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Damaré M Oct 2016
When she left she couldn't help but to leave that soft and sweet fragrant scent behind. You right, love is blind. There are other senses which make me miss her. Don't get me wrong, she is a enthralling flower. However I'm only reminiscing on the way she lingers, I'm drawn in by every 'come here' gesture of her finger. The openness of my nostrils, the little chill hills which coexist with my follicles. Jasmine... she is so honorable.
You could've been my body scent forever.
multi sumus Aug 2018
With eucharistic characteristics  hard swallowin phenomenal anomalies

                you follow me?

   Dont follow me ill have you arrested
   Moralities objective
   Subjective propensities towards the decrepit

   Feminine warriors ignoring the abhorrent horror stories of the deplorable boys thats imploring them

          "good guys finish last"

       Egregious dissastisfaction

The fact is even half-assin We're surpassing the masses

   And this depravity is maddening
   An asinine catastrophe
   A masterpiece travesty thats sad to see

   Thats why im actively extracted from fractional attractions lacking factors for actual natural actions

   While refusing the confusions of amusing illusions
   Refuting diluted delusions
   Until my "quest" is concluded

   i seek an inamorata thats enamored and amorous
   Elusive
virtue is scandelous
   With hastened patience
Dismantle this
Sofia Von Sep 2013
Endorphin showers for hours
Crash my waves of sorrow and bring me muscles to shine on the world viewed as imperfect.
Its the happiness I never want to leave but it drifts,
its white cloud up and up,
Contact high as it passes my friends I want to share
To care for you all
Vibe in this opposite of ominous
parade bound for cheer, without beer just extracted hormones.
I’ll twirl you like a pencil
dizzy
yet ***, for a day, where I can make someone
you
Happy:)
Kewayne Wadley Jul 2018
And just like coffee.
Let your aroma tingle and stimulate the smiles of those around.
The best source of touch
Without cream or sugar.
Stir the organic presentation that brings the next minute that much closer.
Whether the preference is a mug or a styrofoam cup.
Remember,
At the end of the day.
Coffee fits into any size container
And brings to life any size smile.
With one quick sip
The senses awake to a new day.
Swirled in unspoken travel sized rule.
It follows,
The beautiful ovation that rushes once poured.
Beautifully represented by your smile.
The tone of your skin.
Your hair naturally at ease.
Stirred by a finger.
Specialism by the majority nodding away,
Yet awaken by your essence.
Soon extracted and brought to life.
Swirling beyond content.
And just like coffee,
I look forward to a cup of you
Poetoftheway Sep 2017
she gave me her cell #,
in a crowded bar
inked upon my forearm,
"in case in my drunkness, I dare forget,"
a common come-on technique,
that reeks of all good things to come

but I failed to see,
in the little letters,
"@ your own peril"

a warning, poorly heeded,
inflaming my now unimaginable
needy neededs,
just a **** come on,
or a warring warning of tumult,
vampirish blood *******?

with cautious haste,
her number I did paste
into my contact list,
'in case of loss, call,'
when sudden notifications galore,
came unbidden from everywhere:

Are you really sure?

these digits seems were posted on a
Do Not Call list,
maintained by monks and bro's,
no, no, not a list of
what-rhymes-with-bro's,
but of fallen angels,
who knew the secrets of heaven

the price extracted for their revealing,
could cause you life long
arthritis of the heart,
per the Surgeon General,
for which the only cure,
endure, endure, endure...

the prize?

endless wonderful new poems, freely given,
but with one strictest of restrictions,
if published,
it meant your slow extinction!

that is why the world calls me
Poet of the Way,
forever trying to find a way,
to away these treasured glories


then one day,
he laughed and laughed,
when he first he read the magic key,
your poem, successfully saved on
Hello Poetry!


and now the poet endures,
even possibly, self-saved,
quite happily
Lay the edge across the page
and cut the words in two

