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Preech Feb 2014
You need not know what my name is
just that I’ve been searching for infinity on high
in a Saturday super house and all I have found are puzzles.
Only revolutions of the same songs from under the cork tree
So far I have only found the back room
and the darker side of nonsense.
The blood of the scribe is surfacing
and right now, I can see a slug and an ant racing
through the atmosphere of my sleeve to see where smart went crazy.
Breaking a commandment; thou shalt not ****.
The magician’s assistant couldn’t see crazy coming
from the thirty six chambers.
Formally the boy in da corner,
I’m travelling through the streets
to find my own summer (shove it).
The way I am, never better, just another P.O.S
trying to be quiet and drive (far away).
Taking the eight mile road in my mind
to bring me straight outta Compton,
finding my California love to tell her
“I don’t need brighter days, I’ll always be coming back home to you.”
I need to liberate change (in the house of flies)
and allow them nine crimes and a rootless tree.
I’m in the mineshaft with no skeleton key
falling helplessly into the spin of 99 problems.
None shall pass me, no kings
no soldier following a hand built by robots.
Nothing smells like teen spirit in here
nor the disassociative stench of *******.
I’m sick 2 def of everyday I spend
without a southern fried intro.
If I could shoot the cool from my machine head
then there would be a way to put you on the game.
I’m trying to find no enemy in this life
that’s always comedy tragedy history but
all I can see are yours and my children
right on the edge of a new psychosis;
too many of them finding the bad touch
of a kiss with a fist
that they saw in a violent *******,
thinking it was the discovery channel.
Not a day goes by that I’m not writing yet another
letter to my countrymen saying let me tell you
nothing’s funny; the new danger is that
one of us is the killer in this champion requiem.
I’m by myself crawling to find a place for my head,
somewhere I can eat you alive, maybe in a boiler room
just like your significant other. I’ve got my revolver
and I’m putting a bullet in the head
of a street fighting man. With a pistol grip pump
I’m killing in the name of Maria
and the ghost of Tom Joad.
That’s my last resort - how I could just **** a man.
Results may vary,
but with every new Eyedea I am testing my abilities.
I’m watching spiders shimmy up aerials
to find themselves lost in Hollywood,
finding a blueprint to my culture.
I’m screaming save yourself renegades
keep your radio inactive and focus on your innervision.
So, let me be the last to say
with seven words;
there are few guarantees, so lovelife.
This is a 'found' poem using 100 artists/albums/songs that I have seen as influences in my life.
Samantha Apr 2015
She is blue raspberry slushee tongue
Meets feminist rant.

She is Moon Pie wrapper personified.
She is purple lipstick stains on wine glasses
Filled to the brim with cranberry juice.
She is three cats, one bed.

She is a scratch in your favorite record during your favorite song.
She is bubblegum bubble pop,
She is the definition of hypochondriac.

Curiosity didn’t **** her,
She killed curiosity.

She is dry heaving into the toilet bowl,
Claw marks on the inside of her stomach.
She is naproxen sodium
Swirling down throat,
Gagging up bullet sized pills.

She is the other side of unrequited.

She is no ones favorite poem.
She is her own favorite poem.

She is perpetual headache.
She is screaming for justice.
She is the jersey devil episode of the X-Files,
In other words,
She is a hot mess.

She is nature walks cut short due to laziness.
She is laziness.
She is lay in bed all day,
Drown in the sheets.
She is too many books, not enough time.

She is funeral song at a wedding.
She is dethorned rose, declawed cat.
She is waking the dead.

She is a renaissance painting come to life.
Botticelli would cry if he saw her,
His Venus,
Splashing in the water.

She is Jezebel mourning Ahab.
She is Jezebel being eaten alive.

She is ankle deep dimple.
She is never could quite get the words out.
She is lip bite, blood drip.
She is covered in bruises and she likes it.

She is listerine flavored whiskey,
She is a shot glass of formaldehyde.

She is an oak tree,
Thats what her sister tells her.

