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I am selling away these board games,
The Sorries, the Troubles, and the Twisters
On which I struggled competitively with you.
My yard sale stifles the lawn,
Pours over my patio and infiltrates my porch swing.

I am selling each game piece, each memory,
Each pair of dice and their two-sided arguments.
They are thrown from my mind once they are carried
Away by strangers who thought them a bargain.

I am selling our immature conflicts,
The jail in my Monopoly
And the alarm clock in Don’t Wake Daddy.
Even Candy Land for me is age appropriate no longer,
As you continue to barely meet its mental requirements –
“for ages 3 and up.”

So I am selling away these amusements
Stacked firmly upon cheap plastic tables,
Feeding my palms with the richness of your absence.
Perhaps your game of Life will entertain one of my buyers,
Taking your cardboard words of wisdom
With an appreciation that I no longer have.
I wish them luck with their future mind-Scrabble,
As their pursuits will be a Risk yet unknown.
Poetoftheway Sep 2017
the phone turns yellowy orange,
low power mode,
have fallen below
the 10% threshold,
we both drowsy,
yet competitively locked-into
separate screen servitude

she notices,
I don't,
she says,
"you need a charge"

god, she's so correct,
our mutualizing power is
fastly slow draining

this we both
know~notice,
and neither
says nada~nothing

we,
both poets in our way,
acutely aware
of the power of metaphor,
and she knows
that I know,
I noticed
what just went unspoken*

>an untitled poem<
Anais Vionet Jul 2022
no
Most of the girls (Anna, Sophy, Sunny, Bili, Leong and Lisa) are in the kitchen eating breakfast. “Where’s Anais?” Sunny asks, spooning some eggs onto her plate and taking 4 strips of bacon.

“She’s out by the pool, feeling sorry for herself.” Leong whispers, distractedly, reading the “Fruity Pebbles” box and poking the multicolored flakes with her spoon. “These are good.”

“She was cantankerous.” Sophy adds.
“Aungery.” Anna adds.
“Stevening.” Lisa contributes, competitively.

The front door causes the alarm system to chirp as it opens and Kim calls out, “Morning!” from the foyer.

“What’s going on?” Sunny asks, frustratedly and looking around in concern.

“Charles told her she couldn’t invite Peter this summer.” Lisa said, half whispering. Bili and Anna look up from their plates, like interested bystanders, to check Sunny’s reaction.

Sunny looks shocked, “Really - he can do that? Why?” she asks, almost confused. “He’s usually such an invisible figure.” she notes, quizzically.

Kim comes into the kitchen and hangs her purse on a white coat rack - out of habit - like she’s done for years. “Charles tells her what to do,” she says, giving Bili a hug. “and the girl obeys.”

“Yep,” Bili confirms, bobbing her head offhandedly, like it’s a done deal.

Sunny nods thoughtfully and putting a napkin under her plate, heads out the double-French doors toward the pool to find me. I’m sitting by the pool, watching the water, one leg crossed over the other, which is in the water, slowly kicking, making deliberate waves that ripple across the light blue surface.

“Hey,” Sunny said as she approached, “mind company?”
“Nah,” I reply, “I’m over it.”
“I heard,” Sunny reported, taking a seat next to me, “sorry.”
“Just a disappointment - and a little social embarrassment.” I said, chuckling self-consciously.
“Did he say why?’ Sunny ventured.
“He just said, “It’s a bad idea,” I repeated, shrugging.
After a moment of silence I added, “He’s probably right - I’m glad I hadn’t asked Peter yet - THAT would have been lethiferous,” I cringe physically at the thought.

“Besides,” I disclose, “that might have been weird, me with someone and no one else??”
Sunny gives a “maybe” nod.

“Like when one of us brings someone into our dorm room for the night,” I continue, “and you have to walk through the common room - where everyone’s studying - and they know what you’re doing, and you know, they know, what you’re going to do. It’s SUPER awkward.” We both chuckle in agreement.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Cantankerous: angry and annoyed.

