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L B Aug 2016
I lay on the ground below
the curved hips of the hills at sunset
The aperture of my eyes, my ***, my eyes
and the narrow escape
of mind from body

I am ten again
and they’re calling me falsey
“*******, No bra!”
Shoving them into the lockers
of Holy Name’s pool
My eyes? Brown. My hair? Brown
My body? Invisible, lean and “Leave me alone!
or I’ll punch your lights out!”

Meanwhile, Mom is mortified
but not cause I’m banned from the stupid pool

All I want— is to run bare to the waist
Ride my bike, maniacal  
Be a bird
Swipe ice from the milk truck
Marvel over maggots in garbage
Catch toads, caterpillars, pollywogs in jars

Later, sell lemonade— get rich!
…and pretend…pretend…
till the litany of our names, hollered from the porch
till the street lights come on….



“This is for something you haven’t got yet”
says the matron of the fitting room
Bones in a bathing suit?
What I haven’t got?
or they haven’t got?
will never get—
in their worlds of curtained cubicles
Cause of death:
Strangulation by measuring tape!



In my plaid two-piece
sunburned shoulders, wind-wild hair
By sweat and the afternoon’s imaginings
I built a fortress of sand and stones
to endure forever….

But she— shook the blanket
at the tide’s full reach
Peppered the air with an epoch
Clouds darkening
the wind-torqued sea

Finding my flip-flops, we—
    trudged off…
    into the changing… changing
Robin Lemmen Jan 27
It still scares me. The thought of being laid down by loving hands, gazing up at kind and gentle eyes. To feel safe in the arms of a long-ago stranger with a heartbeat now familiar as my own. I am mortified to undress and not hide the skin I was told would never be good enough. To not hate these marks, fearing they will make you uncomfortable. I am sorry if I may not be what you wished for. It still scares me to trust the words of ones I love. They would never mean any harm, but humans are faulted. Flawed at heart. There simply is nothing to be said for the wounds healed over by salted tears. So I stray from your line of sight. Believe me, this is for your own good. Veer from the possibilities of infinite. This ache is no more than a temporary glimmer of what used to be called hope. An abandoned carnival, full of stories and ghosts hoping to find belonging. I am always taunted by the dark. Even if I still may call it home. Won't you come in? My doors are wide open. I can promise you sight and glory. I can promise forever and mean it too, but beware my empty promises. A beautiful painting. Won't you come and see my mismatch of watered down colors? Only those daring have seen my oceanic storms. The blues and black's that stand stark and lonely like wrote war-zones in my soul. Please come closer. It still scares me, but won't you? Come, won't you play haunted house with me?
Em MacKenzie Oct 2018
I’ve had a rough night.
I’ve had a rough decade.
To clear my head I decided to go for a drive,
the cold autumn air, the dark sky, the vacant streets and the glow of the traffic lights can sometimes heal.
Not tonight.
The cold air chilled me to the bone,
the dark sky is without a single star,
the vacant streets create an atmosphere of being on another world; completely desolate, utterly isolated.
The traffic lights are all red, like the anger that burns inside me.
I shouldn’t have gotten in my car tonight.
I have a single headlight, my passenger side burnt out sometime last week.
These things bother me more than they should.

I drove to my old home, where I spent twenty three years of my life.
It’s gone and I knew it would be, they started the demolition in spring shortly after I left it, during one of our coldest winters yet.
But now, a house is being constructed on the lot.
Where once stood a small, modest, cottage looking home has been turned into only a gigantic skeleton of what will be a modern house that holds no unique characteristics.
It will blend in with every other house on the street.
Notice how I say house, not home.
They built right to the hedge, Jesus, they didn’t even leave room for a yard or driveway.
Besides all that, I can only think
“my mother’s soul left her body on this land.”
The same land they’ve covered.
Her temporary bedroom when she turned palliative will probably be their living room, or maybe bathroom.
Whoever lives in this house won’t know that the most wonderful mother in this world died where their house is standing.
They won’t know it was a Christmas morning, and the last thing I ever heard from her mouth was “your arms are getting strong” after helping her to her OMS supplied hospital bed.
These things bother me more than they should.

