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bekka walker May 2018
If I let my eyes glaze over just right, I get a nice film quality picture.
I hover out of my body- like a mad director, evaluating what we've got, I snip the film strips from my memory, franticaly re-piecing together the story.
I didn't get the shots I wanted.
I feel hollow and sick.
Playing and re-playing the scenes where it all went to the dregs.
Maybe if I were paying closer attention- I could have gotten it right.
I could've rearranged the shot list- so "major life accident" was at the end of the movie- not the beginning.  

Sorting through what we're left with,
I hear no mellow music scoring my mothers choked sobs.
No soft glow to hide the harsh lines of grief described on her face.
The bottles of liquor weren't props.
And when the sound of silence rendered her breathless-
no one was there to yell "CUT"!
I grit my teeth and hold back my seething anger at such a **** writer.

This is not a sci-fi film.
No alien plummets to earth eager to turn back the sands of time because there was a fluke in the configubobulator.

Not a romantic comedy,
where his smashed body miraculously recovers and my mother, him, and all the kids pursue their dreams as a family of comics on the road- The jackson 5 of stand up!

No inspiring action film where the government tests a bionic exoskeleton, connects it to his brains nervous system, and after wild success he dedicates his life to intergalactic vigilante work, as well as a remaining a reliable family man.

There's no sending it back for re-writes.

There is no 1 hero to lean on.
No villain to hate.
Only us.
I hope one day, it's enough.

I hope one day we have a film we can be proud of.
5 years ago my step father, my hero, suffered a severe traumatic brain injury at the hands of a motorcycle accident. Today, he's bed ridden- and can't even **** himself. Leaving my mother, and 6 kids.
I had become what most yearn for.
Anyone can want what they truly do not understand .

You never know you like something until you finally get a taste for what it truly is .

My plate is full these days .
Every line has a direction and it becomes more mechanical by the second.

People laugh at me less .
Some envy .

Fools often hate what they themselves could never do.

They think what I forged in fire somehow was handed from the Heavens.

The tattered edges now refined .
It took a toxic environment and a lust for its release.

I didn't cheat my self indulgence .
But I **** sure scammed myself about happiness.

I worked for this plain and simple.


I stayed around till I had proven a fluke is one thing I wasn't.

If your waiting for a encore .
You have to let me finish first .
Penne Feb 19
Illusion of illusion
Are you now in confusion?
What does this supposed to mean?
Why do they rhyme?
Does it spell the time?

Why is it centered?
What does it supposed to mean?
What does it hide?
Ambiguity or a plain ride?
Paperback bona fide?
Where is the lie?
Adventure or mystery
Mien or a hidden fight?
Strong or mild?
Does it circuit?
Loop, repeat or look,
A biscuit

Are you not too distracted with your life?
Satisfy my tongue
I will satisfy yours
Will it shock me in brilliance?
Cry me in defiance?
Or make me miserably dance?
What is to unlock?
Such a mock


What does it supposed to mean?
To confuse or clean?
Is it as thin as lean?
Or a skeleton underneath?
Lose your skin
Or increase your bid
Flute in tune as baby's breath
Words tangled in a wreath
As it lace on your neck
Too many to process
Too many to possess

Is there a way out in the unknown?

Pour me in your sensical honey
Dip in that money
What does it mean?
For you
Or are you just juked?
Send a nuke, fluke
The world wasn’t ready

For us
For the fire we created

I’m not sure if it’s worth it without you


I don’t know if I’ll make it

I think I’m drowning, although I’m not sure. I thought you could save me but I can’t reach you through the quicksand of the world. Why can’t they leave us to love? Why can’t I feel what the other kids regret. I want to hold you until we break into the fragile pieces of society. I want to see your future I want to hold you I want to have your eyes on me until I melt from that look that I can’t forget. I don’t care what distance I have to take. It  h u r t s

Will you save me? Or was I a fluke?
Will I ever know?
The words can’t express my pain




I’m not sure,


It’s been

So long
Easterly Sep 2018
My soul clanks when the hammer of Truth hits
And beflats my whole existence, that rusty one sits
On the anvil, there I lie half conscious, half sleep stricken,
My Smith hurls and my soul clanks!
Had I been plastic rust wouldn't dare to touch it!
I would be perfect to be moulded into a dummy,
A gentle lifeless creature, dancing on the notes of their fingers,
Loved and longed, and the sleep's harbinger;
In a sick fluke as metal I was sent,
Strong against storms yet vulnerable to the wind.

O my Smith! Would you make a tool out of me?
Or am I long gone? An useless fish out of the pond?
Are my pores too many? O my Smith! Hit me
Until I be the sword of a king's pawn.
Paul Butters Nov 2018
Armies of words gather in my head
To march so boldly onto the page.
They work their wonders
Who knows how?
Why they pick me as their channel
For their landing craft
I’ll never know.

