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Sara Kellie Jun 2018
I wake up in the bath
after a day on the wine.
Fat ******* arrives
at mine around nine.
Friday night and it's too much,
the temptation.
******* powder with dehydration.

Back into town,
bouncing around like a clown.
Absorbing attention,
I'm the star of the show.
I'm cloaking my secret,
the one they can't know.

I'm out of my mind
and I've no Idea where.
I cannot go back,
'cause she lives in there.

I've been running for years,
purge after purge.
Yet I know come tomorrow,
I'll again have the urge.

Because I need her
and I love her.
I am her!

Poetry by Kaydee.
Running from my destiny but I couldn't run from myself anymore.
aL Feb 5
Thirsty throat awaits the master
Hands itch to fetch lord some water
Drought of blood in veins won't matter
Cause dehydration puts me into flatter

*passive aggressive self harm
hyperbolic
Pea Mar 2017
the dispenser is out of water & i'm
going to die of dehydration


no kidding. i've really thought about it
and considered it as a way out,
but the pain is unnecessary

so i decided to cross it out.
that's an ancient game already
i've forgotten all the rules.
Ash Rose Mar 2016
She lives in a world of lies and shattered pieces
Constantly telling herself that everything will work out
That it will be alright if she can just hold on
When she knows in her broken little soul
That the only thing that will mend is the hearts of those around her

Truly she knows how deadly her mind is to herself
The fake, comforting, band-aid thoughts that fill her with dread
Taking over when she's alone and crying
Those white lies that she almost believed in
The one she almost trusted, stabbing her in the back

The delicate rose inside of her withering away with dehydration
Life being ****** out, replaced by a poison of the worst kind
Doubts filling her head, clouding her judgement
Forcing her to do unforgivable things that she'll never forget
The thorn in her side pushing her again and again

They say you need to bleed to know you're alive
And although she has bled, she's still not sure
Wishing it was all just a nightmare, a lie of a dream
Again with the lies, she'll never get away
She runs and runs but they always follow her

All around her she sees the broken pieces of herself
Reflected back at her sobbing figure through cracked mirrors
Lighting bouncing off and hiding away
Hiding from the girl who sealed her own fate
The girl who knew what she was getting into but couldn't stop

The girl who is me
--
Elizabeth Zenk Nov 2018
out of all the beautiful, vibrant, vivid colors
i am a bland, dull, uninspired hue
between the words in a book,
withered, dehydration grass,
or the color of a summer hare.
however, i’ve been told that i was once creative,
rain twisted oil spilled on cement,
poppies in a mid-afternoon sun,
or the tone of a summer goldfinch.
i wonder if it was the sun’s rays that desaturated my existence
i am the product of years worth of desaturation.
Sebastian Macias Jun 2016
You wake up with pain in the morning
Wash your face, your eyes begin to focus
It's about 6:45 a.m. and you work at 7:30 a.m.
Jump in the hot shower and let it soothe your back
Then the routine; One pill for the stomach,
Another for the back pain.
Which ***** up your stomach more
Then I welcome the headache
Those come with the dehydration,
Of the war in my body by the "medicine"
And the stress.. the stress is the extra kick
To the back around noon and you drink water
Like a fish and the bathroom at work is so clean
But your mind is still jacked
Because this "medicine" don't work, but
Somebody still got paid, thieves

Day in and day out you tunnel through the caves
And the rocks fall on you
And the people stare at you and wait
And the ex-wife sits with her knife
And the afternoon traffic laughs too

But you see yourself,
Submerged in a body of clear blue water
And your legs have become stronger
And you jump, kick up with force
Leaping out of the water and you swing!
Beating anything that's in your path
And it's usually life's big ******* face
K.O. punch to the jaw
The dust settles.

You check your legs and arms and neck
And hands and ears and heart rate
And you picture the next
30 years to tunnel through.
Carter Ginter Aug 2017
If you're looking for a bad boy
You'll have to move along
Because I'm just as paranoid
As I am protective.

And I know I look edgy
But under my hard exterior
I am nothing but soft and sweet
And I care for you so much it hurts.

