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Life's a Beach Dec 2014
and I'm right on the top
bang
Going to write my ****** scene
No spelling errors
No cusps of cuts of typos
Lipo of an essay
I'm going to take a textbook bullet
and blow my ******* brains out
Vowels and consonants splattering on the wall
Every ball of ******* up scribbles that
just missed the bin
are going to rise up, like ghosts, and mummify me
within their subtext of muffled screams

It's going to be fantastic

I'm going to drown my calculator in my dreams
Quietly muttering 3s and x's
Asking it if it can guess Y while I press it's buttons
like it happily pressed mine
Sadistic
Sarcastic
Fantastic-*******-tastic

Die

Ins­uperiority complex

Die

Wish to please

Die

The tease of the good mark that won't give out

Die

muffled shout

Bang

Top of the hit list, let's blow my ******* brains out.
Donald Durham Mar 2018
you are all infinite
you, my children of the night
pagan wanderers on destinies lips
patrons of the streets, lonely, empty, wanting
I seen a generation fall
I seen a generation crumble
and be reborn.
You my midnight sorcerers on deaths hitlist
listless and searching
I seen the dance of a power divide
Ego denied, angry id, broken steps
steps
steps
steps
we walk steps in the open,
we talked talks of confession to the night
it held us, comforted us
We the unwanted zombies
of unheard promises and dysfunctional rational
you are all beautiful
undaunted by the lines
the crooked lines, cut mishapen, disater mishappen
Cheers to my world, my surrounding reality
scared and scarred by tomorrow
tomorrow
tomorrow
tomorrow
My vagabond lies, my homeless truths
You, my enormous, analytical algorythms of disobedience
of disorder, of chaos
Musicians playing perpetual reqiuems
Jazz of the dead, jazz of the wanderer, jazz of the beautiful
Show your hand, yell your claim
stake your play.
concrete mazes, blinding buildings, urban solitute
I have found you, I have seen you,
you poets of denial, poets of disaster
Prose of temptation
Words of lament
Speak to me my children of the perpetual night
My children of music, of poetry, of paintings telling me the broken down minds, the sacrificed
economy of love
I am lost in these streets
I am at home in the unknown
I am nothing but a dream, denied
We are together
all together, here, here and now
Lost together
Crowded solitude
Lets be solidified as one
You, my children are emptied of being full
full of unknown, full of yourselves and filled with *****
Drunken stories of lullabies lost
Pour me another, make it a double. doubled down truth
hit me
Cigarette stained finger tips
Plucked tense strings,
Strings so tense you could feel their vibration
We sit, listening, ears pointed at God,
Waiting to be lulled into compliance
I have seen your cigarette stained
Finger tips
Pluck strings of lament and prophecy
Sing me into your future
Oh beautiful melody
Oh wandering progressions
Telling tales of my transgressions
Oh trusty chords
Lovers speak only lies,
With cigarette gently sleeping between exhausted lips
Let us lie here
Here in this desolate desert moonscape
Forlorn homeless shelter
New antiqued flashood of home
I have seen us staring
Staring into the void,
Into the fullness of emptiness
These are not just dreams
Fevered and sweating out the ingested fungus
They are the dystopian dreams of
Every young adult novel
Of every science fiction, battered, back pocket edition
Dog eared, notes in the margins, yellowed with love, book.
They are the lost bibles of us,
Of our current histories and our future stories.
My friends
Gathered, exuberant, broken and shattered
Passing time on the the stools of inebriation
Come forth and be counted
The artist hang burnt offering from crimson skies
Sacrifices of the soul
Sacrifices of humanity
Exercises of humility
Stand here before me and and be chastised
A public flogging, a private shaming
A social satired informal gathering
Gaining peer reviewed synthetically blended praise
The dab hazed hipsters
Losing time,
faking time,
Cutting lines, sparking fires inside
Burn
Burn
Burn
Lose me in the iridescent, fill me in with acrylic
Wash me out with acid and cry-
Cry over me, cry with me
I am nothing, and we are everything.
This is still a work in progress, I am very proud of it and it does need some editing, so if any one would like to lend me their red pen skills, I'd be much appreciated. Also, like I said it's not done. I desire for this poem to run about 15 minutes.
Connor Lee Mar 2011
Run
I am the image of a life i've never wanted to live
Stuck in-between two bodies
Not a man or a kid
My mind flows fast like the blood from a split wrist
I have no gift
I'm running from my own hitlist
The clock blinks faster but the time won't change
I'm hardwired to a life that I can't rearrange
Rewrite these codes that have kept me restrained
So I can find the red wire to cut loose in my brain
I’ve gone from the bottom to the top,
I know every little thing.
His hitlist and his hotlist,
I had every little thing.