Some accident of birth:
Genetic fluke –
For which I take no credit –
Makes me nectar to these ants
That line themselves into verse.

Compulsion drives me to write
As salmon must jump those water falls
To return to their spawning grounds.

I have to speak, or rather type:
Express myself
No matter what,
Whether good or bad.

Is there a cure for this affliction of mine?
Can I ever stop myself from writing?
I very much doubt it.

Paul Butters

© PB 16\11\2018.
A congenital affliction.
faith Jun 26
when my brain wanders
i’m reminded of pain
all the meds can’t cure it
but they make me more sane

  when i look in the mirror
  and feel nothing
  when i realize i have sad eyes
  tears forming start to sting

    when i count the scars on my body
   shocked and reserved
   i manage to not mind them
   and miss the hurt

     physical pain is euphoric
     reminding me i’m just a human
     cutting brings me breath
     like when i got the wind knocked out of me
  
         this is the cycle i need to break
         i can’t keep feeling pain
         though it’s a familiar friend
         i need to vanquish faith

           i feel the only way to do that
           is to leave this world
           a blip fluke of a human
           just.. forgotten dust

              not dissimilar to the dust in the pills
              keeping me here
              momma give me strength
              i need to feel you near
6 - 25 - 19
Mason Feb 9
I am, I think, the last survivor of my kind. The arc ship had chosen the wrong sun for our new world. Or maybe it was the right one. Either way. A solar flair had destroyed us. By some fluke I was in my space suit on the far side of the ship doing a final exterior check of all system on what was supposed to be the eve of our landing day. Or maybe is wasn't supposed to be. Either way. I had seen everything around me engulfed in flames as I was accelerated away from everything I had ever known at impossible speeds smashed against the renforced rib of the hull that somehow protected me from the all consuming fire. I say it was a solar flare but I don't really know. It's just the best conclusion I can draw from the evidence given. And I have had lots of time to conteplate it. My space suit contains its own air scrubbing ecosystem that will provide me with a breathable atmosphere indefinitely and whos little bacteria happily march their dead into my stomach keeping me never full, but never malnourished nor starving. My species had only developed such overbuilt bioengineering after it was too late to save our drained and polluted home world, but we had it on the ship.

We were supposed to do better on the new world. Or maybe we weren't supposed to. Either way. I would lie against this chunk of wreckage and watch the hideously slow procession of the stars. As I hurtled through the universe, away from the nothing that remained from the nothing that I had know and towards new nothings that I had never seen before.

Either way, empty space is all the same and doing nothing is a drag even without the time dilation from the ungoddly speed one can attain when propelled by an angry star. It truely is a miracle that I am even alive. If you can call such a thing a miracle. Like I said, when taking to the heavens for our long journy, my people did it with sturdy stuff, but still, whatever force that hit us destroyed everything else. If anyone else did survive, their fate would be similar to my own and we would be getting further from one another by the moment, so it didn't really matter anyhow.

Before you ask, no, I couldn't just take off my helment. My people had instaled suicide prevention measures well before the launch. People tend to get depressed when confined to a ship, much less a spacesuit. My people knew this.

I prefered to lie with my face on the rib looking to my right. That way the left half of my vision was consummed by the dark mass of the rib as my right half, while mostly darkness contained a particularly bright star as well. By watching it inch toward the rib I was able to maintain some semblance of a sense of time passing. Then, one day, I saw a second light. I saw it wizzing pass and I could barely believe what my eyes told me it was. A shoulder mounted light on another space suit. And in it, I assumed, another person.  I hadn't moved since I had made it out of sight of the explosion. After what felt like days, it faded into the black that surrounded me, and I , resigned to my fate had laid down on the chunk of wreckadge and not moved since. But now, my body started up with a fire before my mind could even think to do next. I scrambled to the edge of the rib and I could see their light floating away from me. I hesitated for a moment. I have always been the type to hesitate even if my previous movement would suggest otherwise.

Then, I did it. I swung myself onto what had once been the interior side of the last souvenir from my ship. I planted my feet on it and I pushed with all my might. I demanded that my atrophied legs explode with all their remaining strength and then some. I pushed away from the last piece of everything i had ever known and pushed myself into the vast emptiness. The light seemed to slow in its escape, but it wouldn't be enough to catch it I knew. If I didn't do something immediatly I would spend the rest of my days watching it move further away from me.

I didn't have to do anything. A rocket propelled teather launched past me and again, with out though my body reached out and grabbed it. My mind realized that as soon as the teather ran out of slack, the tension would rip it from my grip, so I clamped it to my utility belt using the built in vice grip. It wouldn't let go for any force less than an exploding star. When the teather did run out of slack, the deceleration was so jarring that I thought it would break me.

The other creature and I fell into orbit with one another. The centripetal force created an artificial gravity. While the reintroduction of force upon my body pained me, feeling the grip of gravity against me was bliss, even if it was just an illusion.