Baby I can't promise you tomorrow
But I can give you tonight
I'll do my best to give you the world
In a night you won't forget.

Because I'm damaged
Even though you see perfection
You chalk me up to Prince Charming
But I'm really just another demon

I can talk and walk like the rest
But my insides are nearly empty
I can act out the perfect script for love
But eventually I'll die from dehydration

Because as I keep moving through the world
I am feeding off the love of these poor girls
And I give them the perfect dream they wanted
Just before turning it into a nightmare

I am a snake with guilt issues
A demon thriving off innocence
I simply want to save the world
But I'm leaving it more damaged in my path

And I know you want my love
And you want my commitment
But I really think I need to be alone
To try and **** these demons before they **** me.
Caterina Correia Aug 2018
The slow breathing,
Before the fast;
Until my body is shocked with the sudden reaction.
My mind that takes over my heart,
Will never learn to be controlled.
I will never know what it feels like to be relaxed.
Just to be unworried,
Fearless,
Brave,
& to trust.
& through the darkness,
The light appears dead in silence.
Only the sound of fear,
Plays in my head.
Only the sound of my breath,
When I try to gasp for air.
My mind pushes strong;
There is no limit.
My heart is pushed so far;
It works so hard.
& then the air within my body,
Cannot be controlled.
My breathing,
So hard.
So heavy.
So fast.
& Im at the point where I cannot breathe.
It feels so harsh,
So painful.
My body weakens.
My body is dizzy.
My fingers & toes are so numb as I shake.
It just feel like there is an earthquake.
Im unable to walk.
These attacks are controlling me.
& with the dehydration my body goes through,
The water that is finally taken into me,
Drowns me when I need the moisture.
Its so hard to think with confusion.
Its so hard to focus with distraction.
Its so hard to try and catch my breath,
When hyperventilation takes over.
Parker Nov 2018
The compass that is my heart has frozen in your direction
It points towards a living room filled with all our books and dog toys covering the ground
I long to become the 2nd voice in your head that only encourages you to bleed your beautiful stories and poetry for all the world and never leave my side
The most extravagant wedding is a mir circus compared to the galaxies you fill my soul with simply by saying "I love you"
I will dance with your mania and cry with stories until we both are insane
My love, the seed you've planted in me has rooted and will grow until it's a million years old
After it perishes, I hope we become rain drops in the next life that land in the same puddle that saved the last lovers on earth from dying of dehydration
Please dear, don't lose me in your mind again
My greatest fear has mounted itself in your eyes
and the thought of losing you again stands behind the last match in a box in which the world depends on to light for warmth even though the winds are high
Bob B Dec 2018
This is the tale of a girl
Only seven years old
Who came here from Guatemala.
Let her story be told.

Jakelin Caal Maquin
Came here with her dad
With hopes of seeking asylum,
Before everything went bad.

People seeking refuge
Are dangerously exposed
To inhumane conditions
When ports of entry are closed.

Through the desert they wandered
With others of the same mind
Seeking a place of safety
And leaving danger behind.

At least that's what they hoped for.
They hadn't had a clue
That cruelty existed
Here in America, too.

When they turned themselves in,
It's said that father and daughter
For several wearisome days
Hadn't had food or water.

The child started having
Seizures, the records show--
A nightmare for the father
Who suffered this tale of woe.

Possible dehydration,--
Doctors later expressed--
Shock and exhaustion led
To cardiac arrest.

A hospital in El Paso
Was where she took her last breath.
A new life was their goal;
What they encountered was death.

The head of the DHS--
Nielsen--places the blame
All on Jakelin's father.
The woman has no shame.

The callous disrespect
Of international law
Regarding asylum seekers
Reveals her major flaw.

Must we blame the victims?
We must ask ourselves why
There aren't better solutions
So more children won't die.

Sorry, Jakelin.
We must apologize
For our officials who thrive
On heartlessness and lies.