Slang:
aungery = annoyed and angry
stevening = a tantrum directed at the world conspiracy
lethiferous = lethal, fatal, deadly
K Balachandran Aug 2014
Your lips competitively express
the fervent language of ****** love,
bring me back so quick
the mellow taste of nectar
from banana flowers fresh,
I used to tenderly ****
in busy bee childhood days
at my tropical green paradise.

you are lush, an aromatic plant
gently seducing the wanton wind,
the surge of love makes you
drenched in dew all over
the fragrance will soon floor me
if I don't lean over your trunk
and gently sway with the wind

Your supple tongue displays
an intimacy,that goes far
it explores the interior secrets
of my mouth's sensuous softness
blessed creature, you've a
special gift to make me melt
my heart instantly skips beat
amorous i become, get stiff and my face
receives the dark flow of your tumbled hair
that smells jasmine and feminine fragrance,

long fingers entwine with mine,
tell hurriedly on wants and heart's design
my slow fingers trace the contours
of your shapely hips, lips respond,
that makes you tell me the story
the moon told mist, making it melt and mingle
with the moon beams till the night lasts.
The chances of being
a regular chap in education
I have failed to avail,
I have missed I must say
But there was no sign
in my life of any success
Anything good
would have been happened...

Now a days, I am suffering
with super frustration
What really would
I do in my future,
All the potential
of my learning & gaining
To be a standalone fellow
is going to be reduced one by one!

No one is at my side
and nothing productive
happens around me...
It’s quite dark everywhere,
wall and wall so high
I’m almost finished
and it’s hard to capture
The gone wind but
I am trying my best to recover...

To rediscover the gap
I have created by myself
I am super lonely
in my way of life,
perhaps I am cynic...
And the people I am engaged with
are not so helpful and friendly
All the way they act
so competitively, thinking of their own only...

I am in vain my lord
and I know not what’s
in my store really...
I wish If I could get
any fair chance in my country!
But my lord, there are so many
unfair means in social or political dealings,
It’s quite ridiculous
and I realize it a way out system of our society...

One major thing
I feel inside that I must bring myself
Out from the darkness now
I am bearing with me
The most lashing thing
is the loneliness & friendless
environment all around
My parents are still alive
but they can’t help me as I need...

Then all I do have effectively
is me only, my dear roadrunners  
The growing myself in me
whom I did never try to find
I have no one for myself
except me,
I was blindfolded  
I start now depending on myself,
better late than never...

All the dreams and high hopes
will reduce to dust uselessly
If I leave myself
if I misunderstand myself,
if I underestimate myself
So many occasions
I did the mistakes feeling helpless ,
Oh me...!
But in the most next minute
I get the power of myself in me to live like a man

Critical reality has taught me
to speak to myself, it’s a chance
Like a human in the world
full chances to live with rice & respect
I am no more helpless
for I am now with myself and precisely
An invisible flutist is everywhere
with me as well watching me ...



© 2015 Mohammad Anwar Parvez Shishir
Luna Casablanca Jun 2016
This one is for the girl who thinks  she's the boss.
For the condescending one recovering from a major loss.
To the boy who has future expectations higher than the testosterone out of control.
For the one in the group who says everyone is nothing but a toll.

I write this through disappointment based off of the sayings of "no".
We hold hands around ones we trust, and we are commanded to let our hands go.
We see eye to eye, the others are worth a furious cry.
Pray for all to change and become pale as we are around the same table at five pm.
Groaning and cringing at the thought we would be meeting here again.

It's hard to see others have a stronger connection through love and trust.
After the first date, we put time for you,
yet you continued to sulk and therefore you cussed.
Speaking competitively to him and good thing you men resolved all the stress.
Though the rudeness I continued to have dissolved in my heart that had a spot for our group,
turns out I was the one who was loved the less.

To the guy who rolled his eyes as my boyfriend and I held hands on a couch.
To the one who saw us kissing and looked like you were about to scream "ouch!"
To the girl who grew up just to feel alright again.
To the other girls who approved of us and are my best friends.