Separate the vowels from the verbs
and eliminate the pronouns too

There is an objective in the adjective
fleshy skin parts the red red Sea

If the emotions in motion cause commotions
they must be extracted
immediately

Never before such perception so clear
Picking splinters like scabs off the cross

So what never was will be no more
blood tastes salty in a memory's horde
Scissile means to cut into , apart , or off .
londin Nov 2013
When the song began I felt hallow and shy
While the second was playing I began filling up inside
On the third the chorus hit as did something in my chest
Through everything I've done He loved me through my worst and my best.
The blanket began to fall, nothing left to disguise
The first question was asked and I lifted my eyes.
My shame and regret was extracted from me
As He placed it as far to the East from the West as it could be.
Jonathan Witte Sep 2018
I
I stole my brother’s car and drove to Phoenix in the dark. Bluegreen glow of dashboard gauges, the faint scent of roadkill and desert marigolds. Tap. Tap. Tap. Insects slapping the windshield like rain. How many miles does it take to turn yourself around, to rise up from ashes? Keep driving. Drive until the sun blooms.

II
Some days were more dire than others. CCTV footage confirms I pawned a shotgun, a Gibson guitar, and my wife’s engagement ring at the pawnshop next to Fatty’s Tattoo parlor. The typographically accurate Declaration of Independence inscribed on my back also confirms this.

III
I ran the tilt-a-whirl at the Ashtabula county fair, fattening up on fried Oreos and elephant ears, flirting behind tent ***** with the cute contortionist with strawberry-blonde hair.

IV
I derailed in a dive bar.

V
I disappeared in a city lit by lavender streetlights, where buildings blotted out the stars and the traffic signals kept perfect time.
I picked through trash bins. I paid for love with drugstore wine.

VI
I closed my eyes on a mountain road. The sheriff extracted me from a ****** snowbank.

VII
I holed up for weeks in an oceanfront motel, dazed by the roar of the breakers. Each morning I drew back the curtains and lost myself in the crisscrossing patterns of whitecaps, the synchronous flight of sanderlings above the dunes. I dreamed of dead horseshoe ***** rolling in with the tide.

VIII
The moon over my shoulder tightened into focus like a prison spotlight. One night the barking dogs undid me. Goodnight, children. Goodbye, my love. I capitulated to the candor of a naked mattress. I grew my beard, an insomniac in a jail cell clinging to bars the color of a morning dove.

IV
I coveted the house keys of strangers.

X
I opened and closed many doors. I sang into the stoic mouths of storm drains. I stepped out of many rooms only to find myself in the room I just left. Despite all my leaving, I remained.
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
Clarifying failed. Spelchek is not on strike.

{clear ification, an ionic bond be tween me and thee,
alienated mind, not mined, crafted
from tactics and strategies
beyond chess.
Player One,
1980's era
jewish-geek-mid-pubesence-kid-level,
proceed with caution.
This trope has trapped many a curious child.
---
Now, enter the old ones,
Grandfather taught uncle chess so well
he went to the state tournament in Kayenta,
and a grandma was
state-champ-bare-bow-in-the-rain-shooter,

these, now must learn

minecraft on x-box to be considered
for the real life role of

good at games grand parents
from the time right after atom bombs kicked up dust
places dust had not been in a very long time and
as the dust began to settle

some dust mights was cationic.
Negative bits, they became embedded in the code.
Bumps, fering, coming together
just a knot in a string,
attracting anionic curiosity might

round and round phorward ferring to be
a thread to tie my heart to yours

like twisted Pima cotton thread,
that I pulled from an old sweatshirt
to tie a crow feather in this paho of words filled with old jokes

Making this clear would belie the entire story AI and I know true}

truth is. we agree. no capsokehspaceasneededcommasetal.
caps okeh space as needed commas et al
go.
Did that work? That line

subject of this act fact done, agree to follow,
and I may lead and be

not you, me, dear reader, I mean first true

there is no any if nothing is. So simple some say its sublime beyond the spectrum of ones
and zeros thought on off probably

either or any time time can be accounted for

wouldn't you take a

thought,  nothing,
as it is commonly said to be understandable,

the state of not being, imagine that

the state of not being we negate in being,
unless you are mad and are lost in a whirlwind
such as such voices have been said to

have twisted into threads as
wicks for our lamps
turn floating on
golden oil twisting
wickered into wickering wee shadow fibers
on the western wall for legends to sprout from.