-by Bob B (12-15-18)
We, the invisible reasons for your problems, blind ourselves to the
dismal inevitability that we will
suffocate because you refuse to stop
the pillaging of the future for the sake of your own ******* lineage being able to further itself and potentially give you a chance to again close your mind and scream as loud as you can when confronted with your own toxicity

We, the ones who humbly take the bludgeoning from your self-proclaimed pious hand, know these chains are only on your bleeding wrists and ankles.

We, the silent and the broken, know Santa Muerta by the nicknames she had in college and all accompanying wildness she brought in her wake.
We still will stroke your hair while you
throw your tantrums and wail about what is and isn't fair on your deathbeds.

We will burn the mattress and all while cheering you on on your flight into the night sky you ignored for a lifetime.

We, the servants of streaming digits and stewards of bottled stardust, will create stories about how it wasn't your fault and how you shouldn't be hated for bringing the world crashing into the excrement of wasted potential so our children know there was a choice to be made.

We, the overly polite pariahs pry laughs and love and lust and learning from looming catastrophe like Burroughs writing Naked Lunch with a glassy eyed stare that burned holes in the veil hiding the tide of partially coagulated blood and ******* that YOUR world preached as milk and honey.

We, the proof in the moldy pudding still finding time to rot, will burn tobacco fields in your honor just to dance while getting drunk on the breaths you'll never waste.

We, the lovers of questions and haters of creeds, let tears stream in the hope that they are not considered part of our body's 75 percent while fantasizing about your ghosts seeing them and the dehydration they may be in spite of and quiet your tired old yelling and shaking of fists at the clouds when overcome by the slight sadness that whispers "its too late" lovingly into your ear.

We, the lovers, the thieves, the reviled, the *******, the witches, the junkies, the ******, the reptiles and worms under the rocks society deems unusable and misshapen, will be the ones lifting the crowns off your corpses and throwing them high as graduates do when full of a hope only ever dashed by themselves.

We, the drooling monsters you vehemently deny anything besides the cramped closets or the space between bed and floor in childhood bedrooms, will be the Valkyries to descend onto the blood-choked battlefield you set aside for your souls to suffer on and offer you respite in the form of soggy bread and wildflower honey while  ravens and jackdaws bicker over the eyes and fingers of those that once showed us how to ride a bike or drunkenly beat us beneath our favorite trees or touched us in dark rooms in ways that would chase Love away from the shadow of our hearts until we finally climbed high enough to see it all as someone screaming of war and bravery while running from the sound of steel biting steal because their protectors talked so highly of honor and duty that it seemed as if it were God and Adam touching fingertips on the arched ceilings of youth. that, then was painted on the crumbling walls of abandoned houses they would secretly indulge on the forbidden fruit soaking pages of a faded **** magazines or up skirts of blushing  girls who put on their mother's prudishness until fingers pushed past
cotton and virtue alike to the warm center they both melted in.

We, the unsung and numb, walk in spirals while the complexity you rebuked as devil-born becomes the sigils of yet-to-be kingdoms bringing about golden age after golden age in the distant mists rolling over hills and valleys of memories of moments yet to coalesce into rigid experience.

We, the eyes weeping blood atop crumbling pyramids, have seen the walls you want to build in futures dissolved in the winds blowing dust over the dream-roads we skip down and how it resembles the one you built to keep your heart from breaking from the pressing mass of what you can't file away as noise or heresy or communist propaganda;
We drew throbbing ***** and dripping ***** on all the blueprints we came across and tucked them back into the secret compartments of wardrobes and roll-tops passed down through generations.

We, the keepers of the singing stones you traded for cheap concrete, will embrace the tiny souls you neglected out of ignorance to the existential snake oil pitch you broke every tooth biting down on all because the salesman reminded you of your drunk father or mother imposing their wills like you make shadow puppets dance on peeling wallpaper in the silence that ensued after they had passed out on creaky couches reeking of Lucky Strikes and spilled ***** while the shine of the staticky T.V. set covered them like the blanket no one ever put over their slumbering forms because of those infinite lists of excuses used to skirt the skirmishes of showing any kind compassion even if they alone were sole witness to it.