So forget you, I'm gone.
I learned that I was wrong
to try and belong,
I thought we'd get along.
I will never change to become one of you
the interests you obtain I don't wish to follow  through.
Not one congratulations on us being together.
That night I decided to leave you it wasn't now or never,
It is what I should have done long before I had.
We were just another dysfunctional group of people
who saw each other's success as something insufferable and a reason to be sad.
It wasn't about us,
It was about making up for what we couldn't have in our personal lives.
So live up to your fullest, and from me, expect no more
begging replies.
(Sighs);)
It wasn't meant to be. We went our separate ways, and we are happy. That is all that matters.
ghost man Sep 2022
-
does woman love woman
on the same floor,
or is it merely that
men get to their knees
and place themselves beneath
and weep about the sensation of
being beneath,
so low that they feel below the floor,
being beneath,
and does man love man
still on this floor,
still lower-than,
still on his knees,
or do they have their own floor,
do they have their own world,
do they love each other
with the beauty that
they prescribe onto
the girls, the girls,
the girls in heels,
so above,
or do they love each other
competitively,
flattening themselves,
killing themselves,
proving they will be smaller
for their fellow, but greater,
taller, safer,
stronger, realer
prettier man?
just put the heels on, men.
Andrew Rueter Nov 2021
I was on an even keel
that a thief came along to steal
his name is anything that makes me feel
like I got the raw end of a deal
shifting my focus
to the biting locust
that takes my attention
poisoning intentions
with toxic tension.

I want to drive all night
I want to drive into a wall
I wouldn't be surprised if I fight
or curl up in a ball
curl up until I'm small
enough to escape the free-for-all
that locks me in frustration cages
a prison where the maelstrom rages
after I failed for ages
to calm my anger through life's stages.

I feel so guilty
I feel so bad afterwards
maybe someone could **** me
so I wouldn't feel so mad afterwards
but it's the bad actor's turn
so I'm glad that you're hurt
when I say what you're worth
I should be abstaining
from being so angry
but my stinger stang me
so now I'm framing
arguments for blaming
others who tried to save me.

I become competitively hateful
purposefully distasteful
counterproductive and wasteful
completely ungrateful
for the life I've been given
because of anger I'm driven
to cause endless schisms
and needless collisions
I need my volition
to be wrestled back from my anger
before my reflection is a sinister stranger.

I need a reprieve
to help me retrieve
what makes me see
a better way to be
but my sedentary spree
makes that impossible to receive
when I'm unwilling to find help
my brain begins to melt
giving frustration welts
beaten by the belt
of my own craze
and its violent haze
I wish to see the end of days
of my insane displays
that'll be forever ingrained
in the minds I've maimed.
Luna Casablanca Oct 2016
Look at that girl,
she has the body any other girl who struggles
would see and search for a pistol.
See her walking,
she walks on her toes with
headphones in her ears and
skips along the road alone
with her long  brown hair
flowing along her back.
Notice her
sharp move as she
sits on a sofa with music in her
ears,
she gets up confidently and competitively
to talk to
the boys.
If only if only
out of all the boys she could
say hi to and introduce herself,
That one,
remembered who she was and couldn’t
forget and therefore, she
couldn’t resist.
That one,
who offered to put his arm around her
one night watching television,
and Boom,
there was love.
That one,
who she said hi to,
is the reason she is more than a
person from the past but in her life,
she is the one who
survived.
She had not known what this boy was doing,
all abusers are full of excuses.
She did not give up.
She is a full time student,
has a wonderful family,
great friends,
a true new boyfriend,
and for that boy who abused her for her body,
the body may have changed in not so good ways
but she has changed for the better,
and is happier and better informed
than you will ever
think she can
be.
Just remember,
no means no.
*** is a happy thing,
not something we do for ourselves.
If someone abuses you, it is not your fault. If you are the one abused, you are the one who has no guilt to feel. Ever.
Green Eyed Blues Oct 2017
Competitively dysfunctional