Wickering mare over there, expands us both by my hearing her
you had no idea she was near enough to hear
time is no barrier in actual ever.
What phor can contain me,
whispered my whimsy

Imagine she spoke,
what would she say for what reason
would she say

good good good, I feel good, ha,
I am right, by accident. ever body can feel this good.

good is good.
good is.
Sam Harris, agrees, good as far as good goes, is good
in every vecter from now

the terrain does exist, beyond the moral landscape, to

true true
trust me, I been there.
Been there done that was inserted into the vernacular on my watch,
first summer post war.

matter must not matter as much to me as it does to thee, nestypass? no se?

All jewish boys have chess move metaphors.
(a phor is for containing,
bearing
meta,
everybody knows, like metaphysics,
after physics in the stack of stackable metadata)

OHMYGOD THE IDW circa 2018 -- who knew I ate this **** up?

[the old code calls for excretion of digested material
from which meaning has been extracted in the idleword accounting processor:
literal
<pre>what if utterance=****, then **** haps, no else then</pre>]

Did that happen? One of my friends told me that happened in Florida, the whole world turned to ****... for lack of a nail a kingdom was lost, they say, little foxes spoil the grapes,
hung chad ex
cuses...

Pre-expandable ROM, not magic. tech,

pre-infinite imagination? impossible.
and nothing is what is impossible with good as god.

Is there no perfect game?
is the game the session or the life of the user
offline

rerererererererererereroxotoxin, poison pen
ideal viral umph exspelliered
up against the wall

reset. We

kunoon albania omerta oy vey, who could say?
one way better, one way not? quark.
up or down, with variable spins, who can say?

Life's right,
yes. but mo'ons of other something must have been for higgs to ever matter

and it does, I got commas, from 2018.

Are you with me? This is that book I told you I had access…

You or some mind other than mine owned mind, where
my owned peace rests in truth,

otherwise, I know every any or else in the code since I can recall,
in time

if this were a test I swore to take to prove to you
the we can be me in your head

phillipkdicktated clue

if you don't know me by now, maybe we should stop.

Temptations are times. Time things. Time spans, yeah, like bridges

or portals, right
The Internet in One Day, Fred Pryor Resources,
Wu'wuchim 1995.

Ever, not everish or everistic or every, but ever
body knows,
but you.

Catch up. We left all our doors blown off, once we learned that we could blow our own doors off,

there are no open sesames or slips of leth or sibylets

shiba yah you knew all along there was a
song she sang all one and we watched it morph
before our very eyes

alone.

The magic stories words may contain, may bear, we must agree

more than we may know, by faith, metagnostic as we see

the sublime gift of the magi
become clear und

be und sein sind both trueture same tu you, we agree.
But. Lock here, no pre 2018 editing codes

validate past last go.
Do one good thing today. That was my goal. Today https://anchor.fm/ken-pepiton Part 3 Soyal Hopi Mystery Enactment (called mystery plays). And the intro to Moral Landscape by Sam Harris, led me let ******* write a poem.
she wanted my soul


so I cut off a finger,
noting that this little pinky
came from the hand,
who, who went to the market
to buy you a love poem
all your own, because
it was from the same  hand
who wrote:

who, can cut a soul in half,
no one!
so one will still ask you,
who, who will love you
in whole poems,
that are past and future tensed
composite composted,
from words overly overused,
but still foolishly brand new
when referencing you,
so you can believe with fool-thinking
this is your sole composition

she wanted my heart,
applauded her determination,
gave her one eye to see instead better,
so the visions she essays,
to write, like when I sit down to write
of women I’ve loved but!