I usually drive fast and play my music loud,
tonight I’m driving fast to get anywhere but where I am,
tonight I’m playing my music loud to drown out my sobs.
The kind of sobs that hit your body like aggressive shocks.
I hate crying, I despise sobbing.
I don’t get embarrassed, but I’m mortified by my own vulnerability even though I’m alone.
I even fake a laugh and shake my head.
Pretend it’s nothing, and that I’m an idiot, that “that’s just life” and so forth.
These things bother me more than they should.

When you lose the only home you’ve ever known,
are you destined to be transient eternally?
Is it possible to find someone who will love every part of you,
and love you enough to actually show it?
But most importantly,
does it ever stop hurting,
even for a ******* second?
Just spewing out the cold and dark feelings that are devouring me right now. Sorry for the angst.
s Oct 2017
No
he’s addicted to the high
from egotistical joy rides. he revels
in self pride, arrogance apparent in
his stride. but his confident exterior
is built from narcissistic lies. he can’t handle
hearing “no”- rejection leaves him mortified.    

this is not the first time
he's come to me ****-eyed.      
he asks for my consent, politely i deny.
he refuses to listen, preparing to defy.
my fear becomes palpable-
his desire
fortifies.

“no, no, no!” yet his hands
are on my thighs. “we have to tonight.”
his words cut like a knife.
i don’t understand why
i’m forced to comply. (this is my body,
don’t i get to decide?)

my bones calcify, my heart’s
a ship that’s capsized
i’ve been dehumanized and
yet i'm forced to act alive.

i look in the mirror
and let out a long sigh-
is it his soul or mine
that’s been demonized?
N Sep 2018
As the rain pelts my skin
I try to forget about what you all did
As your foreign hands invaded my body
I regret ever going to that "party"

My friend said it would be fun
That I had nothing to lose
But everything changed
when she left me
with you guys

Your eyes glowed so self-assured
Smiles perfectly polished
Your intentions seemed friendly
But you were all there to demolish

How many girls before me
have fallen into this trap?
Or is it me who will be
alone on this path

Maybe someday you will all have daughters of your own
And get the call saying, "Daddy I can't come home"
Because she is mortified by a choice she didn't make
But was never educated to know it was called ****

For months I have felt broken and battered
I have wallowed in self-pitty
You have all affected every single aspect of my life
Left me with no words
A feeling of constant numbness and anger
I don't know what to do

I feel ruined.
Nicole Aug 29
being abandoned by my family left a hole in my heart
i always forget that it lingers
but every kind man i meet reminds me that it’s there

sitting beside the taxidermy man and his fluffy dog i noticed that the hole grew
they were alone too, and as i sat silent on the grass i wished we could join together
his lonely heart bore flowers unlike mine
he was like someone from a mystical farm
and his smile was warm and kind

in another life him and my mother would have fell in love
and we’d tour the world with him and his creations
but he’s vanished with the dust now, another destroyed daydream

i wonder what my grandma is like
did she wear pretty dresses when she was younger?
was she a kind friend, daughter, lover?
her heart clearly isn’t pure otherwise i wouldn’t have been left all alone
so i don’t care what she did
any hope i had has grown cold

do i have any sisters or brothers?
if i do, were they left too?
i bet they weren’t because i’m sure i have a curse
a fist held to my face at birth, if only i knew what was to come
of course everything would get worse