We, the pieces of self the deathbed "you" sent hurtling backwards through time to shine lights on the siege seething at the gates of what you stand for, are only holding those lanterns to show you that fleeing is futile and your death is just a hallway with a door that leads to the knowledge that life is not a cell to watch time morph into tally lines scratched into cold stone as if they were epitaphs for the seconds bet and lost at the roulette table crafted from any slave ship the ocean never swallowed.

We, the flames mimicking those dancing girls you longed to have squeal under the idea of your thrusting masculinity amidst the graffiti on the bathroom stalls in seedy dive-bars or the paupers playing prince you follow giggling with hope in hand like a bouquet of baby's breath and daisies for that one day they would stop and turn and smile so handsomely that your knees would shatter against one another and wedding chapels would bend down to tie tin cans to bumpers of beat up Buicks and Oldsmobiles your fathers give dowry and the crowd could watch "just married" poorly written in shaving cream on the back window grow small until it disappeared over the horizon.

We, the dreamers, are tired of sleeping and are in need of a old tree to swing from, to bury our dreams like beloved pets under, and watch as it lets its leaves fall to the hungry earth that is more patient then anyone closed eyed and humming ancient syllables beneath crooked branches could ever be.

All the trees you climbed and kicked and fell in love under have died from too many hearts around intials being carved into them or were used to make fascist pamphlets you yourself passed out at churchs mistaking the mask with bone structure or the river for the people it swept to sea.

We are laughing;
like a loving mother at her clumsiness on display in her cackling child and not like the crowds gazing at the sideshow stage as the curtains pull back and stage lights illuminating John Merrick's flesh and the intricate dissonance it lent to minds.
Minds that afforded only sips of bliss as monotonous stints on factory floors but were preached about like they were some heaven-sent golden cobblestones laid lovingly all the way
to the beach where Heimdall will one day sound his horn, one foot feeling the grit of the edge of the world and the other washed clean for the grave we will all step in.

So, all these words, all these images, all of it is intended to be a moon so all the stagnate tide pools that have forgotten their origin and the freedom they used to give form to lesser forms they forage forgetfulness from.

We, the ones beneath you on the climb to the summit of our collective potential, beg you to think of something beside yourself when taking a ****.

It is not just ******* in the wind if there isnt wind and we are right below you and dying of thirst.

It is not an inalienable right if someone else is deprived of the same.

It is not Heaven's gate if the brilliant gild has a melting point or if it remains latched to any soul's approach.

It is not "liberal *******" or a myth if whole flocks of birds fall from the sky or schools of fish wash up on beaches while people snap photographs for their feed.

It is not "god" if love dispels it like smoke hanging in the kitchens your great grandmother sat in and told you about a witch shapeshifting into dogs without heads to scare drunks stumbling home because she was a ******* racist.

It is not just food if someone's organs fail from starvation that even the worms and flies are free from.

You wave your banners and let your war-horns echo and you wear your ignorance as armor.

We, the eaters of life and death, will chisel a name into stone and pick your bones clean if you think we should march to the sounds of drums and trumpets just because you were stupid enough to think it was anything other than your masters convincing you to whip yourselves ****** because "at least God hath been kind enough to give you a purpose" or "he works in mysterious ways".

**** that.

Look at what it has brought out of the swirling sea of " all that could be" while you write the same song about how shiny and numerous the scales of the prize are.

We are not responsible for pillaging God's bounty.

We are the bounty and our emptiness and lack of foresight are in jeweled bowls at your feet, but in your hubris you believe it to be the slaves that come to wash the dirt from between your toes.

We are Death and She is the wet-nurse that will give us intimacy to fertilize our hearts by refusing us her breast but turning our heads to your silhouettes shambling off the edge of existence far off in the distance only a decade or less could be confused for.

[AS ONE VOICE WE SING/SANG/HOWL:
Lux amor potentia restituant propositum dei in terris.]