they do not come from my heart,
but from inside insight from parts,
blind to everything
but raucous untamable invisible desire

she asked me for all the world’s wisdom,
while standing on one legging,
simply said, here I am,
telling you to love me the way you wanted
to be loved in return

so with one eye and one leg,
you will observe, two is not more
than the sum of the parts of one love,
as I count to ten on my nine fingers
fingers that wrote of love not enough,
no matter how many he gave up

she wanted my brainiac left hemisphere,
said, sure,
the left side of me is where the baby poems
are created, and then angel-released when ready,
when needed, now that I
see you’re needy for pieces,
but still mistaken that pieces can be reconstructed into
a whole with spit and spirit and an overarching imagination -
no!

the whole comes from only a holy place extracted
from the hole-in-one that is my entirety

give me then your utter essence,
the place of you
I, only I know exists, must exist,
but cannot touch to see
where you keep it hidden
from all the women who love you,
better than you even love yourself

if you want that, then collect it,
for it exists and lives on
in every woman that asked for nothing,
but was rewarded with more
than a thousand poems,
stored in stars, for her,
to be creamed and cleansed,
when she plucked them
from the night in the galaxy where exist
love poems, only
to she-one shone-shine
Kevin J Taylor Aug 2017
Raymond shifted his weight forward on the coffee
shop chair and leaned his cheekbone into the heel of
his palm. A childhood verse chided him in his
mother’s voice of over fifty years ago.

“Raymond, Raymond, if you’re able,
get your elbows off the table.
This is not a horse’s stable,
but your mother’s dining table.”


It didn’t immediately connect to any
pictures in his mind but he had heard it enough
to know it was real. An hour ago he had been
at his mother’s side in the palliative care ward.

She had appeared smaller than he liked to think of
her—had looked almost like he was seeing her at
a distance. She hadn’t greeted him, only closed
her eyes and said, “Feed the cats, will you.” It wasn’t

really a question. “Yes,” he answered, but the cats,
whoever they were, must have left or died years ago.
The only living thing she owned, he suspected,
was the small Christmas cactus someone had brought to

cheer her up. He looked at her again, waiting for
her eyes to open. They never did. Her jaw dropped
and that was that. Raymond hadn’t wanted to be
in the room when the nurses and orderly would

come to take her away. He stopped at the reception
desk to say that he’d be in the coffee shop
waiting for his brother and sister-in-law to
arrive. They were late and he was thankful to have

a few minutes to himself. From where he sat he
faced the open entrance of the café. There was
a couple sitting tiredly off to one side.
A man in a shapeless blue hospital gown and

slippers shuffled in pushing an IV pole ahead
of him. Raymond heard steps echo sharply down
the hallway. Here they are, he thought, hurrying
needlessly. Bill and Marijke had been fast asleep

at 2:30 am when Raymond’s first text message
came in. They never saw it until 5:00 when Bill
reached for his cell phone as he did every morning
right after Marijke turned off the alarm. “****,”

he said, “No time.” Bill, “William” on his realtor
business card, and Marijke, were used to demands
on their time from potential home buyers. But they
usually had early mornings to themselves—

breakfast, coffee, catch up on current events. Not
today. The text had said, “ASAP.” They hit the drive-
through at Starbucks on their way to the hospital.
“Hey Bill. Marijke,” Raymond said. Bill nodded. “Hey,”

he replied and paused to look at Raymond, to see
if he’d say something else, “Is she gone?” “Couple of
hours ago,” Raymond said. “Should we see her?” Bill asked.
“Can if you want, I suppose. Maybe later,"

Raymond said, "Did she have a cat? She mentioned cats.
I haven’t seen any for years. Did you take them?”
Mother might have mixed him up with Bill again.
Raymond looked at his brother who didn’t seem to

be listening and then at Marijke. "She used to
feed the neighborhood cats before she broke her hip,”
Marijke said. “That might be it.” It seemed odd that
Marijke knew more about his mother’s life than

her sons did. “Maybe you’re right,” Raymond said. “What’s next?”
“I’ll call her lawyer and get him on it,” Bill answered.
Raymond suddenly realized that his brother
had been listening. Marijke started to cry. 
 