and i’m mortified that i look like him
being alive feels like a sin
I’m mortified
Near catatonic
Just a little shy
I’m qualified
Resourceful
And just a little sly
I’m Justified
For telling lies
It’s just a state of mind
I’m Horrified
Redundant
I don’t know the reason why
I must’ve rubbed you the wrong way
Attempting to comply  
I’m plump and ripe for picking
Please pour a glass of wine
I’m stereo typed in a group
They’ll soon be stopping by
We’ll get to know the real truth
Explicit words made to divide
I’m riddled with adoring eyes
My words stay stuck like glue
Without a reason to say to you
Or the strength to carry through
I haven’t got a song
I haven’t got a clue
I just know my right from wrong
And each other’s right to choose
I’m no sinner, nor a saint
I speak from a moral pew
It’s a dark and scary place to be
But there’s still hope and room
Don’t get it all confused
There’s a rhythm
There’s a tune
All whilst eating with a fork and spoon
Fearless Mar 27
Spinning circles in my head
I never have been on the meds
I hear they're great and fix some stuff
but I just want to be enough
I don't want to be zombified
that just makes me mortified
so I will argue for our right
to just be different, that's our fight
so we have too much energy
and are lacking synchronicity
people can't keep up with us
some with Tourettes often cuss
wild ideas spinning out
enthusiastic scream and shout
and they just want to structure me
to fit me in their society
this is how it's supposed to be
well sorry dude, that just ain't me
I just want creativity
and redefining normalcy
that box just will not fit us all
sorry but it's just too small
we were made so limitless
it's time for us to be fearless
breaking out to be our own
we discover the unknown
Kay-Rosa Apr 4
Do you know
how your body is fed?
Do you truly see
how we make the bread?
Do you wonder the ingredients
concealed like a bedspread?
Well, I heard a fact
That's got me seeing red
About artificial flavors
that 'bout made me drop dead.

Now, it may not be visible
You might see it in a museum
In a petri dish, in a *****
It's called
CASTOREUM.
It's not very pretty,
You wouldn't want to see 'em
Big business would tell you
If they were to take the veritaserum.

I apologize for the nastiness
but someone must be told
Its not on the nutrition label
Though it should be written in BOLD
I'm not sure how to phrase it
But it comes from the ***** hole
Of a dead ****** then
into your coffee, cold.

Once you realize
What's truly inside,
Coffee creamer goes from
Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde.
Now, I have been scarred
I don't want it cold, I don't want it fried.
I don't want it at all, I'm mortified
That they would put in the food I tried.

So fear the vanilla
And eat the chicken
And never forget that ******
was kickin'
Before it was deprived of its ***** matter
and stay away from things you don't know what they stick in.
Dedicated to Ms. Montoya
Y'all must be thinking that i sound mad as a hatter (and thats an upcoming work) This was a triggering experience in my science class and i had to alert the world.
FEAR THE VANILLA
Google castoreum if you REALLY wanna know.
zebra Nov 25
the church

corporate's
stone palace of rigidity and grief
do Satan's work

wheel house
of
lecherous priests
for crowds of power
algorithm of spiritual disaster
in an industry of lies

wet willie lick strokes
mangina ******
rituals of obedience
by **** angels
for old aeons corpse

the black robe
signifier of deceit and confusion
fits like a gothic tent
on a married daughter
"nice dress honey"

humiliators of genitals
stammer a commerce of servitude
uncertainty
and self doubt
for a vacant god

with out the life force of eroticism
guilt ****
creativity abandoned
and flowers bench press the cross
to failure
in hierarchies of shame

the bejeweled divine
huddle in darkness
pimping hallows
with the pride of the devil
for gold lame fashion and cute décor
paid for by mortified parishioner's
while **** wagging wives of God
preach celibacy
BoringBoy Mar 4
The days that
Descend aren't what
Should be scaring us today
But how we use those gradually
Ending days that seem to only become
More chaotic and predictable and unoriginal
Almost as if it was all being crafted to make a big
Picture, that once done in its appearance and vividness
We will be mortified by the outcome and want to hide in fear. ====
|For|There|To|                                              ­                                  ╠╣
|Be|A|Ladder|               ­                                                                 ­╠╣
|For|Change|There|                                            ­                           ╠╣
|Must|Be|A|                                                   ­                                 ╠╣
|Sacrifice|For|It|           ­                                                                 ­ ╠╣
micaela drew Aug 2018
As the rain pelts my skin
I try to forget about the things you did
As your foreign hands invaded my body
I regret ever going to that party

