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LexiSully Jan 2016
There's something about the ever-moving sea,
Whose shimmering waves brighten every face,
Whose calming sounds bring joy to every ear that hears

There's something about the forever changing beach,
Whose soft sand holds treasures from the deep blue,
Whose sparkling granules clump together to create vast castles

There's something about the ongoing sky,
Whose blue tints are home to the warm, shining sun,
Whose colors magnify themselves onto the gorgeous sea

So look upon this picture and smile,
Because each figure is a piece of a puzzle,
Forming a complex but brilliant masterpiece.
GOODBYE TO THE CIRCUS

( 'Oh! Nellie the elephant packed her trunks
and said goodbye to the circus...
off she went with a clumpity clump
...clump....clump... clump!
The head of the herd was calling...
far far away.' )

Auntie Nellie
died of:

drink, loneliness: & whatever...

(not necessarily in that order) .

And the farm that was
our young days summer holidays

cast her youth like so much pig slop
to the squelching grunt of

cow dung days
moo cow lowing years

until the dust collected and
settled in the corners

no one could reach....

Time left her like a Holy Picture
high above the mantle piece.

See the children
take the coloured cards in their hands

go play 'Fish in the Pool! '
Scream: 'Snap! '

Laugh at who is left to be:
'Old Maid! '

'Not me! '
'Not me! '

Time never took her
hand like a lover's...touch...

... Time...

...only...

...waited...

. . . for her.

In her loneliness
she read and re-read and lived on:

Aldous Huxley's - ISLAND.

She said...this said: 'Everything! '

Years, later...when she reads
like a fictional character in someone's story

when time no more ...mattered.

I travelled to her
ISLAND

and touched her LONELINESS.
felt her LONGING.

Auntie Nellie died of:
drink, loneliness: and whatever

(not necessarily in that order) .

...said goodbye to the circus......calling far far away...
Pure of Stars Oct 2018
no matter what i write i am not satisfied with the aftertaste in my mouth
my poetry is the worse type of aftermath  one to an unsolvable equation of life
a permanent discomfort in the way my words clump up together
never getting the point directly out
i’ve really started to hate my own writing all because of this self-doubt
the doubt of never being enough even in a few insignificant words on a screen
i’ve posted less more recently but i’ve still been writing just none of it seems worthy
Franchesca Nov 2018
My voice is the clouds and ears are the sky, but blue is blue, regardless of a white clump getting in the way.
Though, that isn’t how it should be.
That isn’t tranquil.
Tranquility is knowing that blue is not always blue because maybe that clump of white gets mixed in and makes this amazing new color.
This new inner-connection.
Maybe one day, laying on the earth’s green, the new color is looking down at me and, I finally know what can be.
Leigh May 2015
The tide collects it all by morning;
The drama and the ***** napalmed across the path.
The scenes at second warning for most had been swept away
Before they wiped the sand from their shoes.

Empty cans of Dutch and Tuborg slouched on the dunes
Are tight-lipped about the Velvet Strand's secret ecosystem;
An underground microcosm;
A peripheral cluster of seething emotions drowned.

Memories of those years - although some expired,
The vestiges take pride of place - hold a cosmic clump of smells,
Tastes, firsts, goosebumps, hangovers, and ends.
I never before understood what I was holding on to.

Winters down in the shelters nearly killed us but we
Huddled through the cold, lit cheap firelogs and
Found our oblivion. It didn't take much for me to develop  
A stagger - tolerance for a lot of things was learned later.

I narrowly recall my first taste of poor judgement and
Hazy-headed stargazing. Six cans of Stonehouse
Dry cider - most of which ended up on the hillside -
Was a ridiculous endeavour that will always be sublime.

At the heart of it, I did it to impress a girl;
The one every boy has or has had that sticks;
Who holds your firsts and your hands and makes
Things simple if only for her complexity;

The one that never fails to bring upon digression when
Pens are involved. Revisiting reminiscence on a jarring note,
I think of my Junior Cert exams and a cross-dressed man
Exposing himself to two uniformed boys behind the public toilets.

This one doesn't stir the joy of the others.
This one I wish would dissolve;
An ****, awkward blotch on a childhood.

Luckily fondness trumps disgust when recalling that place
Because of sunrises and sunsets absorbed from the roof.
The Summers spent jumping the gap and drowning in the
Heat of the sun were everything.