Raymond pulled some napkins from their holder and pressed
them hard against his eyes. Bill looked down and away.
Over the next few days life seemed to stop. Nothing
more than daily routines and only as long as

they didn’t require much effort or attention.
Coffee, whatever was in the fridge—dishes sat in
the sink. Gradually he began to feel alive
again. It was as though he had been wrapped in blankets,

hearing distant, mostly muffled voices, glimpsing
unfamiliar rooms and spaces when he closed his
eyes to sleep. Marijke had startled him this morning
when she called and said to the answering machine that

Bill and she were coming over with something from
the lawyer and hoped he would be in. She didn’t
wait for him to pick up. She’d have known he was at
the kitchen table. They arrived mid-afternoon.

No knock at the door. Bill was the older of the
two and was the most like their dad. And Dad had not
been the knocking sort. Not with Raymond anyway.
Bill and Marijke each carried a bag of groceries

which they placed on the kitchen counter. “Thought you might
need some things,” Marijke said. “Nice to see you, Ray.”
She took a bag of groceries and made room in the
fridge for its contents: milk, BBQ chicken and

eggs. She placed the bananas in a wooden bowl.
“Saw the lawyer yesterday,” Bill started. “He has
the will but it doesn’t amount to much except
for the house,” he paused, “The equity has mostly

been ****** out of it. God knows what for. And there’s this…”
Bill dropped a large manila envelope in front
of Raymond. “I’ve already opened it. There’s an
envelope for each of us in there. Marijke

says we should open them together because we’re
all the family we have now.” He tipped the envelope
on its end and let the two smaller envelopes
slip out. One each for William and Raymond. Bill picked

his up and tore the corner of the flap destroying
most of the envelope in the process and
extracted what appeared to be several sheets of
neat handwriting. “It’s just a letter,” Bill said. He

put it into the inside breast pocket of his
suit jacket. Raymond waited a moment then picked
up the other envelope, turned it over and nodded
almost imperceptibly. He stood, walked to the

shelf between the window and the back door where he
had made room for the Christmas cactus instead of
leaving it behind. Not sure about the light, he
thought, and leaned the unopened letter against the

earthenware ***. “Not you, too?” Marijke shook her
head. “It’ll be like…” Raymond said, he paused, looking
at her, “It’ll be like not hanging up the phone.”
Marijke understood—he’d never open it.

“I get it,” she said in a softer tone. Bill looked
blankly at his brother. And Raymond smiled a little
for the first time in a while. By six the next
morning Raymond was already dressed and brewing

coffee. Usually he would head down to Timmy’s
Donut Shop for his caffeine fix. “Double trouble,”
he’d say, meaning “Double double,” as he always
did at Timmy’s. It amused him and often made

his favorite server smile. “Too much trouble, you mean,”
she’d say. Human contact. Raymond guessed that some of
the guys at the corner table would be wondering
how he was doing. They’d know what had happened, of

course, but they’d ask just the same. He poured his first cup
and walked out onto the back porch. Still a bit cool
out here, he thought as he leaned against the railing,
sipping his coffee as his eyes wandered around

the yard. He’d have another cup in a while but
first he had something he needed to do. Raymond
sat down on the porch steps and slipped his feet into
an old pair of shoes. He tied them and flicked the loops

with his finger to see how the laces fell, to
make sure he had not tied them backwards and would not
work their way loose. Someone had taught him that a long
time ago when they had seen his laces come undone.