In lightheartedness and aloof

Teeter tottering

Puddings in the proof

I'm stuffed
Belly all a swell

Nothings best
Nothings left
But to bid you well
Camilla Peeters Apr 2019
a simple explanation: i am his friend
i can feel it

helpless

not my fault should he be the wrong one. up to
the Owner to find the right one
I have had enough of today
once again

the branches on the ground and
the ruins of the excited One
tried to fix him
"It will never work," Red said in Melancholy
lost it

a
little bit of understanding: Run With The Dogs!
cavalier. "competitively being
Ridiculous

this attack
his defence
Would you?

too much understanding. That is it.
too much intelligence. That is it.
Intelligence; all dogs are stupid. They Have
to be stupid go after the Mechanical
instead of the real

he: another employment
Keyana Brown Jul 2021
There goes Mr. Pain
as he dances on the stage
always dancing so competitively
he aimlessly won again.

Here goes Mr. Pain
playing those drums again
he can care less about the complaints
because the beat feels good from within.

Is that Mr. Pain?
he is still hammering
trying to build a house
he won't stop at anything.

Mr. Pain may have
all the skills by all means
but it's torturing
every part of me
and it's heartbreaking
that he couldn't see.

~I am the stage
whenever he stomps
I feel myself rage
I am the drums
playing as my feet
grow numb
I am the house
where my emotions
get's worn out.
~
It's not about a relationship with a guy, I promise.
It's about life.
TheConcretePoet Sep 2019
the river
lain posthumous
after i
had slain
it with
swords of
drought and
saharan war

my sword
of darkness
has never
been rivaled
competitively

to rain
upon your
river and
replenish your
bountiful tide

thou should
never tempt
my sword
of darkness

my sword
is mystery
and has
left
them breathless

drowning in
my river
is an
every day
occurrence

i expect
to see
you
washed upon
my shore
with a
white flag

just as
those prior
to you
but if you must,
you'd better hope to be on my better side!
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
.i simply can't get this song out of my head, for a second day: nancy & lee - summer wine... just like i couldn't get jimmy rodgers' kisses sweeter than wine (then again... that might have been the jackson browne & bonnie raitt rendition, i'm guessing most probably the latter)... as i'm pretty sure it's nancy springfield and lee the 70's tash-donning pornstar - sly upperhand singing on the side in between eating oysters...

as i knew i would end the day and begin
my catch-2-hours of: night proper with
a bottle of wine...
how else to celebrate: 'you know,
i really enjoy working with yeast-dough...
oh hell yes, it's much more fun than
the usual dough associated with poaching
dumplings... it's the perfume of yeast...
catch me with a cube of fresh ones
and i'll sit for a while just sniffing it...
yeah... sniffing fresh yeast before actually
using it...'
or at least that how to do it proper
without wanting a take-away pi-za-za...
the sauce is extra herby (extra
basil and oregano) and there's
an added chilli or two...
and enough mozzarella to drown a slice
of ham in with a mushroom or two...

cooking... whoever said it was supposed
to be this pre-****** liberation
1950s postcard homecoming of the housewife:
who said that cooking was a feminine
"job"?
after all, who is Milo Minderbinder?
and who was the cook on the Pequod
or was it Essex?
perhaps that old saying from the Demeter:
it's bad luck to bring women onto a ship...
bad luck indeed: having to name a ship
a woman's name...
but cooking... he hunts and then has
the audacity to cook the **** thing?!
stereotypical - i guess...
what else could i possibly write:
to "correct" myself...

was that anything, in italics, as an introduction...
akin to talking over a radio playing
in the background?

otherwise:
'it was of your making and
then objection, inference and resignation
and revolt. well done'....

and and and...
how best to sum a slow-pacing...
i would have never managed to: well done or
do myself by reaching for the skeleton...
like: it was of your own making,
then an objection, then an inference -
pause: resignation and a crescendo of revolt...

the dignity of walking (cogitans per se)
is being referenced...
and any comment is not a kick-in-the-teeth...
but perhaps i... lack the basics in
identifying very common psychological
apprehensions...

how can something can become so simple?
did i over-romantise it with the latin?
in terms of morality:
i "trans-gender" myself as
new pronoun!