The fugitive sand between our toes and under finger nails
Became an accepted nuisance, a part of the territory;
A lingering grain or two to drag you back.
I miss waking up with the smell of last night's faded fire.
.


Some weird and wonderful memories of my teenage years.

100 points if you catch the Derek Mahon reference.


.
Rianna Aug 18
It is moments like this
I am reminded
Just how normal,
It all is.
The ways of the world
And all its fragments,
Drawn from the magic,
Mysteries.

And isn't it beautiful
To be just that?   
Utterly,
Perfectly,
Infallibly,
'normal.'

How beautiful are the leaves
That fly off slender arms,
Of twinkling trees.
How peaceful does the snow lie,
On benign rooftops,
Tranquil nights.
Carnations host the butterflies,
Who scurry around with fragrant zest
A porcelain sea,
licks at the beach.
Where every sparkly clump
Of shingle homes,
The dying sunset
And its saffron roar.

And under the cracks of golden rests,
My haggard,
lonely,
crumpled,
Self.
Francie Lynch Sep 2018
Words That Rhyme With Trump

Lump:     as in ***** grabbing
****:    as in ***** grabbing
****:     as in his oversized ****
Plump:    as in his oversized ****
Frump:    as in his long red tie
Clump:    as in his vain comb-over
Grump:   as in his tweets: SAD SAD SAD
Chump:   as in the electorate
Slump:    as in his popularity
Stump:    as in understanding Unishid Sshtashs
Dump:    as in the Mid-terms

Mugwump: as in this word speaks for itself.
indigochild Feb 11
we live in foggy car windows, spitting out white lies that turn in vain,
white lies that turn black
like your hair, as it caresses your shoulders
like my hands, as every cell in my being reaches for you
but the cytoplasm current is too strong, and swallows me whole
like if your words were quicksand
i would sink
i wouldn’t fight the pull
i would let each needle and thread stitch me to the right side of your brain
with no anesthesia
nothing can hurt more than tiny paper cuts that we don’t know about,
you are the hand sanitizer and lemon juice that drips into my open wounds
i try, and try to shake you away
i don’t recognize my own bed when i sleep alone
my dreams are more of a reality than the actual person laying next to me

i feel the cliff under our feet, i push you first,
but your sweaty palms grab my wild fang t-shirt
and i’ve never felt more alive than when falling to my death
leave the world behind
i don’t know if that is a blessing or a curse
leave me behind?
i don’t know if you are a blessing or a curse
let my lungs fill with each particle of quicksand until it overflows into my throat, spills out of my mouth
onto your lap

babe, i’m not trying to fix you even though i always try to fix people
you like me with makeup and rose petals
i still take rolls of tinfoil, clump them together, and swallow them whole
to fill my aching hunger, the number on the scale means nothing when you are dyslexic
please don’t see me with hives and weeds
that grow from my ankles, straps on me
with a ***** on the end
begging you to call out my name
with mouths open, and gentle kisses in the elevator after i met your mom
pull the bandaid off, rip my onion layers off

i still feel more at home
on crowded buses where i am the only, white person
white person walking in low lit alleys with gazing, men
men beckoning me to come closer till their hands slip, in
in hidden closets dating the opposite, ***
*** in unfamiliar places with temporary, homes
homes in hospital beds and drugs pumped into my, veins
veins in your arms, is where i am still trying to feel at home
trying to feel
trying...

honey, i’m sorry if i held your hand too long
if this can’t be as good for you as it is for me
cut me from my shambles
you didn’t have to say you loved me
i read it between your poetry
yet, i still hold my own hand, draped across my torso
sometimes gravity pulls my hand up my ribs, to my breast
so i can feel my heartbeat
maybe this time i won’t forget how to...breath
i will stop digging up my own grave
just to inspect my broken corpse, to try and rebuild this temple
the bricks don’t fit anymore
too many fragments taken away

like my body was used for science
the doctors diagnosed me with a hypothesis
it read if with you, then without me
what is a hypothesis without the theory?
theorize goodbye kisses at red lights
research the car filled with the smell of *** and morning
question **** stains on my sheets
or tear stains on my shirt you wear