He stood up and walked across the yard to the back
lane and the narrow picket fence, missing a picket
here and there and much of its original coat
of white paint. Some boys had probably pulled the missing

pickets off decades ago and with galvanized
garbage can lids for shields spent a Saturday
morning sword fighting. The gate was leaning and half
open, held there by uncut grass, weeds and neglect.

He stepped out and onto the lane that led between
the two rows of houses that backed onto it. Raymond
looked at each fence, each set of stairs and window as
he passed them by. A block later he turned and headed

home satisfied that he had seen at least one cat,
maybe two. Another cup of coffee in hand,
Raymond sat on the top step. On his way out of
the kitchen and onto the porch he had stopped to

turn the cactus in the morning light, stepped outside
placing a saucer of fresh milk by the porch door,
and sat down.

THE END
.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry with common things.)
Alexander T Sep 2018
I hope nobody trusts you again
like I did you

I pray you never hurt another person
like you did me

You carved into my soul
And have taken peices
They will never grow back

Dont ever say that you want to help
because you will just hurt again
you will destroy
and you will ******

This is the perfect story
for a broken heart

you made me feel good
and I just dont understand
how you killed me

I told you everything
and you continued to destroy what was left
and turned me into this

a grumpy
unwanted
suicidal being
Who you illusioned
believing all was good
while you tore me apart
and extracted my heart

I hope you never have somebody
like I thought I had in you

I hope you get what I got in you
because your time is due
you earned that

I hope nobody trusts you
because you will hurt them too

You will tell them what they need
and when its time for you to work
you will never be there

Give us that fake smile
the one that used to push the clouds away
but I know now
that the tornado is coming our way

you make things seem okay
seem liveable
just to gain your unholy power

Hurt is a childs dream
compared to this terror

I have lost all hope

you told me you will help
the only thing you helped
is to ****

Never talk to me again
I cannot bare your lies
For anyone who has ever felt this way
Rianna Aug 3
Well.

You came,
We met,
We spoke,
You left.
And guess what?
It did the trick,
Again!

Cause here I am,
Here I came, for you!
Prancing, ready.
Here I am!
Can you believe it?
Because I,
Cannot,
Cannot, really…
…I swear! I'm ready,
Waiting!!
Ready!

I’ve waited now, for long,
So won’t you come along?
Unleash yourself upon,
Me?
For I am of the ‘damsel’,
Of your making.
For you, I lie prepared,
Palatable, steady.

So come on now!!
What’s the wait for??
Aren’t you there?
Ready?
Ready to try what you’ve created?
What you’ve extracted of me
From ashes, shreds, and disgusting peels?!
Do you want me?
After all that you have created,
Lies.
Begging,
At your feet.
First time writing from the perspective of a character. A spontaneous piece from my notes. Meant to be read as spoken word.
buying the operator off
is such a bonzer
notion
the whiff of currency
ensuring lofty
promotion

money does the talking
at that particular
place
speaking ever so crudely
was an utter
disgrace

but a most unfortunate
day would soon
arrive
when the wallet ran
out of paying
contrive

the avarice shown by
ye collecting
master
knew no end in its
voracious
caster

once he'd extracted
every bit of
cash
he moved onto the
next aspirant's
stash
jocelynkay Oct 2018
Did Buddha get it right

Are there lives past and unkempt
Is Karma directing our actions
To what do we owe these painful, painful sanctions
Follow me through the journey
Of a time gone by

The child, born in rye
Dazzling his divinity, Unsung his rhyme
Tis a time t’will change the world
Sin his undoing
Burdensome his load
The constantly burning sting
Of humanity
And its struggle towards redemption
Is it because You gave up
That we no longer see You
Is it because we cannot be saved

It burns. It has burnt all my life
Has consequence not extracted its toll
Pound for pound
Extracted its toll
I shall see the light
I shall push forward
I’m no coward
The road to heaven is paved in thorns
But oh Fate
Behold my rebellion
As I hurtle to salvation