My friends said that it would be fun
That I had nothing to lose
But everything changed
When I met you

Your eyes glowed so self-assured
Smile perfectly polished
Your intentions at heart seemed pure
But you were there to demolish

How many girls before me
have fallen into this trap?
Or is it me who will be
Alone on this path

Maybe someday you’ll have a daughter of your own
And get the call saying, “Daddy I can’t come home”
Because she is mortified by a choice she didn’t make
But was never educated to know it was called ****

For months I felt broken and battered
I wallowed in self-pity
Thinking I was tattered

When I finally realized
Opening my own eyes
I won’t let what you did
Ruin my dreams so big

I will stand on my own
And finally return home
Because what happened wasn’t my fault
But you have to live everyday knowing that you committed
****** Assault.
-md
SJG Sep 5
II.
We could throw those gooseberrys down where they belong:
The gooseberry ditch.

Lido, come down from your balcony. Are those your shoes?
Don't forget to fold your fallen gown.
Death waits for you at the bottom of the tower: don't be late.
Do your remember the film where the guy jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge?
I think it was real, but they run out of reel, so the man sort of still floats between the bridge and the bay,
And the rock scallops and the cold dead wind and the security 18 digit locked doors of the secret apartments
Of downhill and backwater old new Manhattan.

History class? History class?
Listen, buddy, history, one day, eventually, after all is said and done,
Will tell how a human invented a wheel, then instantly perfected combustion engineering, then
instantly fashioned a car from the auto-line around the wheel and a perfected combustion engine (after instantly inventing and perfecting and mass-marketing the autoline).
History will then tell, in the end, that a human then instantly jumped into their instant automobile wagon,
And then accelerated to speeds which were then inconceivably fast,
But which by relative modern standards, are quite conceivably slow.
And then a human drove at such inconceivably (quite conceivably) quickening and innovative speeds,
That they were no longer able to pay attention to the road that they had managed to build while driving,
And were no longer able to perceive oncoming hazards that often appear on roads,
Such as jars of jam and mops and deer and swans,
And it was more than a matter of time before a jar of jam or a mop or a deer or a swan
Would happen to be on a human's new road and also in the incoming vicinity of a human's new fast car;
Before the two would inevitably collide,
And a human flew right through the history glass.

Where's my bon mirage?
Where's my sweet thing with the sweet strings?
How many ladders does one have to kick down before death takes the hint and stops calling from the bottom of the tower?

(I used to be terrified of small and big things,
But I have since learnt to project confidence into my real self,
And now big things and small things make me furious. Like a man.)

I can't feel the front cortex of my brain or beautify or attempt to rhyme anything with anything and I do not have the will necessary to make good things grow from grit and trash.

Nobody really knows anything. They do their best but the world carries on by itself, left for dead to the darkest weather cycles, rising tides, and fascism creep.

Where's my sweet thing? I've been mortified by everything. The spirit is like stone and the dreams I dream are memories of you.

******* Microsoft. ******* gulls frequenting my mother's loft. The spark of energy that threw us on the street, the ringing of the bells for each hour couples meet. The ringing of the bells for any hour in which some expired family member is put into the ground or made to face fire or to have their ashes thrown around their favourite parking lot or riot square or dumped into the ****** sea.

I'm not trying to love you. It is only what I do. I'd fall for you anytime. Honestly.

Dying in the autumn time. Dying for a drop of the last ray of sunlight. Dying because I'm old. Dying because I'm cold. How did things get so inconceivably slow?

I wash my hair. I iron my clothes.

It's all semantics really. Right or wrong. Good or bad. Solitary or close.

I gave my best years to that coast.