i cried for the first time with you there
you were laying next to me in bed, my arms around you
you were asleep
and i wiped my tears on your shoulder without you knowing
i cried to the rhythm of your breathing
spoke hymns in your ear you would never hear
confessed my love, gave you my all
your eyes never opened
weaved your hair in my hands
while i unthreaded stories of my past traumas,
giving you one piece at a time
your heart never flickered
tinkerbell lost her flicker when she didn’t get attention
but how much was too much until it suffocated her?
my thighs in knots from straddling you
- did i suffocate you, sweetheart?
So, you ask,
How would I explain it?
Well certainly, as something
Not fun.
It's like...
It's like carrying a leach around with you.
When I walk, I can feel it,
It is a dead weight on my chest,
******* the life from my arms,
Making my hands and face slender,
What should be full and strong
It's like...
It's like when you're sick to your stomach.
That feeling of tar in your gut,
But instead of being isolated, it's everywhere
Throughout your body,
It makes you feel sick everywhere.

This is how I explain dysphoria:
Have you ever looked in the mirror,
And wanted to just rip all your hair out?
When a bad hair day gets out of hand,
Have you ever felt the need to just start over?
Even when you tear out a clump of hair
And your scalp looks raw and a little ******,
But you keep going anyway,
Just to get rid of that stupid haircut?
...no?
Alright, how about,
When you're watching the outtakes of a 3-D animated movie,
the scenes that have "gone wrong",
When the girl's eyes are far too big and pop out of her face,
Her arms are disconnected from her chest,
Her head moves but her teeth do not,
And you just want to scream "DELETE IT!"
Because it's obvious that someone has ******* up here,
And this nightmare, this fever dream
Is not what they intended their creation to look like.

Alright, well have you ever
Done a pencil drawing?
And you've put a lot of time and effort into it,
You're so proud,
This is one of your best works,
But something about it is just off?
You might not be able to tell what it is,
This will bother you for a long time,
You will spend hours on end thinking
About what exactly separates this piece of art from everything else,
What it is that keeps it from perfection...
Until suddenly one day, you realise,
You notice exactly what's wrong,
You grab an eraser to fix your mistake
But then, oh no
Your eraser was *****,
And when you tried to rub out that single wonky line,
You leave a huge black smudge across your paper
And now there's no way to get rid of it
All your work on this piece, ruined,
And you're really upset,
You were so proud of this drawing,
It was so close to being perfect,
It could have been so beautiful,
It was almost perfect, but now...

But now, it's wrong.
It just looks wrong
It just IS wrong,
It wasn't meant to look like this
I am trying to explain as simply as I can
That this body is wrong,
That it wasn't meant to look like this,
That it wasn't meant to BE like this!
Don't you understand?
This is how I explain dysphoria:
Have you ever looked in the mirror
And wanted to just rip your chest out?
Do you ever see your body, your parts seeming broken,
Your chest, legs, hear the sound of your voice
And just scream "DELETE IT!"
Because it's obvious that someone
Has ******* up
Someone was using a ***** eraser
When they created me, erased me,
And they've left smudges, mistakes, that I
Cannot get rid of,
And however hard I try to pretend
That I don't care,
I do,
And I still feel the need to erase them.
These leaches that I carry around,
They drain me,
And I was so proud of myself
I,
This body...

It could have been so beautiful
An attempt at a spoken-word poem. I wrote this a while ago but I came back and edited it, and figured I’d finally publish it. It's very different to the style I usually write in, I think at some point while writing it it just turned into venting. I figure if this speaks to one person, I've done well.
Here lies a coiled ball of twine, mud, and dry dirt.
Soaked and cold
waiting to be held by a warm pair of hands,
but who could hold such a thing as this.  

It doesn't scream “practical” in a resourceful voice
nor does it mumble "beautiful" below its breath.

Maybe art, maybe someone will walk past it in an alley and think ART,
pull up some plastic crate from the back door of some neighboring restaurant, and surmise they ought to sit and contemplate it some more.

The longevity of thought could be employed, to elevate this alley clump. The red bricks, a red carpet leading to the dirtied yarn, who but it could hold service better than a priest.

a yarn grave marker
for the all the dirt clumps floating in your head and those tucked behind the pulmonary trunk.

There you could sit, and perhaps feel inclined enough to reach out and take it into your two palms.

Hold the thing few people might want to hold for fear of rethinking beauty.
Evelin Aveli Jan 29
Panic stifles, suffocates.

My throat feels dry; a clump,
that brings disquiet in,
sticks there like a hull, a twig,
and moves its sharper edges
along my trembling soft insides.