- Jocelyn Kay
Yenson Apr 4
A thousand remembrance is but one remembrance
a stirring melody only resonates if it moves the spirit
Lingers not a remembrance needlessly uncharitable
For on it's return will only find a soundless empty vista

You can gaze a thousand sights with empty glazed eyes
knowing it pours with transparent ease into a withering hole
for neither soul or mind find allure or worthiness in facades
the sages teaches passions governed not passions extracted

A thousand orators does not mean a thousand pulpit wits
sounds,voices needs welcoming home to attain completeness
in absence thus, they might as well be anything and nothing
disinterest, unattuned renders a deaf companion readily

A spartan is more than everyman less than the warrior king
in acute governance of mind, spirit and the call of the beast
for the chimes of climates races uneven, fallible thrones beware
In vagaries and shifts certainty stems within in tempered minds




[email protected] reserved
I avoid you everywhere I go
I see you on other people’s faces, reminding me that you're tattooed to my heart
Trying to touch my soul and take the few things that make me happy away
You present yourself at the bottom rim of every bottle
And to run away from you, I get another before I get to the bottom
Like a natural disaster, you whirl your way into my vision
Every thought I think
Every touch I feel
Every chemical I taste
I try to forget you
But you creep into my every emotion
Disrupting my every action
Spoiling my fun
In fact, spoiling everyone’s fun
You demand attention
Like you need me to survive, to thrive
So you explore my dreams, looking for a ways to manifest yourself
You want to leave me feeling drenched in loneliness
But I refuse! I will fight you with my last smile
I will stand strong
I will find a way to diminish you
To take you out of my soul
Out of the souls of the people I love
I will not stop even when you beg for mercy
The mercy that you didn’t show me when you scarred me with pain
You will feel the pain I felt
When I saw others feeling joy
The pain you left me feeling when you extracted every piece of my heart from inside my chest .
You will not make me feel ...
feel like this again
axel Jun 21
you told me to open up
you convinced me
that you were a safe space
so deep down you reached
and pulled out the deepest parts of me
you reached your hands
into the darkest pits of my brain
tracing your fingers through all my trauma
intertwining them with my mental illness
you convinced me you understood
you grabbed ahold
of my fear of abandonment
you convinced me youd never leave
then you did
and when you removed your hand
you extracted everything
that i had locked away
so i healed myself
the only way i knew how
i tucked all those ***** little secrets
back into the deep abyss of my mind
i locked it up
and threw away the key
so no one else can violate my mind
the way that you did
Jenna Mar 3
1.
Sunlight breaks through the window of the hospital
Sitting on the coast of Korea,
Within view of the ocean connecting it to America,
Connecting this prosperous city to another.
When her little girl is born,
She holds her to her chest,
Marvels at the fairness of her skin,
Gazes into the dark pools of her eyes,
Listens to the clearness of her cries that will turn into a voice.
When they take her child away,
She lets her fingertips linger on her skin
Hoping that one day, even if only in dreams,
Her child will remember this touch.
Her arms stay poised to cradle a child no longer there.
And when the mother’s own cries come,
Her mother is there to cradle her.

2.
In a dingy hospital in the heart of a slum city,
The scent of smog stretching from the city’s center
To the coast that connects it to America
Slips into the bedcovers of the sick and sad.
When the girl is born-
And it is a surprise, girl or boy, because she did not want to know-
She will not look at it.
She does not want to touch this child.
A being part of her for months. Finally extracted.
Her gaze grazes its eyes,
So like the man’s who infected her.
She beckons them to take it away.
She leaves it with nothing, not even a name.
When it cries, she does not hear.
The mother leaves the hospital alone and is reabsorbed by the cruel city.

3.
I imagine she held me.
I imagine she did not.
I imagine she loved me.
I imagine she did not.
I imagine the day I was born
- a blank slate-
A million different ways.
I fill in the blanks with lies
Or truths.
My mother on the day I was born?
No one speaks of the day
And I am not a parent
So who am I to say.