This is how two disappear:

Hey Bambs, how you're doing? No-one's seen you lately.
They'd bet if things have gone anywhere, they haven't gone greatly.
Did you get any rest while taking some time off for yourself?
Did you place that little dream high on that shelf?
Your room is untidy and your fire's free of irons.
You try to go to bed, but the street by your house is alive with ambulance sirens.
Did you ever get that growth on your right temple checked out?
Did you ever message that girl when you felt things going south?
Are birds still in your chest? Does your heart ever rest? Us?
We're doing fine. The world's threaded through our wheel and the wheel's turning all the time.
We're as shocked as you at the money being made as our hometowns slowly ebb away.
Do they know what they're doing? Do they even care?
This fresh batch of Edwardians with their smartphones and 1920s hair.

Hey Bambi, quit whatever you're doing.
We're already in the ***, there's no use stewing.
This is how two disappear, weirdly on wings, lighter than air,
Like two poor angels rising above the broken ferris wheel at the broke county fair.

Why stick around for a love that isn't there?
Jemevic Oct 24
I look up the ceiling
My body wouldn't get up
I feel scared and mortified to the core
I feel so wrong.

What could I have been done
If I made another choice:
My, younger self would have been surprised
If I 'm unhappy .

Being an imperfect human,
It hurts when I fall
I am joyful when I experience sweet.

I cover these  unkindness words
That have been told to me
I pretend strong until I have been ripped in the inside, thoroughly and repeatedly.
In my dreams I vividly imagine
Dipping you in a vat of hydrofluoric acid Popping your air bubbles
Rising up in masses
Smiling as you choke and scream
And your body turns to molasses
Whispering sweet things
While witnessing your pitiful reactions

Wait, no
Scratch that I've got a better plan of action That does justice considering
All of your previous unsuccessful tactics
It may involve anthrax, although
You may not be worth the extra taxes
When all I'm looking for
Is to properly rupture your synapses

That's right, too much trouble
So instead I'll use arsenic to compensate
With a dosage that's double
Lie you down and strip you bare
And tie you to the back platform
By your long black hair

Green eyes wide open
With a speculum for your mouth
So that anything you're rejecting
Isn't allowed to come out
And don't worry about restraints
I made a point to crucify you
To your cross made of 2x8 planks

Meanwhile you've been nullified
Lying there listless
I'll look you straight in the eyes
So you know there's no forgiveness

Open up wide
Because here comes the Apache train
I have to admit while you're asphyxiating
I begin fixing to gladly salivate

Is it no surprise
I want to watch the light leave your eyes While you sit and you writhe
Struggle, and finally die!?

Don't look so mortified
I just divulged your ****** scene
So now that I'm satisfied
We can proceed to clean
The mess you've made is putrid
and obscene I can't believe
Just how excessively you could bleed

But that's why I draped the floor
With sheets
And for the the spots beyond their reach We've got Oxy-clean
Hydrogen peroxide and Clorox bleach

Besides before I take you for a ride
We have to dismember your appendages
So no one can be the wiser to identify
Any percentages of finger, digit or thumb
So half of you will have to remain
In the barrel drum
It's all fun and games
Until this slaps me in the face
When someone finds an "innocent victim" Then reports their interpretation
of the case

See, I don't just want you dead,
I want you erased without a trace
So that the stories and allegories ahead
Will not leave my good name defaced

Switch from my peripheral
To my rear view mirror
While we demonstrate less viscerally
That under water you'll also disappear
I'll make you cement shoes
For your descent through the waters
Of Gods and sea monsters
Convicted
By Neptune's sons and daughters

Then once the sacrifice is made
I can forget you
Without a doubt I am resentful
But I'd like to leave behind
Part of my life that's so dreadful
Resuming my usual resistance
With little to do on my mental
Now that I have subdued your existence

