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ayu rinanda Apr 2012
Gua sama sekali gak maksudbuat ngejelekin, ngejatuhin cowo gua yang sekarang 

gua punya cerita yang mungkin lu semua pernah ngadapin dengan kejadia yang sama

gua punya cowo, asli gua sayang banget sama dia, gua pengen ngebahagia in dia kayak gua pengen ngebahagian keluarga gua. Tapi, ada banyak hal yang selalu buat gua ragu sama dia.
1. dia gak pernah sms ato nelponin gua duluan alesan tidur.
2. gak pernah bilang sayang sama gua, kecuali waktu nembak
3. kalo di ajakin alesan nya segudang, mungkin penuh kali tu gudang 
pasti lu semua punya pikiran kalo dia Cuma mainin gua, ato pun gak sayang sama gua?

tapi biarpun dia kayak gitu, gak tau kenapa gua tetep aja sayang. Gua ikut aturan dia, gua ikut apa maunuya dia. Pokoknya semua maunya dia gua jabanin deh 
karena ada satu hal di diri dia yang sulit banget gua lupain selama ini adalah KENYAMANAN kalo dideket dia.
Padahal yah, gua punya seseorang yang jelas.jelas sayang sa,ma gua, bias ngasih apa aja yang gua mau, yang bias ngebahagia in gua dengan semua hal yang dia punya, dia adalah mantan gua yang pacaran sama gua 2 tahun lebih.
gua udah banyak ngelewatin hari sama dia, susah maupun senang, dia mungkin satu.satu cowo yang paling ngerti siapa gua.
cowo yang paling care sama gua, pokok nya cowo yang paling sempurna deh dia 
meskipun kayak gitu tetep aja gua gak bisa boongin ati mgua sendiri, pacaran sama dia tapi inget orang lain buat apa coba?
lagian gua harus nurut apa kata orang tua gua gak boleh pacaran sama dia, toh gua gak bias ngelawan.

buat kamu cowo yang jadi pacar aku : please donk sayang, jangan cuek sama aku.
jangan suka banyak alesan, aku tuh sayang banget sama kamu.
coba deh kamu yang ngertiin aku sekali.kali jangan akunya terus donk 

buat kamu cowo yang aku sakitin : maapin aku udah nyakitin kaamu, semoga diluar sana kamu bakal ketemu cewe yang syang banget sama kamu.
maapin aku 

#sekarang gua Cuma pengen satu hal yaitu lepas dari kedua.duanya.
gua mau orang baaru, tapi gua takut tuk memulai itu semua 
sangat.sangat btakut
vircapio gale Jun 2012
love-energy swinging toward bitter blows:
a father’s pride becomes a son’s,
he becoming bitter becoming hatred
in the midst of love abused,
a civil fight for freedom failing in the eyes of youth:
these minds of ours turn wildly—
change to the beat of unknown drums
and death knocks us up
pregnant with a new generation of hate,
of goals to love: the obliteration of hate’s mother,
but question on, worship your mind,
build a shrine of doubt and find
darkness emerging as a deeper shade of black
knowledge? knowledge?
myths laid upon us through the perspectival dimming of language
no one’s fault? societal pressures
no cause for blame? survival instincts
no source of evil? history has a gun to their head. . . .
no use for these words? meaningless.
dialogue, yes, for the birds,
the carrion of hope
once the breeding stops
and lets the precious journey start:
down the cesspool of quasi-oblivion,
where we’re all a minority of one,
grasping for meaning in an abyssm of phantasmal foundations.
words, words, the excuse of words;
when father’s left no ground to walk on,
the son sits there digging
ditches for the death of systems
holes in the fabric mother wore,
tears in the existence we thought we knew.

what is this about? question marks
swerving away from sour truth
bleeds the nonsense through the flesh of what we love
and dying, dying, hate becomes a source of love,
guilt projects a softened heart
kneeling down now
outside, but wanting in.
affirmed, dejected.

[OR
are they swerving away from faith
simply a defense against the actions to take
ontic procratstinator! hear me now!
safety is the goal behind every measure
seek danger and you run the dangers of comfort,
seek comfort, and delusion becomes your handmaid.]

for knowledge of past dogma is dogma too
and the heart pumps it anyway;
for existence is. O heart, your sutra
flows nimbly on into eternity,
but you take this life and live it now,
the rhythm born of a mystery,
sacred to the foolish,
sarkin to the wise—
and the dancing wise man
birthing a new enigma
travels on into the depths of the ordinary
with a smile and a bow,
a hop-skip like Nietzschean
melodrama.

