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Osiria Melody Feb 14
With nimble hands, the opening of a plastic
bag transpires,
Dire need to consume food, edge of bag rips
A roar of condemnation, sneering at you
Contents of food fly out from its captivity,
Dispersed across the floor like lawn sprinkler

With frightened eyes, overcome with the rush
of tears as if they were competing to fall out of
Food stares at you and relishes in its final
Should I abide by the five-second ru–
A gargantuan foot bears down on food, like one
slamming his foot abruptly on car brakes
Cccrunchhhh, cccrunchhh...

Such a tragedy!
But, by the way, this pair of shoes sure look
better than mine
With nimble hands, you seize the individual by
the neck and–
Sssnapppp, ppopppp...
Dire need to feel remorse, but none embraces

With nimble hands, the opening of a plastic bag
Don't ever touch my food.
Thank you.

Don't you hate it when you eat a snack from a plastic bag, open it up, only to witness one of the edges ripping?
touka Oct 2015
cemeteries worn
delicately fall on chests

like grandmother's old necklaces

and inscriptions from headstones
draped in cold bronze

bought and sold, their epitaphs

like grandmother's old word

her lovely verbs

swathed in gold,

and ever were costly rhinestones weaved in

until every meaning to her lovely words were lost.


"At least to all the other things living
whom have thought, -like mammals."

Imagine that an alien race has come to Earth....
What would you, "fix," about it?


I have never met my future self, but
I bet she still has dreams. I bet she won't
hold them in a plastic bag or treat them like some
concealed weapon.

My future self-wont be a childless human since
I have already birth galaxies of my own.
She will probably never be a vegan but will think that cantaloupe and olives will go great together.

(She will have a sense of humor.)

I don't know my future self, but I do
know she will still be half human and half
star and her DNA will still be all angelic.
She will most likely still be her own bandwagon.
Nassif Younes Mar 2016
Another day and up goes
Another indoor ski *****
Another indoor hunting range
And another underwater golf club
All built on the backs of Blistered Men
In the blistering sun
Who hydrate on warm water by day
And wash in ***** water by night
As towers cut holes in the sky
Through which the heavens rain down
Their radioactive rays.

At dusk, the Imam ****
Who wears on all ten fingers
Rings bearing ten different precious stones
Waves his winking hand
At the ******* Cop
Who smiles back showing his teeth
Cunningly freckled with golden flakes
While a voice from the nearest mosque hangs over them
And says something
About morality.

In the middle of the desert
In the highest room
Of the tallest hotel
Sits The Perfumed Prince
Enjoying his favourite meal -
Lobster with pieces of fillet steak
Clutched in the pincers
And both eyes gouged out
And the sockets fitted with white truffles.
The waiter holds his breath before returning with the bill
And the Prince tips one of The Blistered Men
With a rare shellfish
Which he does not know how to eat
Without getting poisoned.
After his meal, The Perfumed Prince
Relieves himself in a solid gold toilet
Which makes his ***** look like fresh water
Whilst his pet falcon innocently crunches the carcass of a baby rat
In the other room.

On New Year's Eve
As the baking sun had set
And sweated out into a stinking humid haze
The sixty-three storey Downtown hotel caught ablaze
Because - reports say -
The owner tried to squeeze into it
A sixth star.
The Imam **** of Many Rings
Suggested postponing the scheduled firework display next door
And charging people to watch the fire.
The Gold-Flaked ******* Cop
Argued this was impractical
And insisted the show go on
As it would omit the sound of people screaming
Something about priorities.

The fire was contained
And the firework show a success.
The Perfumed Prince flew in the next day
And resolved that the burning hotel was structurally flawed
And should have been
"If we're going to have an inferno,"
He said,
"It had better be the best inferno this world has ever seen."
And so he set The Blistered Men to work
On wobbly scaffolding
In the blistering sun.