I'm eating lentils
This poem is dedicated
Briscoe Sep 25
I am terrorised for I am my flaws
And I fear I'll never be more.
My mirror melts like words of Eleanor.
My ears bleed, leak by metaphors,
Like an overused *****,
To hear such decor
Of air carved and reformed.
I have, without remorse
Been to words as criminals of war
To the Jews and the poor.
I am mortified that I fear not failure, nor
To be impossibly less nor to be never more.
At least, they can't drain the life from a corpse.
"Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
And all my soul and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart. "
-Sonnet 62, Shakespeare
hitherto the crows enveloping the sky
and whereupon my zest for life decayed
were a trio of three- she, him and I

in the meadow grew hollyhock and rye
he catered to the grain, i to the flower
the roots began to shift and the rustling wind sigh

though beautiful, she was the apple of my eye
the flower paled in worth, my attention drew elsewhere
her voice was soft and musical; enamourment nigh

quiet was the night and little time did i bide
for death only lay dormant and life dreamt uncertain
so I offered her a walk, a moonlight stride

‘twas lovely until she dipped down, collapsed and cried
i, mortified, could not quell her despair
had he heard?; not a minute passed and ‘lone he arrived

her despair was my own and solace i could not find;
the hollyhock has long since died; i wish for no more
hitherto the crows enveloping the sky
were a trio of three- she, him and i
Bardo Feb 4
I knocked on the door of Fame,
She kindly opened up for me and
   spoke my name
And smiling, bid me enter
(I must have made the grade this time)
Inside lay a whole new world, a world
   of wonder
She looked at me as if to say "Where were you all this time, we've been waiting on you".

Well she fussed over me something
   terrible
Lavishing on me gifts and sweets
   aplenty
Showering me with praise and high
   accolades
She was great she was... O! She was
   lovely!
Bestowed on me great new names,
I was an intellectual now, a member of
   the intelligentsia
I was a 'great artiste', a Big Star
I was part of the Elite
I was one of them now, I was one of
   them.

I got to sit on my little seat at the Big
   Table
The others sitting there they all smiled
   down at me
" Look at me now ", I thought to myself, " look where I am and who I am, who would have believed it ".

Puffed me up no end she did, inflated
   my ego
I thought I might up and float away
And for awhile, a little while I was
   happy.

                            II

But the House of Fame had another
   face I found
Would invite young hopefuls in from
   outside, young aspiring artists
Allow them to come and read their
   works, exhibit their wares
While those sitting there around the
   table, they'd judge them
Like little Roman emperors we were, giving a thumbs up or thumbs down
Some of my fellows, they were quite
   brilliant at it
The way they could dissect a work, get
   right to the heart of it
And sum it all up,
And they could be so funny with it as
   well
They'd make you laugh with their
   witty remarks
But there were times though, when
  things they could get a bit ******
When they'd turn on someone, heap
   derision on their work.

There was this one young lad I
   remember
In his hands he clutched some papers,
He held his whole world, his whole
   life in those papers
You could see it in him, just how much
   it meant to him,
Sad to say though, he wasn't all that
   good
Well they just took him apart, they hit
   him like a hurricane
You could see his disappointment, see
  his face drop
His world start to crumble,
   his hopes and dreams start to die
Could see him almost shrivel up right
   before your eyes
He'd may as well have been in front of
   a firing squad,
"It had to be done", my fellows would say, " you had to be ******* them, they
   had to be told"
And they could be so witty, my fellows,
   so funny
They'd make you laugh, laugh at
   anything
They all laughed, I laughed too and then...and then, I thought of you, I thought of you.

                           III

Now some writers when their very
  young write great stuff even then
I'd be only too proud to have written it
   myself if I could
But when I think back to what I wrote
  early on
I close my eyes and wince as if in pain,
I shake my head and grimace, "awful,
   terrible stuff, what was I thinking"
Guileless, naive, infantile,
   incomprehensible even to myself a
     lot of it, without wit or cunning
If any of it ever came to light I'd be so
   embarrassed, I'd be mortified,
      scandalised
I feel I'd have to flee the country, go
   and live in some remote jungle some
      place
And never show my face again, I
   thought it that bad,
It was like some ***** guilty secret I
   had to hide.