I can write it once for fun,
twice for accuracy,
thrice for fame and ten more for shame.
Do you want to know what it’s about
or do you want to figure it out?
the game of pride makes fresh
the fish of mental seas;
but truth is less cozy;
dagger in your existential eye.

no conclusions to be embraced without the whim of faith?
no art show game gripe to win but for the game of taste?

this bout goes on, this Bout goes on! oh how I wish my mind was lacking!
but no! the sacrifice, but the sacrifice,
pigs of Aristotle knew no quarrell,
no such quarrell.

when does such a poem become a forced effort?  when will I stop questioning myself?
where is this urge to destroy originate?
what ******* language am I speaking in when I think?
what and why,
who the but questions, questions
falling spiking holes in teh floor of contentment
or is it laziness: should I tak emy e pick now or wa itf ort he rig htto **** newith mystic alllllllllllll certainty from be yo ndt he fen ceof lan gua ge.

why go back? why try?
the difference between communication and self-indulgent writing is the effort to conform to the extent necessary for the sharingof truth... and so nobility demands conformity, however long it takes and however wonderful it may be in the mean time to simply spill my fingers across the trypesu ritre lia shjkk e a A b B i IG load o f ***... as if the hiddenness of deconstucted language masked my immaturity as a poet, as a person, as a thinker, as a wallower in shame.  as a Man. as a *** machine. as a weak creature. as a creature of potentially great accomplishments but small ***** at the present, as a person hiding from the said for fear of having to live up to it, as one who doesn’t believe his words half the time, even noe, ever noer rht all suiooos  dhjhjh tuof rhty w arbif trya dfyoudng huddkkfkd fmdmf dfdlililhkjga wyeruipok smmm tuhtuth dgfhg dagdh f dhajkdf  fuduudjjd fh d hdhhd bit b not n tno totot t ototot  read read read read read read read read read reda dnrenadkf leadsd fhdus duig hgjhdf dh sdmf sialdihf duf dreioan ign udfin the dh diguicse of hjtkjh heioa never heros heilike hte  e9a 1 1 ih kj n h ogma doifj hedOLvever otitoto the  ososososririrroow ww dance waiting at the librasyer renckjh c concon con iejr a  goodo excucse to t constraint no nt rot th even dfhight hwith th d dear on the all ndklfn eh fh searching thioart worthless buthen I find htheihadf htis hivoih Valid dfkdljhf jhkajh yea it s i kjh Lavlls ishn Vadildld meaning ngon woven into nonesense nd fnidoijifj bJar in Tennessiossdnohf  a freww few deletes and the important words become clear however taxing on an hypothetical reader from the future in which I do hope to become g”reat” half-heartily,  though for show.  .  .and the experience of writing is revealed through the laziness, or tiredness, of a recent graduate trying to write something meaningful after a summer of passion and *** and drugs and resentment toward the family and the sad economic advice given him.
katewinslet Sep 2015
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ryn Dec 2015
.
•look far...
to the horizon•as the sun
dips into the ocean •most magnific-
ent display of colours • radiance in yell-
ows and captivating ambers•majestic specta-
cle that will  dwindle within minutes•no words
could match  such  beauty that deals  in infinites •
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~ si  nk ing unse~en beyo nd the thr eshold• the mi ~ghty ~~
~ ~  s  un grows red der•~night sky cree ps in, with th e ~
~~ ~moon smilin g bold• ad opting her ~stan ce as the     ~ ~
~~  ~ gua  rdi~an hereaf ter• entour age~ of s  tars  ~
      ~   ~*****  le with s peckle s of g old •       ~ ~
        ~   ~      ~ ~ b~idding  farewell t o         ~  ~       ~
~             ~t he su ~n's
~       ~~~
~            ~~         ~  ~     ~
~~ ~                   ~ ~               ~


*ruling sceptre•
Concrete Poem 18 of 30

Tap on the hashtag "30daysofconcrete" below to view more offerings in the series. :)
.
Lisa Claire Sep 2016
O, malam yang suci
Sayang, kau mau kecap itu?
Kecaplah sunyi malam di ujung lidahmu, julurkan sepanjang tangan
Bilamana gelap telah menghujani hari, teguklah dingin dalam gua mulutmu
O sayang, kau mau dengar itu?
Sendengkan telingamu, dengarkan sekali lagi
Dengarkan ketika gelap dan terang tengah melenguh
Harmoni saat daun dan ranting mencumbu satu sama lain
O, sayang, kau mau merasakan itu?
Sentuhlah bibir bulan itu, kau bisa merasakan dia tengah bernyanyi
Bibirnya mengatup dan membuka, mendaraskan kidung yang seketika senja
O, sayang, kau mau melihat itu?
Buka matamu, lihat mereka saling bergesekan, menaut dan berkelindan
Tak ubahnya sepasang kekasih yang tengah bersanggama
Matt Cardinal Sep 2014
Where I'm from multicultural means multicultural and not just “lacking in white people”.

