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Lacey Clark Oct 2018
Raised faux-religiously in a catholic school by convenience of neighborhood (though, I loved the plaid and I wanted to do Eucharist but my mom explained I wasn't catholic, so I dabbled with the hymns and cursive) by my two *** moms and some 'extra kids' (fostering, etc) in Spokane. Homeschooled later (and seriously religiously, Vacation Bible School, NO HARRY POTTER and no saying 'stupid', a lot of neighborhood scootering) by uncle auntie and my two home-made and hilarious cousins (siblings) in Nevada. another private school in the Wild West with my grandpa and grandma (maybe religiously? they took me out to Mexican dinner religiously). And scattered across the West, Mid-West and South for all the rest. Public schools interwoven and equally traumatizing in between states.
One school in florida was known for fist fights and head lice. I kissed my first boy there. and girl. I left for what I thought was summer vacation and never came back. Another accidental move.
I had been squeezed in-between the palms of each coast for high school (plopped in the midwest).
In Wisconsin, I popped like a pimple and broke some major skin. Tried to end my life a few times. Psych ward after psych ward. Pills. Pills. Pills! A nurse took me aside and said "i have hope for you" and it was the first time i felt seen. met hard drugs to replace the cutting- they felt like long lost friends. Easy to pick up.
And recovery was like feeling your face after a satisfying shaving... and not a scratch since.
Now gliding along the West Coast in Academia's matrix. Politics and community engagement and the center. Clean. In the Heart of the City. Biking with helmets. Shoebox studio apartments. Nose in book, nose in food. Day job with a class of kids who I love and who love me. Space to grow, assess, reshape. Optimism. Peace. Stability.
Religiously they came
Pardoning ropes clinked to hope
Sourcing shame to sustain dreams
Balancing pride on thin lines, called peace.
But !
Religiously they came
Leaving pure, the many sins made
Working through the morning dews
Only to cry out for their souls at night.
Purcy Flaherty Jul 2018
Dad is so very proud of his culture, underneath this nationalist, racist, sexist, homophobic, religiously intolerant, ageist and xenophobic snobbery; is a man that stands by his right to hate who he likes.

Oh the irony!
Bigots and nationalism
Nesma Aug 2018
“I remember the bed just floating there” is how Phil Kaye started his ‘repetition’ poem.  
I remember pausing the youtube video after he ended his masterpiece.
I remember burying my feelings under 3 blankets and 4 hours of binge watching spoken word poetry.
I do not remember the dreams I could have had.

I remember the set of nightmares that visited religiously like the downstairs neighbor tired of how loud my heart pounds at late evenings.
I remember, very clearly, how they went.
I do not remember if I have written them down.

Dream one: he peels my freckles off my skin; he says he needs them because his coffee is too light. I scream while he calmly adds pints of the cheeks I inherited from my mother’s melatonin and the sun’s intensity to his coffee. He says I can never be as quiet as the girl who managed to sneak into his ribcage and build herself a bedroom.

Dream two: We are standing in the great library of Alexandria. He pulls the sea from underneath my feet and stuffs it into his back pocket. He says he needs it because he is tired of drowning himself in uncertainty. I start to cry and he says: Aries is the god of war, and women born under this sign confuse war for love.

I remember the mole on his left ear growing bigger in my nightmares without me ever watering it.
I remember he smelled of tangerine trees and broken records.
I do not remember if his face looked like the man I almost fell in love with last winter, or my father.

I remember the first time I saw my father after he came back from Ukraine.
I remember his brown leather shoes that oozed of old spice cologne and neat scotch.
I remember his hardly worn pair of glasses and the pieces of me they never cared to read.
I remember the wrinkles that seemed newer than his glasses slowly colonizing his hands... the hands that never held me as tight as the dress I wore to my school prom hoping it would catch my ex’s attention.

I remember wearing a dress that day, I hate wearing dresses.
I remember it had a floral print reminiscent of the season that I was named after hoping maybe it would remind him I’m part him.
I remember realizing he will never remember.
And now, I sit on a carpet of autumnal leafs as crisp as my tied tongue and as dead as my fears, trying to turn my love for him into more than just a memory.
I think I need to stop writing about my father.
Skyla Dec 2018
Do want to see real poetry?
Then you must strip yourself naked.
Vulnerable, exposed, raw.
And look into the mirror.
Observe. Examine. Critique.  
Grab.  Pinch.  Scream.  

If you want to see real poetry,
Then you must take a pretty looking blade
And feel it scritch-scratch against your thighs
Even better, do it in public, secretly
Because the adrenaline might remove your hunger  

If you want to see real poetry,
Then you must wrap some yellow tape around your stomach
The big, bold, black number measurements jumping out at you
Wrap it a bit too tightly, so you can feel your insides shrink forcibly smaller, suffocating you.
And that is art.

If you want to see real poetry,
Then you must religiously memorise the numbers in every nutritional thing that you come across
Your only talent is being a human calculator
And fasting longer than a normal person can
But you’re not normal.  You’re sick. Twisted.
But that is art.  That is poetry.