The women have been blocked out of this story
Much like they are in the streets

But in other news
Somebody, somewhere
Has just resolved
To eat less red meat.
Tara Jan 23
The ocean,
oh it looked so blue,
shades of colour swimming around like clouds around the moon,

The water,
oh it looked so clean,
but it was just the sun's reflection making it clear,

Underneath the waves lay a graveyard,
a promise of death,
a promise of extinction,

Tombs made of plastic,
slathered in oil,
steaming with toxic waste,
and all the people know,

The damage is unfolding faster than we are evolving,

The turtles are ingesting plastic as if it were their only meal,
begging for their fins to just be free,
so they can dive through the sea,

The seals are tangled in nets, lines and lures,
plastic bags and packing bands,
till they're tied to their grave as if life were just a brief phase,

The seabirds skim the ocean waves for fish and squid,
yet plastic is their only catch of the day,
leaving them broken inside and out,
and dead on the beaches we claim are our own,

The whales are submerged beneath the sea,
eating most things that they see,
plastic, plastic everywhere beneath,
not giving them much time before they can no longer breathe,

The dolphins are gliding through the sea,
taking what they can to eat,
plastic as their only meal,
tearing them apart from within,
leaving them starving for weeks,
till the grave is the only thing they see,

Us humans are so weak,
we can’t see how deep the pain seeps,
but when nothing is left for us to eat,
and the rich have nothing left to steal,
we’ll end in the same graves as all the lives we could have healed.
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016

Another space arrives. The newborn cries.
And the destiny determined:
Oven or matchstick.

Descendant of both; inheritor of another:
A machine that dreams itself into being,
Dragging its sleeping subjects after it.

Sustenance of nightmares, the food of what
God is, blood the earth pumps forth.
The plastic legacy is siphoned off,

Its artifacts cheap jewellery:
Enamel glinting white and turquoise.
Flimsy chains that never last,

And yet last forever, the paint flaking off.
So too does the rust on this delicate orchid.
It is an oracle of poisons.


The city burns in its incandescence.
The indelible halo
Of a lime-green candelabra

Makes light of midnight. Our slumber is
Punctured by gunshots and the drone of the

Not a foot but a juggernaut,
Pandora’s box,
Sowing the seeds of your distress.

Fallout marks the potent epoch.
The neon octopus spews it back,
Invisible print on the murderous air.

Where water drinks
No diving bell can bear
The pressure of such fuchsia.
The first poem in my second collection of poetry, "Blood for Honey", available at and Amazon.
Wordsmith Aug 2018
Most heavenly of places, this world now
Of endless beauties, a sight that wows
They're statuesque and wax-like, but hey don't fret
No wrinkles to combat, nor ripples of fat

Gazing into their arresting green eyes
That of the rabbit's, resemblance lies
Uncanny it is, this puzzling scene
Manufactured they are, from the same jellyfish gene

And since its time to seek paradise,
My wandering hands caress the prize
To search for weakness, now I must
No amount of fondling, stirs any lust

I've come so far, and this is what perfection costs?
The smoothest of skin, has left all thumbprints lost
A sci-fi piece. A world where women have their genes edited and are manufactured to perfection. The result of placid, animated statues however fail to arouse the faintest stirrings of lust.
Corey Sep 2016
My right hand fingers are larger than my left

But it doesn't matter
I don't take it out
To put it on

I don't wear my ring
I rather play with it

I spin it like a top
In the center of my table
Eventually it stops
So I pick it up once more

I flip it through my fingers
Dropping it more often than not
The sound always lingers
I guess they're made to be worn

But I'd rather not wear it
I don't want to explain a thing

But I don't want you to be gone
So I'll just sit in the dark and pout
My right hand fingers are much fatter