Where I'm from people say they're from Toronto even though they hate the Jays, Raptors and Leafs and hardly ever go into the city itself.

Where I'm from any day can be cynically mundane enough to read The Catcher In The Rye and mistake it for the Gospel according to Holden Caulfield.

Where I'm from everyone hates the mall, but everyone's a mall rat and if you ever go you see everyone, at least everyone you hate, and buy nothing.

Where I'm from there's signs that say “Flowertown” everywhere and an unremarkable amount of flowers. Unless there is a remarkable amount of flowers and where I'm from everyone's just spoiled.

Probably spoiled.

Where I'm from you could walk to Tim Horton's but you drive to Starbucks anyway.

Where I'm from everyone's considering a career in rap. Even the people who aren't considering a career in rap are considering a career in rap.

Where I'm from every teenager will tell you their Michael Cera encounter story.

Where I'm from is where he's from too, or he went to school there, or near there, or now his parents live near there. He's been there, multiple times, I'm sure.

Where I'm from there's an old quarry that everyone calls a lake now. Swimmers used to circulate the urban myth of a dead body at the bottom, until they found it. Now they just circulate the stale news story.

Where I'm from there used to be trees. Nature put some there until we cut them down to build. Then the  people put some there to accent the houses until Nature piled ice on them and cut them down again.

Where I'm from someone needs to have a good talk with this Nature fellow.

Where I'm from the brand new hospital screams, “good things come to those who wait, and wait and wait, unless you need to see a specialist. Then you're ******.”

Where I'm from there are streets that have so many young kids playing on them that ice cream trucks aren't allowed to go there. They go anyway.

Kids learn early that the law is optional where I'm from.

Where I'm from people don't pronounce the “gua” in “Chinguacousy Park”. Kids used to spend time there splashing around diluted *** in the kiddie pool in summer and tubing down the landfill mountain in winter. Now they just pass it by on the way to the mall.

Where I'm from car insurance costs more than cars because everyone's late, lost and angry, but none of them would call themselves a bad driver, just unlucky.

Where I'm from boys take pretty girls skating at Gage Park. I guess they take ugly girls there too, I just know the one I took was pretty.
Brampton, Ontario
Anjana Rao Dec 2014
I taught you
how to say my name correctly
Uhn-juh-nuh
and you taught me
how to say the name of your hometown
Can-an-day-gua.
A fair exchange,
perhaps.

Canandaigua.
Town that manufactured
Arbor Mist,
the cheap artificial wine I bought
[being the only one of drinking age]
that we drank
all summer,

well,

until July
when everything fell apart.

In August
When things settled down
when you decided that
you didn’t love me anymore,
we issued that age old
empty promise exes make:
“We’ll still be friends.”
Exchanged a few Facebook messages
and that was that.

I was never in love with you,
but
you still made it into my zine,
and I still think of you
from time to time,
visit your Facebook page
as if...

well, who knows?
It’s always the same with
everyone I used to know,
but Over is Over,
no social media changes that.

When I see that name:
Canandaigua,
I think of you,
but it’s just another name
and you’re just another Over.
Kody dibble Mar 2015
Silent,
Like the cool moon blanket,
Dreary, like the furnace melting,
Further,
The night mistakes the identity of the lifeless,
Fast,
Growing outside to be, for devils and nightmares of thee,


SHADOWS
Growing, beneath the stairwells,
Last,
First,
Past,
All of the day's aghast' the haze,
For all the sages could now enrage,
The battle of omeui,

BREATHE
She hurry's to the place,
Where she can not only un-decide my person,
But the life of the broken,
Will turn unspoken

GUA
Sun light,
Soft weak and low,
Dying ill manner,
Follows,
The gale of the morrow,
Bestill's all the sorrow,
Of ****'s of the....
Sheep in the life...
On streets with the knife
YOYHO
Denise Writes Jul 2018
If you have to deceive and weave at KLCC a lie,
CCB it seems quite clearly queer?
For I a wombless woman shed no monthly blood,
A graceless mother mary, devoid of long enough hair,
"click clack" sounds draw eyes of jagas and makciks to stare,
Looks like the loudest color is blue

For murmurs and whispers make it seem queer,
That id let vampiric brastraps brand me as they drink my blood,
A silent gap beneath my beneaths;here be nothing but hair,
a masquerade designed to stop or lessen the gradient of stares,
This is to stop me from turning blue,
choked/drowned/beaten : price of the lie

the penalty of a razor blade slices skin shedding tears of blood,
Streaking down legs and pits,for the sake of the lie,
Maybe i **** at shaving AHAHAH or maybe im not queer (after all),
For i am a mask;in heels blue,
a formless being; marked by long hair
yet formed enough to elicit stares