And you know I couldn't help thinking
   what if it was you standing there
Before this - this Inquisition, reading
   your work
How they'd listen to you probably
   with mouths wide open almost in
      disbelief
Barely able to contain their laughter
And when you'd finished
How they'd wink and smile knowingly
   at one another and maybe say
       something like
"And what do we have here, what
   exotic creature
From under what gilded stone have
   you come out from under"
And then they'd lay into you... "this
  *******, this crap, this mindless
    drivel, I never laughed so much in
        my life! these inane ramblings,
This guy he must be the village idiot",
And what would I do, would I rush to
   your defence, would I lift a finger
     to help you... No! not a chance
I'd just sit their silent and not let on I
   knew you, just watch them take you
      apart
Like lions in the arena, tearing you
   asunder
I'd even join in, yea, I'd laugh too,
And what if your eyes met mine, well
   I'd quickly look away,
" I don't know you, you're not me,
    you're not mine,
And if you were  I'd disown you
I'd have you erased from my past,
You're an embarrassment to me
You're worlds away from who I am
   now".

And later in my room alone would I
   think of you
And what it was like for you back
   then,
And that world you came from
Would I remember a boy so utterly
   lost with no hope of ever getting
        back
All alone with no one to show him the
   way
With a mind like a war zone, broken
   and bloodied, pummeled from every
       side
Trying to make sense of a crazy world
Trying desperately to keep a grip on
   life
To cling onto something, anything
   that'd keep him afloat,
Trying to write because he thought it
   was the only thing left that he could
      do
(Someone who'd never even been a
   reader of books...
Do many writers write just to stay
   alive ?)
And the more I thought about it the
   more I began to admire you
How really it was quite amazing you
   were able to write anything at all...
And to think that I would just sit there
   and watch this, your... your
         crucifixion and do nothing,
That I could betray so brave and
   beautiful a boy,
Wasn't the shame not yours but all
   mine.

And maybe they'd bring you back a
   second night saying - laughing!
"This one was so good, we had to bring
    him back again to impart some
      more of his little gems",
And to see you there the tear stained
   face, the dead eyes with no light left
      in them
Devoid of all dignity now, begging
   them for some sign of approval,
    some gesture, anything at all !
Looking at them as if they were God
  Almighty
And you were nothing but a piece of
   **** on their shoe
Would I finally have the guts to stand
   up and call a halt, would I !
Jump over their Big Table, go and take
   you in my arms
And tell you" It was alright, that I was
  here now and was so sorry I hadn't
    been before ",
And then turning to them say -admit,
" This, this *******, this drivel, this
    village idiot
This was me when I was young,
It kept me alive, it gave me hope when
   there was no hope ",
And smiling at them I'd say, " and I'd choose him every time over any of you
   sitting there,
What do you know of me and my life,
  what I've been through, were you
      there ?
And turning to you again I'd say,
"Let's get out of this place, we don't
     belong here
This isn't us, this isn't who we are,
Let's go home the two of us, you and
   me together,
Let's go home.
Never been to the world of fame, this is just an invented story. Is not so much about fame as about self acceptance and accepting those parts of ourselves we'd rather hide and bury and not let the world see.
MARIO Aug 2018
Everyone was a kid once. The only worries were if you’d do good on your vocab tests, your elementary school teacher making you remember ******* words that you wouldn’t remember the next day.

**** like “homonym”, “chastise”, “ardent”. **** like “mortified” and “rectify”.

Give it a break. I’m in the ******* fourth grade.

I still swing on the swings at recess. I still think I’m Jesus Christ himself when I get a home run in kickball. I still drink the cafeteria strawberry milk, and eat my curly fries.

And I still would too, if it weren’t for Michelle Obama. *******, Michelle Obama.
Ian Dec 2018
dreary days to be,
mortified of being me,
trying just to see
Philomena Mar 27
I remember hearing those three words
I never said them first until you
I don't know if I was just desperately trying to feel something
Or just felt at peace with you since the beginning
You surprised me then and you surprise me now
And dear sweet heavens
I'm terrified of the day you get me down to two words
And mortified the day you have me at one

— The End —