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David Paddit Jan 2021
I apologize to myself for holding myself
     back even though I know what I’m truly capable of
I apologize to myself for making
     myself cry at night
I apologize to myself for
     treating my body like a
     dumpsite for garbage instead
     of a temple highly regarded
I apologize to myself for making
     myself smaller so that others can feel bigger
I apologize to myself for choosing to see
     what’s lacking in me and not
     celebrating everything I have that makes  
     me beautifully me
I apologize to myself for speaking harsh words like:
     𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘨𝘭𝘺
     𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵
     𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘦
But choose to tell other people:
     𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭
     𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵
     𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶
           because you of all people
           know how it’s like to be the villain in
           your own story and don’t want
           others to feel the same.
Oh, to wish well for
     others and not wish on
     my own stars first. . .
I apologize to myself for giving love to others
     but not give that same love back to myself.

                                      -- I will accept my apologies and forgive
                                          myself so that I may learn
                                          how to love myself properly
Felicia Coffey Jul 2018
I am not a well to be pulled from.
I am not a dumpsite.
I am a human being.
And taking from me without giving an equal amount in return
is no way to keep me in your life.
I will leave the moment it happens
because the first person to do that to me took and took
until I needed medication to fill me back up again.

I am tired of being a landfill drowning in other people's trash.
Trefild 3d
keep on crafting verses
which ain't just a means of killing time
but, lyrics-wise
also a means of whacking turkeys
and black hA̲ts I'm versus
such as hacks with lyrics rather poorly
organized, which is why they're strE̲E̲t-gang-like
and, of course, autocratic vermins
composing both unjust regimes & crime
rings; said means of whacking, fO̲r when
my stuff's hatched, I̲t seems like
the close quarters battle chO̲I̲ce pre—
—ferred among primeval tribes
of present days northwestern states
["hatchet"; North American Indians; USA & Canada]
once again, a path of wA̲r is
picked, like how you may feel after surfing
through bA̲d news, O̲r when
you indulge in consumption
of content re injustice, corruption
["piqued"]
ju[ɪ]st like the weapon O̲f the Reaper
I've gO̲t a grim side
["scythe"]
and, like a cross gal-beater
'bout to blow off his ******* steam by
laying his meat hooks O̲n a chica
done no wrong to him, my
plan of attack is horrid; hope you o[ɑ]pps have **** hearses
plus caskets ordered
for yourselves; a nutbA̲g with swO̲rd dex—
—terity; dozen slashing strikes A̲t a tO̲rse, which
like a lush lass performing
in front of you a **[ɑ]t lA̲p dance, serves as
stimulation; then I hA̲ck off fO̲relimbs
and as a final blow
I get my target's gO̲rge slit
many would likely ca[ɔ]ll
such scene "bloodbath", but that's absurdish
for, in the scene, there's o[ɑ]bvi no
******* tub A̲s a storage
for spilled blood; it reminds me mo'
of a blood fountain (view-wise)
an assassin thirsty for blood's back to murking
————————————————————————————————
you know, knowledge & thou[ɑ]ghts about things
being either unjust, such as crim. rings
or unrighteous regimes, or O̲nes causing de[ɪ]s—
—pondence, regardless if I̲t's
something from the past or stuff that exists
in the present, are like a disease
that's why it's said unkno[ɑ]wledge is bliss
[to be more precise, "ignorance is bliss"]
that's why sO̲metimes you wish
your mI̲nd were at peace, like sO̲meone deceased
or you were in a better place
like a country scene wI̲th autumnal sU̲n-illumed trees, but...
————————————————————————————————
like an eye-catching gI̲rl with
an untactful shO̲rt rig
pU̲t on (like that war-monge[—]ring sh#tbag)
(that personifies a corruptive impact)
(of power) & acting *****
in front of an unattached het bO̲y, this
**** autocratic wO̲rld's ju[ɪ]st
****** asking for it (aaargh!)
while you already's got a tragic pE̲rs. en—
—vironment, which, alongsI̲de of the sh#t
mentioned just prior, has you turning
slowly into a ******* madman bursting
with flipping steam (loco)
excuse me if it's an indecent thing
to say, but the world of the living seems
like a giga[ɛ]ntic dumpsite (gigantic dumpsite)
for it's full of pieces of trash deserving
to be eliminated; that's why
you sometimes wish you were a master termi—
—nator serving as a real embo[ɑ]dier
of retribution, like Red Hood, Punisher
besides, as it's been mentioned prior ta
this, there's anger occuring I̲n you O̲nce in a
while, which itself isn't mU̲ch of a
scourge, unlike ex-hitmen compelled to cO̲me back ta
a path of spilling blO̲O̲d, but, a—
—kin to a cellar with a bU̲nch of au[ɑ]—
—thoritarian-regime-or-mafia-
-linked ******, some drU̲ms of a—
—lcohol & a ca[ɛ]ndle lustre o[ɑ]—
—ccupying a somewhat evil mI̲nd of a
vengeful sO̲n of a
gun, it's a somewhat combustible story
["storey"]
when you've got not up to ***** sources
of blowing off steam
————————————————————————————————
atrocious, obscene
in self-expression, but it's just a reflection of this
corrupt world that I've been
influenced by; while the boat that I'm in
is a far cry from a floating posh inn
["by floating posh inn", I mean "cruise liner"]
more like an old brigantine
with nigh-on nO̲body bei[—]ng
on board; but even
sinking lO̲w when I scheme
my bars, I'm sti̲ll on
a morally higher ground than those rO̲gues I'm agin
like the Ledger's Joker, I deem
this world deserves a better category of crims
than gangsters & ******* ******* for im—
—proper, self-assertive regimes; a bO̲ld breed of in—
—dividuals who'd be disposing of prin—
—ciple-lacking sods blindfolded by ching
and power, like thO̲se I've just in—
—dicated; you may get your f#ck finger
and your pointer organized, sim. ta
a **** mo[ɑ]b, I̲nto the V sign if ya
know who I mean
[9 letters, the 1st one is "v", the last one is "e"]
"a wicked rhymefall" by TREF1LD (TRFLD) is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (to view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0)
Caleb Mwangome Aug 2020
My mother beat up her son
Fifteen years younger than iam
Done,
He stood aside sobbing in distaste
Looking at the heartless woman
Whom I believed he hated

I had to turn away my eyes
I remember for minutes
But so soon were no cries
I looked back,
Lucky I was to see his final tears
Drop on my mother's laps

The beating
The pain
The hate
All he had forgotten

I thought my brother and I
Were the same
Same mother
Same hearts
Same clay
And tried to forget about her

Her who bruised my heart
And threw it in the dumpsite
To rot

I try to close my eyes
But still her voice I hear
I wish I were my mother's two year old son
Who forgets the bitter pain
And renew this weary heart

— The End —