From the bottom, yeah I got a few ***** things.
His mom had died.
His daddy cried.
His life just ain’t the best.

Top, I got a lot.
A lot like what?
Her fifteen different boyfriends,
And his boy bathroom ****.

Real stories?
I don’t know.
It’s all I’m ever fed!
Just come to me for info on your rival’s boyfriend.

Tell me all,
I need some tea.
I’ll spread the word.
Better be nasty.
For: Alistair Cadger
Alex Nov 2018
Your cute, Your Beautiful, Can I get your number?

Please save it for someone who has the time, to care!

I am a strong woman, no need to have a man tell me what I am!

I know what I am I don't need your validation!

I can roll my eyes theres so many more out there, and your just one
foretunate enough to have my time.

So why do I waste my time?Please you tell me
am I that one?Or Am I just another fool on your

never ending hitlist?

Boy, make up your mind before your current mistakes become

your future mistakes
Vic Oct 2019
Hey folks,                                                           ­                                   

                            ­                        Begging your pardon?


            Die                                      ­                      
                               You're all
                                gonna        

Die                                                          ­                        

    You're all gonna
                                                           ­                                     Die



                   ­    The whole being dead thing...                                              


You're
doomed
E n j o y the
sining
And if I hear your C e l l p h o n e
ringing

I'll                      ****                  yo­u              m y s e l f




The whole ~"Being dead"~ thing.

G                                               Brutal truth,                                                
I                                          Hitlist,             ­                                     
A                                     Christmas,                                        
N                                   Triscuits,                                      
T                               Statistics.                                
SNAKE                                                           ­                           



Every show I do like a TON of
c   o   k   e

Jesus, pass the
d   r   a   m   a   m   i   m   e


Bla                                                         ­                                                Bla
Bible
Jesus
M
A
G
I
*C




Seriously though, this is a (show?) about
DEATH


And on a certain date, the universe kills you.
That's the thing with life
No-one makes it out alive



God I hope you're ready for a
(Show?) about
Death.


                                                I do this ******* like eight times a week,
You're gonna be fine.                            



God I hope you're ready                                                            ­                  
for a (show?) about



                                                        ­                                           DEATH
Don't end yourself, Defend yourself
Gathered up the sticks and stones,
metalic chains that tied down  bones.
twist gibberish from  mithered mind,
poisonous scolpamine that makes it bind.
throw in  angst,  grief ,abuse and pain,
the manic , depressed clown, sudden sane,
projections coloured, in black and blue,
silvered mirror, which reflects you too,
tapping feet, to tell his story,
vibrating, whirring, hate and gory,
tangled hair, in love and war,
left the house, she went too far,
Eve's cursed with all  honest, gentle, meek,
an act of love, was taught to seek,
not in public, lies, their great shame,
it's ***** ops, they got it covered,
none Independent to Post,
All is hidden in the Sun,
With ***** Mirror,
one cannot find
junk Mail sings to tapped Telegragh.
none Express the Times,
News reels out fear, in pantomimes,
bowed to the fiddle player,
President, Minister, Senator , Mayor,
dressed in copper, gold, inked paper, bit coins,
buried in weighted tonnes, aground,
strawman arguments,  plentiful found,
mutter mumbo jumbo,
about survival of fittest,
serfs was born, to be that hitlist,
elequent etonians, buzzing fabian tales,
once bolting cheetahs, now, well fattened snails,
More occult jibes, from outer polished cups,
with poisoned inner, She passes up,
If sinning became winning,
patient, with time locked down, spinning,
weaving multicoloured threads,
of too man-y voices in her head.
Found alchemical gold  in solitary cell,
Thanks to the Fathers Heavenly spell,
unravelled her story, from sickness to well.
Omnipresent, all round, all high,
nothing hidden from his all seeing eye.
Good things come, for those who wait,
lockdown will serve the meek and kind,
the architects soon stricken blind,
believe their own lies,
think their bots are real,
love is truth, for those who feel.
HistoryisnotkindtoHer
Ryan O'Leary May 15
Her name it was FLODA, but, Hitlist

A pseudonym, but you'll get the gist

She said Geddon was Arma

So she in-vented Karma

Retrospective for those that were missed.
It's been three days
and not one chef
has made it to
my hitlist,

they're all quite decent,
unlike that other chef
I once knew
who
wanted me to measure
the diced vegetables
he
was definitely on the
danger list.

but three days is nothing,

three months in
and I'll be hoping,
hoping,
but no more bowing and scraping
them days is history,

She says,
so are you my darling,
ancient history.

— The End —