And this is where you find me, spiraling in tandem through the universe with my companion. We are different species and share no means of communication. It is likely that we were born millenia apart, but time means little in our vacuous relm. We tried to pull ourselves closer together, but the increased rate of orbit made the endeavor sickening as well as exhausting. Though we had no language between us, we agreed that it was best we maintain our distance.

When you're alone in space, there is no point of refrence for movement and acceleration except ones self. As such, from my partners perspective it would have appeared that they stood still while I hurtled pass. But the truth is that they hurtled toward me and saved me from the broken prison of the rib. I don't mind them seeing it as such, but I smile in my knowing of the truth.

And so we tumble through the universe as close together as we can manage. Which is all one can really ask for anyhow.
Arlene Corwin Sep 2018
No Man is A Victim

Can it be, and do I mean it?

It’s a phrase that came to mind,

And so I looked it up.  

One harmed or killed by so-called fluke;

One duped or tricked;

One who feels helpless faced with setback:

So I  chose the last to help.



There’s truth in fate that causes earthquake,

And one’s sole concern’s escape.  

That is a victim.

Then again,

One is alive, glad to survive.

Grounds to begin

Because one can!



But what about

The ones who feel useless in the face of sense,

Interpreting all happenings

With sadness, negativity and impotence,

Downhearted from the very start?

You’ve known a few. Me too.

Perhaps it’s you,

And what to do –

The problem philosophical, pragmatic, existential.

And, if one’s inclined, then spiritual.



Start a something, anything, for life’s a skill.

Good comes from bad, calm follows ruin;

Results come from what’s had or been;

And nothing lasts forever.

One’s endeavour is to strive,

For one’s alive.  

Remember that you’re clever!



Act as if you have a choice

And make one – with your tiny voice.

Summon up your forces,

For of course, they’re many.

Do not hurry.

Lives are scurrying around you.

Do not worry,

For the ‘musts’ and ‘oughts’

Are values of society,

Not boo-choo, cry

Or future you.

No Man Is A Victim 9.30.2018 Our Times, Our Culture II;Nature In & Of Reality;Definitely Didactic II; Arlene Nover Corwin

Arlene Corwin Poetry.com
jonas ernust Jul 25
amy
I'm such a *****

my love is just a fake

it's not even noteworthy
nothing

a fluke
a flunk

a ******* evaporating **** stain cloud

but her
eyes
haunt me.

and I hate that.

I hate that it has seeped into my soul. I was too strong for love.
too strong
for emotion.

too strong for vulnerbilty.

but she wants
to flaunt herself naked to the world. and flaunt her love interest, and flaunt how great
her life is
all the while she cries
when I call her out.

I love when they cry.


I love when you ******* cry, knowing that you've been wronged.

you've FUCKIGN WRONGED ME

I loved you, I don't even believe in it;
it's an illusion, a chemical imbalance,
but you've affected me,

you've made me believe.

how dare you.

I don't want to reach the sky,
I want to feel you,

I want to touch your neck,
and wipe your tears,

you wear the rock in the withered
dune,
you were the floating

island,

I am the abyss. the dead, the searing, the withered, the hopeless, the blackened.
I loved you.

I loved you Amy.

I was made whole, I felt human, you wante the admiration, but the
dirt is only so deep.
Im just grateful,
that I have air.


I have great skies, and the blue air,

nothing to hold me back, but the sea. god may not be real, but the universe smiles nonetheless.

I've been hurt,
so many times that it doesn't;t matter. maybe there's truth to the silence, and the gray graves.

you were
a part of me,
and the part of me now blooms. I love you,
love to be told by no one.

dead, dead, dead, dead ,dead ,dead ,dead

eye less,
just like heaven , my hippie love, my uncertain love, my old love, my love too good for the '*****', my love which sleeps in sand, my love now buried,
I promise to be myself.

I will be myself, and so much more. love love love love love, so much more,

the end is just a comma,

, ,
,
,
,  
* Amy


Amy
rose Aug 13
maybe it was before the salt burned your skin when i was a waitress writin’ out recipes for Death prescriptions.
maybe it was when my hair was long and reached to my knees and in the summer i lived rooted in the good black earth, skin burnt by ultraviolet fingers.
maybe it was when the cancer creeping took hold of my insides, with each dose i took to fix a broken mind, the virus extended through my arteries and veins.
maybe it was wicked, all a fluke. maybe cards lie and candles don’t reignite.
maybe i’ve lost my touch with words and ramble on in the dark, just like the oozing musician...
Zachary Jan 28
The pen is my sword
As my word is my value
Of emotions that uproot
Through this test of my nature
That's designed without a fluke
No hiccup or mistake
Gasp of air out the blue
Recognition of surroundings
Instinct guiding the few

The source within the light
The heart without the truth
The beast that's been abused
Mistreated ridiculed
Slandered down on thru
Looking for hope to pull him too
05/05/2018

— The End —