θought: i.e. I ought...
besides, there's the crude manifestation
of a will... when all the knives have
been sharpened...

a comment and i don't know what to do with
it!
i don't know: like it? love it?
dislike it?
can i just keep it, can i just sit on it?
can i pickle it?
can't it wait?
am i expected to provide a dialogue?
which is why i rarely comment...
i could never leave comments
or annotations on books i've read
in the past...

it seems so simple, though!
it's like everyone is supposed to keep this "reality check"!

'it was of your making and
then objection, inference and resignation
and revolt. well done'

a well done i'd call an inedible roast
of beef... a well done i'd call:
chewing gum chicken ******* that
were allowed to sit in the oven for
a period that: doesn't excuse them being
165 degrees when a thermometer is spiked
into the flesh...

what is so "blantantly" obvious!
william buckley jr interviewing norman mailer,
public intellectualism and being drunk
at the same time...
and this horrid testament of gory:
for the better health of the public discourse...

i imagine all the books that never arrived
at the hunchback's angel's purvey
of: what's worth reading... and what isn't...

there i was "thinking" that:
the per se suffix attached... "something"...
it's clearly not a noumenon: res per se
(thing in itself)...
and if it's thinking in itself...
it has to be complicated... adored for what it
is... esp. if it's not related to
some moral θought: I ought...

of the comment provider...
it's quiet staggering...
when you can emphasize with someone...
you hope they're writing about themselves...
you dare not think they're writing about you...
but... in their writing: they are like you...
writing about yourself...
so no... they're not writing about you...
they're writing from a "solipsism" venture
into the horizon "undistrubed"...
you can only retort... i've just come back...
from where you're thinking of going...
and it's not what any hope wishes
itself to envision...
for better or for worse...
for either life or dream...

it's so simple though!
i should listen to strangers more often!
(a) it was of your (own) making
(b) then objection
(c) inference
(d) resignation
(e) revolt

what's that in terms of schematics
and geometry?
that's a pentagram! i haven't seen...
schematics evolve past the square...

that's why i don't like commets...
if i could comment on everything i've ever read...
third-party sourcing someone for
a first-person reply...

perhaps i'm not playing the psychology
game - if it even is a game - at all?
the psychology was just a tow-along
dog with a leash and a muffer...
fair enough: muffer "vs." muzzle...
FF ZZ...
there was this concern for:
what sport will there be demanded...
for man to perform... if he truly
takes walking to the task of countering
all other pleasures: coinciding with
a physical exercise of the body?

i call this: prompt...
how could i not come to such a simple
conclusion, prior?
how could i have possibly coupled:
the freedom of thought...
free speech...
when being... bound to an otherwise:
automated body...
an automated heart... a conscious-unconscious heart...
same for the liver, the kidneys, the brain...
and how... only when it fails...
do people... give it any conscious effort
to mind its existence...
a heart-attack will leave the heart in the hands
of someone who will prize it above...
as long as he is able to sacrifice an eye for it...

walking is where thinking "happens"...
it's a forever dasein since there's
no real "here" or "there"...
and... there's the pervasive interlude...

to have to abhor explaining "things" to oneself...
what are the chances of conjuring
the royal-we or the royal-one...
in that first person via third person meddley?
is there a "they" to be made inclusive...
from a perspective of: the horde of hallucinations?

perhaps i am mad:
but i do know that such conditions do not
become viral,
or at least they shouldn't...
it's not like a schizoid hallucination
can be passed to the next person
with the impetus
of a common detrimental cold: or... zee flu...
you can't "somehow" ingest
symptoms of something akin to this:
without a self-regarding
violition to become... debased to begin with...

i will rarely dare to leave a comment...
on anything...
in so doing i will always want to bypass
"the work"... "in question"...
and speak to the narrator...
because whatever this is...
is it's own purpose...
once i click on the save button...
i do the Pontius Pilate deed...
this poo'em becomes
an abandoned house...
it becomes a squalor...
it becomes a "*****"...
a point of reference for all things
public... akin to a toilet...
**** on it, **** on it... comment: yes do...
**** it... ******* over it...
take Alice with you for
the walk through the corridors of...
not another imagining of not yet another
Elysium...