She is the x on the back of an 18 year olds hand.
She is conspiracy theory.
She is playing possum.

She is change the subject.
She is cry when being yelled at,
Cry when no one is looking,
Cry when everyone is looking,
Cry because theres nothing else to do.

She is leather jacket in july.
She is crop top and mini skirt.
She is lullaby.
She is dancing to the Law and Order theme song.
She is 8,000 tweets.

She is see how long she can go without talking.
She is goes so long without talking
That now she can’t talk.
She is novocaine needle pock mark.

She is her own mythology,
Her own god.
She is fire breathing dragon.
She is knocking on god’s door
Until blood erupts from her knuckles.
She is asking why.
She is Persephone feasting on pomegranate seeds.

She is two siblings in the hospital.
She is “call if you don’t feel right”.
She is disassociative personality disorder,
At least thats what she’s convinced she is.

She is anxious laughter,
Anxious smile.
She is sewing her lips shut.

She is only 11 Instagram likes.
She is learning to love herself with the lights on.
She is sleep to much,
Sleep too little.
She is curl on cheekbone.
She is protruding rib bone.
She is hip bones cutting glass.

She is Lilith saying no.
She is leading the serpent to the garden.

She is vegetarian on moral grounds.
She is not telling her doctor she is a vegetarian
Because what if its bad for her?

She is fate and destiny making out under the bleachers.
She is making nooses out of ****** strings.
She is choke on your own saliva.
She is burnt tongue tip.
She is puking in the parking lot of her dentist’s office.
She is a 1997 themed mixtape.

She is a stanza curving like a lovers back.
She is chapped lips.
She is brick through the window.
She is suffocating on suburban ideals.

She is Anne Sextons ***** bottle.
She is Maya Angelou’s silence.
She is Lucien Carr’s ****** knife.
She is Sylvia Plath’s last manuscript before
She stuck her head in the oven.

She is three am,
Get out of bed.
She is snow in september.

She is poetry.
She is poet.
She is music in fingertips,
Songs molded from simile.
She is metaphor flavored kisses
And a witchcraft tongue.

She is a girl crafted of stories.
A collection of make believe.
She is breathing passion.
She is daughter of nothing,
Lover of everything.
She is afraid of scorpions.
She is the venom.

She is a violin heart screeching out its last note.
It was written before it was stone, my friend
She tells me a thousand reasons why her tides turn as they do
Each one of them knotting up
Before she ties the noose
She says it’s nothing personal
To disregard anything that was misconstrued
but Wasn’t it you, my darlin’?
I think it was you

I saw her again, late last night
She was wearing a ball gown and was
Sporting her converse tennis shoes
I caught a glimpse of her
As she kneeled down before him
That’s the hard thing about her
She’s a lie, but you can’t know that
Until you know her
and If you’ve known her, you’ll know
That there is no use
It’s a repetitive cycle that just
Begs to be true

When they put it on the stone
They put it on the cross
They made molds to make shapes
To accommodate
For what was lost
They found that what they’d hoped for
Was just a mask, a mirage
So they made up their own story to tell the masses
and On the next Sabbath, slaughtered the cause

and I suspect they took their time sewing shut the valves of your heart

and I don’t know what to do
You always ask me
Like I pay attention to the news
You’re surprised each time
I can’t tell you the truth
But you know what I am, don’t you honey
You’ve got my number, and you’ve got a plan
and I hope you don’t take me down with it
I hope you don’t take me down in it

The street lights, they don’t need a guide
To show them how, to show them out of
The dark night, the street lights
Don’t mind if you mind’s swollen
and Your heart is left open like a
Gaping wound, the street lights
They’ll keep you company tonight

In that moment, I became afraid
There was a disassociative effect
There you were, on the bed
and Then here I was, on the floor
Pulling at my skin
and I glanced at the window pane
Hoping the snow would lift my spirits
Instead I saw shards of glass
In my fists, going at it
I can’t even trust my mind anymore
It used to be my safe haven
Suddenly everything I came here for is
Out of sight, out of vision
and You’ve left your sword
and Abandoned your mission