"Get out!"
I would scream,
"Get out, worries and my fears.
Remain, serene feeling."
Bryce Jun 18
The rails scream in the darkness
Sparking, lambent bulbs trace starlight behind tinted glass
No words, just motionless exhibition of man
Child
The shrill yapping of a terrified pup
Ears plugged from the disastrous din of metal rubbing against itself

The train flies through an evacuated tube pressed beneath the innumerable water column
And it is deafening.

Behind us the gentle shipyards, ahead the recipient city
Waiting to drink up our wallets and time with her promiscuous streets
As she bends her towering legs to the ironically Chinese
Barge
Blowing its baritone warning flutes
As it tugs itself upon her Bays.

I am reading the book, seeing the Brothers through the din, in between the two cities
The two unhappinesses
and the creatures they identify with

It is a giant artifact,
the tube
It protrudes through
The ships
She sunk and constructed
Market, Mission, Pier, a swamp of concrete
Over the dried clump of trees
A thousand bits of Theseus
And the abandoned bones of thirsting men
Running east, towards Pittsburg
Richmond
Warm Springs
The line is soft between these rusting zones
And the gold
Forgotten for silicone

I am reading a book
About brothers and the curse of stone
Sharing stares with dirogenous hobos
And girl's pupils
feasting on bodies hidden behind periodicals

The rails scream in protest
The railcars are turning up and out
Towards the end of the darkness
And the start of the largeness

The city waits to list her failures to me
To cry herself to sleep with raindrops of fog
And rasping breaths of breeze.
Miguel Jul 2018
In time we stand still forgetting the memories
That burden the frontier with poison and tragedy
Lest we forget that the deed had been signed
By prospectors and cowboys who’ve long since died
Aiming a loaded shell towards eradication
An idea that precedes psychopathy in terms of petition
Yet ponders so freely to children so willing to point them the barrel and fire such rounds

I urgently take the bounty for the hunting of the buffalo
Using their skulls for declination, a sturdy stronghold
Yet deep in heart I realize that it spawns back to devils
That pay only to spoil their countless fruits of survival
The cause paints our flag a brilliant blue
The blood breeds red and helps assimilate too
From their ponytails, against remorse, I could yank off their heads
And perhaps repay the herd of bison for their dead

We danced mountain songs naked under pale blue moonlight
Imitating their gestures in the style of caricature
The stars glistening, reflecting in pools of gory mucus
The rotting carcasses that attract forest vultures
Which we willingly hunt and devour without hesitance

A rack of scalps hung from the duster, cloth sodden with their fluids
Marking migration patterns on various maps to follow and stalk with
Here we sing to the villages of which we’ve burned down
Hoping that God, in His grace, could forgive such savage hounds
The calls of doves forfeit an olive branch
Which I gleefully wave just as they have
My own Trojan horse stitched together with leather
That wasn’t dried enough, and now radiates a stench that reminds us of their innards

I’ve slaughtered and mangled all over this place
Made worse by their stories of which I desecrate
Publishing such influent texts that examine the earlier beds
Of which they rose, so little prose, such daft fools with stone age tools
Crops yield only ******* food made for the feeding of the poor
Discarding the rest of them as bait or our personal ******

“I weep for the white hand that cared there for me!
To wrap me in blankets and help me to feed
The weak child in infancy cooing so sweet
Not knowing they’d have him killed in his sleep”
Annihilation fits best at the source, this genocide funded by the Master of Greater Deed and Good
The weary dead, the weary live, the weary now stay in places we couldn’t stand to be in

A gift that gives only twice, an upstart arch that cradles this land so warmly, inspiring us to embrace our homes
The promise of freedom which notions an equality we could find only in remembrance of scattered bones
The lawmen there, they never repent, they’ve lived all their lives and they never forget of their deeds, which secretly brings a perverse enjoyment none other recieve
Unless you count rapists and murderous men which tally their targets and hold out the heavy heads of victims in satchels and bags
A shame we now see them as monuments honored so swiftly, decorated with golden plaques
Please leave some flowers in the mass grave I was buried in, somewhere in Arizona, it wouldn’t hurt to sense the illusion of fresh air
A torso of tooth and rib and a dried clump of hair
Look down on your works, ye lowly, and despair!
Yanamari Aug 2018
These tracks playing in the back of my mind
Overlapping
Seeping
Diffusing
Into every sound,
Colour,
Movement...
Infusing into my veins,
Pulse,
Eyes
Gripping my heart
As the surrounding muscle contracts
And takes over

Pumps
Loosening my body
Muscles stiffen,
Peripheral vision darkened
Pump pump
Throat clump
I missed my chance
I missed my chance
Neck outstretched
Eye lids embracing my eyes
You're losing focus
And this distance,
Lack of reassurance,
Eats me up

And so I hide away
Isaac Oct 2018
You are a soul,
Born inside a body.
You are more than
A clump of atoms.