This silly little ringno one knows about
Callie Richter Oct 2018
you look into his eyes
and only see brown.
you laugh and joke
about how this
makes him
“full of ****.”
when i look into his eyes,
i see so much more.
this boy has been hurt,
hurt by so many people.
tears hide back behind
because if he ever showed
his emotions,
he’d be ridiculed.
this boy is sad.
he’s lives a life
that he doesn’t want to live,
but pretends that
he is in control.
this boy
is not what everybody thinks.
when i first met him
i was intimidated.
he gives off a vibe
that he is
get to know him.
you will see what i mean.
i’ve comforted this boy
while he cried,
which i’ve only seen once.
i’ve been by his side
for everything,
through hell and back.
this boy has so much pain,
so much sadness,
so much agony.
but he also has so much love.
he just doesn’t know
what to do with it.
dead ophelia Jun 2
and by every kiss, every words
i’m just having fun
i love you,
just don’t take it seriously
i’m just having fun
because i’ve been through this
many times
i know it must meet the ends,
we’re just having fun
with the plastic love,
at least that's what we have
i feel like everything just start to be a totally *******, everything i do is for nothing and i got nothing to trust, everything
The world that goes on around us
sometimes flows right past me
and the notions that grip
you and I, the motions
we go through every time
the creatures behind our eyes
meet; mutual experience, a moment

for that inner-child of ours
to shine through
and go wandering
out into the world together,

As best friends do.

What else is there to write, what else
is there? I can't imagine being together
without the fear of being torn apart.
I'm afraid it'll fall to pieces
so I embrace being alone.

I have to believe it's never too late.
I remember the kid, before the scars.
I hope to stay with this thought,

I wish I could stay with you.
A letter to my better-half.
PoserPersona Jun 2018
Garments stripped from worn bones and weary mind
Feet dragged on tile; hands grasp plastic veil
Stepping into a tub; near swoon divine
A pure, naked self emancipation,
before the squeaking running metalware  
that erases the daily equation.
Dancing, singing tunes of own devices:
Cupid, Shooting Star, Sister Golden Hair
Rocky Mountain High, American Pie
****** bosses gonna kiss ***** here
Astronauts, cowboys, and rockstars meet here
Best yet, the individual is here

Although merely hidden by a curtain,
all for your view is but a damp shadow.
People people
                         they go around like pigs
                         showcasing their fancy suits
                         proclamating the biggest trend

Jewelry, then food, then them big fast automobiles

Those are the priorities by order

Getting greedy
Getting fat
Gettin' Gettin' GETTIN'
                                 In a monstruous ball of meat!
                                 With a monstruous will of plastic!
                                 Monstruously stupid!

I'm­ gettin' tired
But I'm afraid,
They are just getting started.
august 17, 2017
3:31 a.m.
Sara Kellie May 2018
Oh ****.
Oh, oh, it didn't work did it?
Why didn't it work?
I can't see!
I have blood in my eyes, my hands.

Oh ****.
It didn't work did it?
The plastic bag!
The plastic bag!
Ff cck ckk err

Poetry by Kaydee
(**** it Kaydee! Just **** it! That's it!)
'The Plastic Bag' by Kaydee is also known by its alternative name,
'Go check on that friend you never check'
'Don't come ******* crying to me' was another name was almost chosen.
Another was 'Who's that lay there with a blue face, she looks cold'
NP Sep 24
Today, I  stumbled upon an imperfection on my water cup –a protruding bulge disrupting the otherwise Smooth. Circular. Perfect rim.

So that I, as I –unaware– brought myself to drink; felt this quirk, the cup’s pouting lip, pressing sternly against my own quivering pair.

I can’t remember the last time I was kissed or someone kissed by me. So the question if I should find solace in a plastic cup is now nailed to my mind.

But I know I’ll break the promise of finding to this question an answer by drinking the water.

Because after all, it’s just that. Water.
Nylee Oct 3
Whilst the world wilts,
Sunshine dims,
River stills in between,
Winds are hurrying
The seasons are changing.

And we throw another plastic bag
We suffocate our lifestyle
Killing our species in style
Make it harder to breathe.
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