As mascara and eyeliner streak across face,yonder disheveled hair,
Calls "kopi O s
panas anneh" in baritone voice amidst stares,
The heels click,ocean blue,
Color of the body in these fears derived from commonality:drained of blood,
Tis no pontianak nor hantu raya,but tis is I, an antromorphised lie,
The mask that bends and folds to the will of anachronistic archaic norms that i shouldn't be queer

I live in fear, bounded by a 1000 eyed wall that stares,
A whispering congregation, "Ah gua? Bapok, Gay, ******" as these words stream around me, a river blue,
This blows as I don't like to fib, ( im Catholic u see) so i won't lie,
I AM NOT A BOY BUT IM A GIRL WHO'S QUEER
the length of hair gender markers none as it's just ******* hair

A woman I am; hear me roar; in my heels blue,
Locks; flowing lusciously; binding one norm: gender =/= length of hair,
Empowerment is built upon this premise: 'what me worry,what me care, go to hell with your stares",
I'm no Marsha I'm no Slyvia i wont lie,
But one things for certain : " im here and im queer"
Bruises and burns bear no marks for there is no spilt blood
CW: self harm, queer , transphobia
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2022
title: lan-
body:
GUA-hedge
circa...
gauge:
but don't
engage.   502 bad gateway bypass


when i'm about to have *** i get all fidgety,
diarrhoea prone...
i like to know i'm going to get some: for certain...
i couldn't stomach the uncertainty of a date
with a chance: "chance" of possible ***...
international woman's day my ***...
yeah... it will be: but neither up her or my ***...
tactic... do household chores...
drink a bottle of wine... ******* a few times...
but not *******... her my ***** to the size
of watermelons... i don't want to disappoint her
as being unable to get me off when
last time she couldn't because i was too tired...
drink the bottle of wine... go for a mad 20 minute
cycle... to get the blood pumping to all
the regions of the body...
check the ol' pecker once more...
shower... get dressed... get the bus to the brothel...
i'm thinking... one and a half hours...
an hour is not long enough...
i need to feel more than last time...
good choice with the wine...
spirits would knock me out... well... at least the blood
flow...
in vino veritas?! ha ha... if you're into
a rhetorical hard-on of the tongue...
but there's also:
                       *** vino virilitas!
with wine virility!
   spirits don't get the blood pumping us much...
and no... not red wine... not rose wine...
white white... a south african chardonnay...
the signal post...
well **** me... it's so much better...
can't be hung-over about Jeminah ghosting
me... i tried... perhaps i came with
too many gifts... ah... always a back-up plan...
o.k. o.k. which cologne?
****... maybe two... **** around with her
scent... make sure to go for that intensive
30 minute bicycle ride... get the blood pumping
to all parts of the body... come home...
******* some more looking at the photographs
she sent you... but don't ******...
turn those already watermelons into..
the size of two elephants' testicles...
no need to eat... well... "eat"... that's going to become
rather questionable...
oh no no... there will not be any eating: literally...
mein gott... the joys of uninhibited ***...
and i don't even have to get married...
who says you need pair-bonding dynamics
to be in place to encounter someone like...
something borrowed from:
Milan Kundera's the Unbearable Lightness
of Being? who said?
please... please... no diarrhoea in between
here and there... then...
here: now...
              when you have it so few a times...
the times you have it...
you're like a crazed dog chasing a car...
but in this case: i know exactly what i want to do...
give me one of those balloons you can
fold into shapes... sure... i'll do that...
it's a bit like remembering the times
i had a birthday party and about 2 people showed
up... "party": we were supposed to
go out on the town for drinks...
  by comparison? this is so much fun!
   it's like i got transported into the 1960s...
having unprotected *** with a *******...
ha ha...
with wine virility! yeah... white wine...
i'm already hyper: "a.d.h.d." probing...
                   and to think that women can give so
much life to man... yet so many...
deflect allowing such energy to be given...
harsh... international women's day... ha! ah ha!
that's why i'm going to spend this one
with a *******... because: i can...
because it must be done... because...
eh... **** the western culture's feministic
nunnery... like Freud once pointed out:
the Madonna-***** Complex... oh... ooh...
that's very much alive...
   Ahab! steer the ship clear of those rocks!
we're going after the Kraken!
we're going to have a: ******* proper party, we are!
we're going down down into the realms
of thieves, murderers, psychos, prostitutes
and poets! all the ******!
and we're going to go down with
laughter like fire in our bellies and our *****!
with whirlwinds in our heads...
and stones in our hearts!
   oh... and ***** and mouths as wet as oysters
and those massive ******* hard-ons
for each other: too boot.

— The End —