You are precious
And valued by God,
Not a careless piece
Of his creation.

You are a whole world
In and of yourself.
Let your personality shine
In God's magnifying presence.

You belong with your creator.
Allow him to show you that.
He is ready to bring you close.
You were born to be with him forever.
Written 24 October 2018
Mia Thompson Nov 2018
I could speak all day on how I have faith
Yet
Truth is,
I don’t have faith
I would like to believe I trust myself
Yet I barely put an ounce of love on that shelf
I don’t have faith that the right person will come and take my love
Because I am scared
I am scared that if I gave into anyone
That if I even trusted my love with you
That it’s just going to hurt that much worse when I let you go
I’ll have that much less faith in myself the next time I even try to love
I’m scared that you’ll say all these nice words to me
And possibly mean them
But I won’t trust myself
And blow the only chance I had at loving you
I’m scared that if you saw who I really am you’d leave
And want nothing to do with me
And in all honesty I really couldn’t blame you
Yet I could blame myself.
I could have faith that all my friends right now are loyal
That they would never talk about me behind my back
I could trust them with anything
I wouldn’t even be ashamed
Yet I have been played
And most of yall just sit there and smile in my face
It’s like getting on a plane ride
And trusting in the pilot to fly me safely
But then the rumors come like birds flying into the engine
Then down goes the plane
Because there is the same flock of birds flying back my way
Why won’t they just stay in their cage?
Don’t any of you realize
You’ve made me this way
Do it again lie to my face you’ll be another bird ruining my plane
The true friends are the pilots
Trying to guide me out of the bird’s way
Yet instead they get brought down with me
My real ones don’t deserve this
I’m the one who need to take the blame
I have a couple of parachutes
Hopefully they’ll escape while they can
I’ll stay though because the day this plane finally crashes
I hope those little birds will finally realize their damage
So much for flying this plane to heaven
I could have faith in myself
But I am not going to lie to you because I need you to have faith in me
I have been hurt
The kind where you stay up at night
Wondering what you did to deserve this
What is your purpose
Do I even belong here
Does anyone see my tears
I loved and I trusted
And that just got me here
Questioning everything
Everyone
I know I am hard of hearing
But it seems like I’m not the only one who can’t hear
Or do you choose not to listen?
These are the same people I’m supposed to have trust in?
Have love for
Tell them everything every little sore
If you could see my heart
You’d ask
What’s that little clump on the floor?
Where’s yalls heart at
I don’t see them anymore
All I hear is she’s this or he’s that
All this makes me mad
Why can’t we just love each other
Is that so bad?
Is it so bad to accept each other
No matter ***, straight, bi, or trans
No matter the color of skin
Not matter what music they listen to
Or if they fit in with a trend
Can’t we all realize
Everyone needs a friend
Everyone needs to spend
Just a little more time seeing who I am
Who you are
Who he is
Who she is
Who we all are
Because that is what we need
To be able to have faith in each other.
Devon Brock Aug 25
everything paused when you waved goodbye
just going to work

every possible tragedy occurred
on the empty sofa cushion
on the arm of the chair
where one of your hairs
waved and cast the slimmest grim shadow

bella on her bed
pudding-eyed and half asleep
chewed a clump of dirt
from her forepaw
and flit tongued
it to the floor

the coffee un-poured itself from the cup
and I was ****** eastward
in your absence
yanked down the foothills of appalachia
slurred across the bay bridge
smeared like butter on the pancake peninsula
past the flash and clunking plinko machines
past the skeeball thunder and flickering schemes
and a summer week's worth
of crab thrashers and spent grease
stuck in my sinuses
past all the great juggling spectacles
of joy to find myself
ankle deep in some other ocean
breakers hammering to buckle me knees
as you turned right at the top of the street
for another sweaty shift
in the back kitchen
of someone else's dream.

— The End —