As if it were as easy as holding the hand of a dying tyrant afraid they cannot the luminous terminus while wearing your father's face as a mask to trick radiant angels or the contortions of gods reeking of struck matches by those trembling and their swirling black hearts closed to the breeze carrying leaves celebrating their liberation and caressing a cheek they were too ashamed to kiss when opportunity was their ally.

We shouldn't hate these piles of skulls all parroting the same axioms to those who only show up to add another or leave an empty bottle turned into a candle holder, wax dripped down the neck and froze before any trace of tallow could finally unite with the dirt it longs to become one with;
icicles hanging from the eaves of abandoned asylums.

This place was supposed to be alot of things but that is what lead THEM to drown in the sound of buzzing bees, birdsong, and abundance in all directions.

I suggest we stop trying to squeeze it into a shoebox we scribbled Promised Land on and just let it be the open armed paradise it inherently is.
Let it be the heart and home as well as the hostile territory because it is only ever that and what we wont find in any Oracle's Prophecy.

I'll end my rambling with a question and it's answer.

How do you turn a police station into a hospital and a schoolhouse?

Burn it to the ******* ground.
Joshua Sep 2018
It started with laugher.
Laughter that tore at my stomach,
laughter that tore away my blank face
and carved a smile.
The halls listened bright and warm,
they replied back with tender echoes.

In this manic haze
an outfit was needed.
Burgundy pants
pulled from a heap of dirt.
They were almost purple,
speckled with black
bell bottom legs that open wide.

I stumbled down the stairs,
descending one after the other
with thoughts on mindfulness
each step rinsed off another layer.

Catholic guilt
****** Shame
Molestation
Drug Abuse
Innocence
Isolation
Starving
Lucidity
Drug Abuse
A rented boy
A foundling.

Free from the steps
I flow to the garden
the grass, jurassic length.
Eclipsed to a crawl,
trudging onto ancient ground
abuse laid to rest,
the darkness erupts behind the clouds,
and the stars childishly hide their light,
giggling from behind cover.

A red light creeps behind,
dreaming away from sacrifice
a haunting warmth calls.
The embers caress the senses
and sooth primal bones.

Laughter echoed again,
a taunting laugh,
the laugh of violent fathers.
In my yearning for something
greater, I would be persecuted.
Deep and slow the laugh went on,
finally a voice came through.
The voice bellowed
it was old, and smooth
my ears cowered to the sound.
I lost my language all at once,
this new speech enthralled me
so old, so wise, so pure.
It sings into the sky,
and the sky turns red in respite.
It coils like serpent,
and strikes me down,
a price to pay
for venturing to close
to the primeval altar.

Cut in two,
retreating,
defeated.
Toddling along,
stumbling back up,
Mount Sinai.
Past Gods domain
and to my room above.
Tears of dehydration
a pull of the blankets
the temptation of Yehoshua.
I cry,
then I stay silent
like I was told.
Xallan Apr 29
What we want is blood
We dream of roads unrewarding
Hold each others hands sordidly
We whisper wishes and dreams wordlessly
And endlessly we brood

Salt falls into our eyes
We turn our faces up
To question the authority of the sky
Our papayas rot away on trees
Strangled they hang in sour decay

Hands melt into each other and love stays
We wonder where the salt comes from
The origin of our isolation
Some of us look for someone to blame
Some look for some beast to tame

I just stand here soaked in the rain that falls
And endlessly the sky snaps me in two
I think I used to love you
I think we had words to dream of whispering
But, now endlessly I bleed

Because we want more than sugar
More than salt, we want heavy metals
For iron, some slam butter knives
Straight up into their esophagus
But endlessly I give my blood

And when I am dry
We fill me up with dehydration, with
Melted plastic hands and rained-in eyes
And raw papayas
Now endlessly I search for butter knives
Jeremy Rascon Aug 2018
I destroyed a world...  
In one night
One that I helped build.
I invaded the surface and dug,
Hoping to find something precious,
To satisfy my greed & lust.
Without thinking..
Now it's cracked and scarred..
I destroyed a world that meant everything to me..
For nothing but an urge I thought I had.
I wronged an oasis that kept me from
Dying of dehydration,
In the droughts of my life...
If I believed in heaven & hell,
I would say my soul is being dragged downwards,
And that's why I feel so low..
But I know better.
Reality is far worse.
I watch from orbit as the world is mended,
Admiring it's strength and beauty...
I know. I can never return there.
So I drift through emptiness
Content,  finds me in the knowledge that the world will thrive...
Without me.
Hannah Mar 25
When I think of the sun at night,
of how it is a flashlight turned on to help us see throughout the day,
or how during Summer Solstice the sun is fully charged.