You walked me home
You came and got me
I didn’t think you’d come, or anybody
I didn’t care,
I never expected anyone to come anyway
I mean that in the plainest way
We are conditioned in circumstance
Nothing else

Some of us fair better than others
and You’ll either survive, or you won’t
It’s the natural order, the law of evolution
We’ll **** out the defective genes,
and Enhance the most
We live in a society that insists
You stand on your own
but We live in a world
With a collective mindset
Who do we trust,
Our roots, or society as a whole?

and In the meantime we’ll try
We’ll do our best
Not to feel alone

I think you better get yourself
Some medical attention
You might have to call an ambulance kid
It could be serious
but I know how serious
Serious gets
and Right now this mess we got here,
This ain’t nothin’
I’m not gonna even
Worry myself about it

When I left I took
All my stuff with me
I took your heart, as it was bleeding
I got in my car, and
As I was leaving
I saw you standing in the window
You were crying, I shut my eyes
Slipped into reverse
Couldn’t help but glance in the mirror
and There you were, still standing
I saw the woman in the day room
Behind mountains of boxes
I knew you’d never leave, in that moment
That I’d return to a silhouette
Still crying, and
I’ve loved you in a way that a monster cannot feel
I don’t understand it, but I had to go
It was one of those moments when
Everything you’ve learned goes out the window
and That queer sensation, that lump in my throat
I didn’t know what it was until something willed me
To return home, you can’t identify
What you don’t know

In plain language
I don’t know how I’ll find a way
To forgive myself, but you
Keep trudging, you keep
Moving forward, because you
Don’t know what else to do
With yourself, because you can’t
Go home, this is your home,
but You are candescent
and Until the light returns to her heart
You will stand in the backdrop of it
Anonymous Freak Jun 2017
"Layna, this is Seth,"
Our father breathed into
My ear.
"I think you two should play together
For a while."

We were only children,
Toddling around
With wild fantasies.
I was bashful and shy,
But I always tried
To make you laugh.
And you always gave me
Reasons why you weren't a good

We played tag,
And the wind would carry
Your feet
And push my hair into my face,
I never liked this game.
You always got so far away.
I'd only catch you
When you were out of breath,
You'd stop short,
And I run into you
"Father she pushed me!"
"I did NOT! He's lying!"

Our small high voices
Would rise up the chimney
Making imperfect
Melodies together,
And not hearing a thing
The other said,
Too caught up
In our own disassociative
Play land.
"Daddy he won't listen to me!
He ignores me!"
"Father I can't get her
To slow down and think!"

Our amusement
Of one another
Started getting rough,
You didn't like
How I'd started getting more
And confident.
Unafraid to poke the bear with a stick,
And I loathed your timid
Out look on life.
"Father she scares me! She plays too rough!"
"Daddy he won't take chances! He's still so shy!"

But then there'd be a blissful
Of perfect harmony,
Under a canopy of tree branches
Woven together,
You'd dare to hold my hand,
And I'd slow down
And breathe it in.
"Daddy why can't he always be like this?"
"Father will she calm down
With age?"

"I love him daddy, he's good sometimes."
"I love her father, she's beautiful when she's gentle."

We built things together,
Crooked buildings out of
You found it funny when they fell through,
I saw it as a problem
To solve.
"Father she's too driven, and bossy. She wants everything just so."
"Daddy he doesn't care if it all falls apart."

We'd wrestle in the grass,
It started out just fun,
Then your pride was damaged,
And so was mine,
And I couldn't let you win.
"Father I don't know if I want to play anymore, she never lets anything go. She won't let me have my way."
"Daddy he thinks I have to be something else."

I would giggle at foolish things,
And sang silly songs,
And you watched me with slitted eyes, Unamused.
"Father she's overwhelming."

"Layna he isn't happy,"
Our father murmured softly.
"Well I'm not happy either!
So he can just leave me alone!"

"What? Why?"
"Because you don't like me anyways!"

