitting, freely thinking I feel as though my train of thought has retrained it's tracks Let's go to a place I don't want to go to.
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Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 3:48 AM UTC
Ugly. Disjunct.
Laying down thinking of how not to think Of you Your faint irritating smirk in a cold curve What to do Your chewable lips only if I could have A few Bites? Kisses? Is it too much to ask tell me then How to Step on my heart freeze my feelings become Anew These dark brown eyes so soft yet deep coffee Cold brew Dark eyes are dark with sadness, secrets yet i See through Your eyes are meant to sleep soundly baby ill be The one to Drink up your darkness, carve your scars on me Stay true Let's lose sanity together get drunk in each other Let's undo These borders that are barely fighting our heavy breathing Then redo This prayer, again and again in an endless dream Turning to Reality, it's our first dance the only way I've learned To carry through
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Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 8:48 AM UTC
A Prayer