As time goes on, it slowly runs out of batteries and its light gets dimmer,
when it hits the Autumnal Equinox, it has half its battery life left.
Winter Solstice is when it is just about to run out of energy, but doesn’t.
It hangs onto the last bit of energy it can without giving up, with hope it will recharge, not knowing if it will.

Then finally it begins charging, slowly gaining more battery life until the Summer Solstice marks that it is fully charged and when it can continue living without worrying that it will die.
With the help of the Sun’s day schedule the, Moon can create and follow its own.

When I look into the dark, mysterious night sky covered by the clouds, there is nothing left to see except the luster of the full moon.
The moon is like an eye, looking through a keyhole at what lies behind the dark door.

I say I would wonder what it would be like,
being the moon,
looking down at everyone, slowly fading each night, into its own kind of sleep,
such a deep sleep, that even if it was the clearest of skies, its light would not show,
not even a sliver of light shining in the dark,
to leave nothing but the stars out in the open to be seen.

I lie in bed at night,
falling asleep,
thinking of what I may dream about,
Wondering if the moon dreams too.

The moon.
The glowing orb in the sky that illuminates our surroundings.
The thought of the moon sparks something that makes me think of the ocean tide, water, and waves.

The waves.
The cool, crisp, salty waves always crashing on the sandy shore.

When I think of waves, I don’t just think of water.
Instead I think of the feelings behind them.
What if the waves showed how the ocean felt?
When there are a few calm waves the ocean could be happy.
When it has a lot of waves it could be excited, upset, or jealous.
If we infuriate the ocean it shows its anger with its salty, drowning waves, very tall.

And when low tide comes rolling in,
the ocean craves more water due to dehydration.
When the high tide arrives,
its thirst is quenched.

That’s why you don’t mess with the ocean.
Go with the flow,
treat it with respect,
don’t throw your trash in it,
because if you don’t know,
you won’t be able to control the ocean,
because it has a mind of its own.
milkweedangel Dec 2018
I ate my first meal at 5pm
Breakfast was chocolate milk that left me nauseous
(of course it did you’re lactose intolerant)
I spent the morning trying not to cry
and then almost cried before I
went into the job that I love
(it makes you so happy?)
the pit of dread in my stomach
really made me want to die
just crawl into a hole
and cry myself to death
is that even possible?
(dehydration can **** you, have you drunk enough today?)
It’s true I live with the symptoms
of a female heart attack
most days
although I haven’t died yet
(but you could at any moment)
the euphoria from work wore off
I almost cried in the grocery store
after admitting I’m sad enough
to eat cake frosting straight from the jar

Sometimes I wonder why I call my anxiety
“High functioning”
(the avoidance is crippling, isn’t it?)
(but something terrible will happen)
or why I thought the depression was better
(nothing really gets better)
(but death would make them sad)
It was a mess but you just have to keep doing your best
E Feb 4
I reach deep inside of myself
hoping to pull something out.
Tickling, teasing,
A game I like to play.
I know the risks:
Dehydration, fatigue, tooth decay, osteoporosis, anemia, hypotension, arrhythmia, cardiac arrest, death.

I roll the dice, because in this moment
I know I’d rather die than keep the Poison inside.

So, I dig, deep, into the dark,
Until I hit it: X marks the spot.
Tease it out. Force it out.
The treasure spills from the core of me.
I win.

I am emptied over and over and over again,
Until there is nothing left of the Poison and nothing left of me.
(constructive criticism welcome!)

— The End —