sometime ago: this would have been...
exactly january 8th...
at ten minutes to 1am...
perhaps it would have been five years
ago...
where was i five years ago?
somehow not right now, "here"...

after a while i get a brailled response...
⠼⠁ view... it's cruel... to have to resort to +
a ⠼⠁⠼⠁ is ⠼⠃
well because of the equals (=) symbol...
morse... contra braille...

count them! (⠼)...
⠁(a and 1)
⠃ (b and 2)
⠚ (j and 0)
⠊ (i and 9)...
and all the other "numbers"
follow suite...
because you really couldn't
write an la dièse: A♯
in braille... then again... perhaps you could...
but that's how i figured out...
it's not exactly the case that
people are born into wheelchairs...

some skydive... some ride horses
competitively...
some scale mountains...
they fall...
i like walking... i always liked walking
more than i would ever care for running...
ignorant of me then...
to "presume" that people are born into
wheelchairs...
like "nothing happened"...
ever...
that 101th carrot a man would eat
being going blind...
or rather: not eating that 101th carrot...

ask blind willie johnson what he
thought about picking up the guitar...
better than waxing a phallus
with forrest gump intent of also playing
the do'whip stoopid toto too!

no... something happened...
Melaine Reid... sure as **** she wasn't born
in a wheelchair...
that's not being mean:
but can i at least enjoy walking when
i don't have a need for the 50th goldstruck marathon
gimmick to celebrate the olympics:
but not the ping-pong or the archery?

can i? it's not like i'm about to swim
like an octopus with inks spare
for a page... that just requires
a dabbling in... a Rorschach?!
really?

who is this person that would have written
either circa 15th century german music
or the dignity of walking (cogitans per se)...
well... certainly not circa me, now...
i was expecting a slow night...
to have written something and not have
clinging to it...
i was welcoming it to have passed
with the purpose of time as:
neither classic... nor worth any intellectual
debate...
something private for those...
wishing it to be most private...
never a taunt...

you can guess when a comment is asking you:
is this a taunt on purpose...
or a taunt... without purpose?
- about how to start a d.m. escapade...
how something is not, "punctuated enough"...
or how... when diacritical markers come to play...
it's somehow... "overtly-punctuated"...

feed me to the lions! feed me to the wolves!
never expect me to go down easily
as being fed to democracy in the lineage
of anglophile "public intellectuals"!
give me the wolves! spare me the mob!
the anonymous mob of the comments!
i'll probably sound german when
i have to: reiterate:
geben mir der wölfinnen...

perhaps i chose the feminine...
over the masculine... thinking of the valkyrie:
kyrie eleison!
when wolves showed up...
or the crab-bucket intellectualists...
i said it once... i'll say it again:
crab-bucket intellectualism...
even in my darkened abode i will never levy
myself to leave a remains of my self...
not in the comments...

but then again: i am chasing
1 millions words as a pauper...
semi-, oh lord! i have somehow missed
the calculation to offer: relief with!
precision!
if these not be hebrews...
then they must be anglo-ßaß!
esp. h'americanißed anglo-sächsisch...
the scurge of the spitz...
the pomeranian... the bohemian...
the bayer...

oh i'm content with my dole...
my dice roll...
i usually ridicule myself...
there's no better humor than...
self-deprecating humor...
and it always involves...
not succumbing to cheap psychiatric
metaphors associated with
a melancholic... i.e. the diagnostics...

rhyming should only happen on a whisper
of a whim...
spontaneously...
there should be no...
dissection scrutiny.... no fibula no tibia:
oh god... there's also a crest?!
what's a coccyx supposed to be?
ancestral tripod / pivot...
something we'd make of a monkey
should he not jump at your command...
break a few bones,
wind him up... until the jack 'n' box
would pop out?!

it's a poem: it's not a book...
it's certainly not an investment worthy
of these modern binges: season rocky XI...
star wars episode... X...
or some spin-off...