Our inner
Traumatized children, didn't play well together,
And they were determined
To come out
And have their say,
So when they couldn't get along,
I realized,
Neither could we.
William Feb 2019
It’s what we say when we...
Don’t care.
Aren’t excited.

It’s what we say when we...

These initials are important,
they represent people.
One, a dangerous disassociative abuser.
The other, a beautiful mind and soul.

The past is MEH, our future is not.
But the future will see RAH transform.
Perhaps to RAK, though my dream is RAB.
To M; you just don’t matter. Meh.
tevah Jul 2019
I'm fragile. I know this, you know this, the homeless guy we pass on the way home from using our stupid food stamps knows this. He knows because he's seen me cry after glancing at him. I cry because I've been in his shoes, and I know how heartbreaking it is to see car after car drive by and nobody stops to offer you help. I've told him that I wish we could help more, when we bought him a muscle milk and some jerky at the gas station. We were broke, less than 50 dollars in our account. But we still had to get him something, because it hurt so much to see him smile at everyone just for them to speed pass.
I'm fragile. I am but a bubble, waiting to pop at any given moment. waiting on a needle or a finger to take a stab at me. Waiting on the curious being with no malicious intent to stare a little too long, and to point at me excitedly. When they do, I wobble, so close to bursting. Sometimes I do, in fact, shatter, as if I weren't really a liquid bubble but a solid one blown from glass. When I splinter, words fly and storm the pages with black ink spills and red tears and vast empty spaces. I scream until I can't scream any longer. I sob and pick up some of the pieces of me, just to scratch my surface and colour that glass scarlet. I have no desire to make you drip red with me.
But I think maybe I need to really break, to be ground into a million tiny pieces, with all the screaming and sobbing attached, so we can begin again. So my emotions can be raw and visceral and intense. So maybe the doctors and therapists who are trying to slowly peel back layers, just to be met with solid resistance of a complete wreckage, can slowly provide ME with the tools to piece myself back together again. Because back then, I know you were terrified. You were paralyzed with fear when I wrote that letter, the one apologizing profusely to you. You were stopped completely as you saw me writhing through that first disassociative panic attack. You snapped to and held me down, because the thought of seeing me hurt myself was too jarring for you to just sit back and watch. But there were also so many amazing things. We both felt more in love than we do when we fight and yell and let ugly words paint our skin and the spaces between us. You used to brush your lips on the back of my knuckles, humming the tune of our song and smiling each and every time I spared a glance in your direction. We went on long, nonsensical drives, watching the sun set and feeling the fresh air whip our hair around. We used to laugh and pelt each other with cheez-its when we had the TV locked in the closet where we slept. we had a fire going in the somehow still functional fireplace.
But with the first of the year, it seemed like we started getting small fractures in the previously bulletproof glass that was our relationship. We were unbreakable, but now pieces keep chipping off and we're so close to shattering beyond repair. Those thoughts keep returning, the ones that led me to write that ****** letter in the first place. I never wanted to hurt you. But now it feels like I get some satisfaction. I'm sick. Not just physically, but mentally as well. I need to shatter again, to get back to that point so we can heal together, heal anew. To hit that ******* restart button. To go back to step one. Maybe we shouldn't have proposed to each other so soon. But I know I can never give this ring back to you. i take it off sometimes when we argue, but I always go back to it. I need it to feel whole and centered. I need it to be okay. I feel disgusting even taking it off to cook, or shower, or to do the ****** dishes. I can't lose you. And that's why I'm writing this. I need you to understand that I need to fragment. WE need me to do so. It's for you, for us, for me. I need you to understand this. It's not a new thought. It's one I've been stewing over for seven months. Please don't be mad at me. Please try to understand. But part of recovery is relapse. I haven't done anything, but I feel every day more and more like I'm shutting down. I constantly feel like I'm running out of battery. I need to refresh before school starts again. I don't know how it's going to happen or what I'm going to do. But please, please try to understand.
I love you.

— The End —