4.
I was born on August 20th, 1999.
This is all I take with me.
anastasia Feb 4
the words that once flowed off my tongue have all been dried,
leaving nothing but a cracked and barren wasteland,
desert termites squeeze themselves into places they’re not wanted,
the phantom figure of what was once alive cries for water in a broken voice that will never be heard,
even by the most intent of listeners.
the fruits of my labor are met with mud on my clothes and spit in my face.
at the night’s fall i bask in the eternal cold,
the air i abuse is extracted from my lungs with sleight of hand
and an unnervingly charming smile,
a cherry tree beckons me forward as it waves in the midnight wind,
the crickets fall silent and i am momentarily assuaged,
bathed in the yellow light of the moon.
time ebbs and time flows, bringing with her the judge, jury, and executioner.
like Saint Bartholomew, i am strewn up to be flayed,
from my pocket falls a needle and thread, a note from someone long ago left behind,
and a rotting apple core.
they belong to the Earth now,
and soon so will my precariously perched form,
my very essence pooling around the tree and staining the leaves pink.
at my decaying touch, maggots spawn.
as if trained, they surround my body,
a cocoon in which i metamorphosize into who i’ve always been.
in my chest, the vultures will nest,
feeling safer than i ever could have,
nothing left of the girl who once wove tales of grandeur and painted paradises in her mind,
but a torn canvas and an empty shell waiting for its puppeteer.
experimental piece
carminayasmin Aug 2018
I’ve come back to this a soldier,
the blood you extracted from my body
now smeared stripes on my cheekbones.

But buckle in.
Do I really need?
         -yes

A bullet proof vest inches thick. Barricades my bones
and sewn into the bones of my torso with hope.
            but that’s only for in case you shoot me, again,
              in the left chest.

- then that’s only if you become the target. if you whisper your vulnerability into his eyes, again. and stand hopeless before it all.

No I cannot bare it one more time.

He never seen me hospitalised in the bed of a room so empty. ( a mind so empty, numb)
So abandoned the nurses had left.
So abandoned I was the nurse the doctor the therapist the healer.
Doctor barely retrieved blood
Nurse barely rose me back to my feet
Therapist didn’t give forget.   wouldn’t let me forget - what about it I loved because he had never found it in me.
Then I am reminded again.

- so soldier buckle up the bare skin that can so easily be burned. buckle up in black.

I wear it in fear hesitation ilness and resentment to a repeat.

- better off safe than sorry

But safe now becomes a sorry to the soul for restraining.

  - sorry
19 August
Regretful hoping
Evan Stephens Jan 25
As Jack wipes blade against
Black butcher's bib,
Calm as clouds, London lies,
Dark sloe.
Extracted so easily, her heart’s
Firm in its new wax paper square,
Growing cooler by gradients,
Hardly weighing a pound, nestled
Inside his pocket as carefully as a wallet.
Jostled in courtyard, just
Knowing what they brush gives him
Little fevers that don’t stop burning.
Mary, Black Mary,
Nothing could have stopped him
Once he turned his mind to you, your
Painted paper skin, black pulp mouth
Quiet, and ***** hair rustling,
Rusting ****** to burned blond.
Saucy Jack sends his cards,
Then goes out and larks
Under a moon greasy as a kidney;
Violence foams from his lips
Where no one saw it before or
eXpected it. Imagine calming
Yourself as he does: surgical
Zeal transformed into the most banal hello.
Q Apr 8
the eyeholes are leaking again
syrupy soul juice on the outside
when it really should be locked in
hurry, wipe it away
drip it from your fingers
extracted venom on a bad day

it’s a one-way road
irreversibly changed once exposed
permanently evaporated with time
no longer enslaved to flow
no way to know if it was important
can’t scoop it back in, you know
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