if it were as simple as the retort to the question:
why do you **** people?
- why do you pluck flowers?!
dracula, b.b.c. and what not...
it's not exactly a cliche if...
there's an afterthought lingering behind it...
no "great" punctures onto paper
would ever give
the secrets of constellation or...
if it wasn't for the drinking and the loitering
in the antechamber of spontaneity...
what sort of whim,
what sort of "inspiration"...
what muse... would be bound to loiter...
in a day...
for a day: where the zenith is here...
and the nadir the everyday welcome "chores"
that have, already been disclosed...

i looked at the output of the commentators...
someone's bound to be peacocking...
for a solid minute i thought i was
i.q. 95... sub-minimal...
and a reply to these comments would be?
a "conversation" with this current mask,
of a voice, only 10 minutes later: 10 minutes
too late...

so... why bother?
there's a better vision in my head...
10 minutes from now...
i'll be pandering a cushion
to allow my heavy head to fall into its cusp
and ready me with 6 hours of blissful night...
perhaps i'll dream: i hope not...
unless the dreams are less dreams
and more: ciphers...
upon waking i do not meet the litany of:
i think, i am, i will be, i hope to be...
instead... with a backlog of a dream...
i will wake up as:
de- and -cipher...
half an hour upon waking...
having to relax my strict rules of memory
being reserved for "things" that happened
to me when i was 4 years old...

that's when i break the rules for having
an extensive memory...
when i dream and sleep...
or rather: when i dream i forget that i slept...
and when i sleep and not dream?
i'm left with a hangover of not being awake
for 8 hours plus...
"conundrum" or what?

but if i do dream... those 8 hours of sleep
will seem like a breeze...
otherwise i'm ******...
when i wake up and persist with eyes closed...
de- and -cipher...
de- being i... and -cipher being: the dreamed...
past-participle...
perfect grammar doesn't really matter, now...
given that the royal-pronoun game
has been abandoned...
what with no care for the royal-we
or the royal-one...
one was not expecting to come across
the Mongolian Vay... of They... of the horde...
seems times are...
some on the way in... some on the way out.
When air signs speak less, be stressed

or proud that you avoided their unsure contemplation

When fire signs are no longer fighting competitively to out do themselves,
you’re just another book on the shelf

When earth signs keep emphasizing themselves there’s wealth, nobody else.

When a water sign is no longer selflessly kind,
it’s about that time, they haunt your mind.
Zane2976 Sep 2020
No one likes the poet
Who sits and asks why
So much so
He unwittingly stirs inside

But if you don’t speak with intent
And if people don’t like what they see
They never could grasp
The all that is Me

When grammar doesn’t make sense
Somehow I don’t know why
There’s quite a lot
That people unwittingly let slide

With a similar face is the comedian
Who likes to test the waters
But will happily shout ******* ALL
If he thinks you’re giving him orders

Another time, once a daughter
Loved the thrill and the chase
Go karts hurtling down the hill
Sometimes even competitively winning

I think out of all I miss her the most, she had no fear of going up high
She yelled ‘careful’ as she fell, and prepared to die
Faster and faster, the wind in her face
She flew everywhere, I miss that space

I guess another has other fears
Heights and speeds, shifting through the gears
Stop driving! Let me off, please!
I’ll sink and drown! In the river there..

I can’t see the bottom, the car would sink
You tied me in tight, you really made sure
“wasn’t tight enough” I know you think
All I knew, was wanting to escape

Absconding they called it, then it was escapism
No one really bothered, to stop and ask the reasons
It’s not fair, I didn’t want to die
All I wanted, was just to survive.
Dennis Willis Sep 2019
Spastic barnacles of time
snap me into place roughly
competitively jerking my chain
good evening relative calm

Strangled superposition
fluoresce in wrinkled
cupcakes of listening
moments hard by your heart

I take a breath in the theatre
stars bend inward ignorant
they are slaves to our birth
if that happened at all now

Some deep bloom crimson
would have to be or violet
singes the flavor tannic
and surreptitiously sweet

Always almost catching me
right there red handed
drunk on being caught
a stone higher up the mount

— The End —