If you want to see real poetry,
Then you must puke out every last bite that you consume.
Then, you must scrub scrub scrub your teeth until your gums bleed profusely and the smell of ***** is overcome by the scent of peppermint toothpaste

If you want to see real poetry,
Then you must exercise, until you literally drop unconscious from exhaustion.  Other than that, there are no excuses to stop.  Count your bruises, and those will determine how long you need to keep going.
Pushing yourself over the limit is art.
Art always over exceeds and goes to the extreme.
And we are over achievers, aren’t we?

If you want to see real poetry,
Then you must go to your vanity mirror,
And you must drive your fist into the glass,
Do it so fast, that you will barely be able to feel the glass shattering against your knuckles and wedging deep inside of your skin.

If you want to see real poetry,
Then you must stand in front of your bathroom mirror,
Silver handled knife in hand,
And snip-snip-snip all along your stomach
Close your eyes.  Bite your tongue.  Pretend you’re cutting a model out of a magazine.
You must do this until you see stars.
Until the bright, fluorescent bathroom lights fade away and become pitch black.  
Until the sounds fade, and the smell of copper fades, and the feeling of pain fades, until you’re numb.

You want to see true poetry?
Keep pushing yourself until this ultimately kills you.
All poems end.  All artists add a “final touch” to their paintings.
You are a poem.  You are art.
Your final touch is the kiss of death.  
It’s beautiful, isn’t it?
Or is it sick? ~
JaxSpade Mar 2
I dwell under the veil of soliloquy
Univalent I am
Me,
meiosis me
I am a chromosomal
Aneuploidy
Disorder is what the world sees
They calculate my autosomes
And take a look at my five acrocentric chromosome pairs
13, 14, 15, 21& 22
In this Robertson translocation
I swim in to the heterozygous
And phenotypically inherit
The characteristics of a trisomy
I scratch my urticaria religiously
Like I drank some urushiol
Under a lacquer tree
But I see a sun•dog on The horizon
Praising the sundrops blooming synthetic philosophy
It was a syntony of syzygy
I fell into a magnetostriction deformation
Of magnetoelecricity
And as I stare at the labors of my lumbricalis
My palms and soles attempt instauration
And grasp at the horn of plenty
Lord allow me the galactagogue of money
Inject me with a domperidone
Douse me in dom perignon
Or Metoclopramide
I'm prolactin choice

I love the herbals
Shatavari
Fenugreek
Torbangun & fennel
Milk thistle chasteberry
Goats rue
They also help sedate the infant on the ******
The flow of milk to the babes lips of silk
Alfalfa, anise
Nettle
Oatmeal, vervain
And yes marshmallow
Known as the Althea root
To be technical
I'm just saying Lord

I need a breast
  I can **** more
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2018
I Am that I Am (אֶהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה‬ ’ehyeh ’ăšer ’ehyeh)

for Eléa

the requests are assiduous, regularly arrivaling, some shy,  
some heinous demanding and denouncing,
inquisitors inquisiting this revelation,
as if it could be bought in a Five and Dime,
with a childlike whining insistence

just  exactly who are you?

this is not my name above,
but one of seventy the Father gave himself

He named me in a fit of efficacy and whimsy and in and from, a fit of a deep veined mystery

You Raise Me Up

all this on the ****** side of corny, and would not blame you
if you moved on…

so nominated in honor of my mission, to travel with you in
all the travails that ail,
to raise you up to raise me up and thus salve the universe's cracks,
fill the crevices and the ****** scars invisible,
with the precise refreshment that make my life,
a slave to your thankfulness

I am the wetness of a mother’s lips upon
a thin red tear on a child’s skin,
I am the the rock hard father’s shoulders grasped by a child’s arms, the child does yet understand that human is illusion,
human is human, however strong,
it is the allusion of human limitations
that is our magical

I am the present re-borning come with a morning glory,
the time when the Am and the Pm  future merge in a name
without tense,
past present and what I may be is simply what
I am

when the past is but another sky bright star, untouchable,
but winking at you, to you personally

I am the touch of the untouchable,
a messenger commissioned to remind you when
the reminders are too far apart,
or even too close
and thus make a breathing space
in between for the living and the missing

I am the
no difference
between a newborn’s soft skin cells
relentless multiplying,
that offers the same precise sensation of the
grandmother’s delightful wrinkling cells of smiles of her
relentless dying,
for all, one and the same,
the child in her is you, baby

I am the fall before the rise, the first that defines the last,
the standard, once obtained, nevermore unobtainable

I am the first fruit of the summer,
a tongue blossom, a burst of memory, always recalled,
always the same, that begs for forgiveness for there are no
new words to describe the profound finding of the
simple pleasures that sustains the blessing over all things new that
are recurring and truly
renewable (shehechayanu)

I am the crinkle in the eye, the one that hides in the fine lines
and upon the lips,
when you purchase the hope however fleeting of a
$2 Powerball ticket,
the very same hope preserved when you laugh when you lose,
for there is contentment in knowing one may hope spring eternal,
yet again in a finite
three more days for and too another lousy two bucks fantasia

I am the ruse of happy satisfaction of a man
in the dark of alone at home,
staring at his sizeable bank balance
and the happy knowledge that its loss  it will make it greater someday when it  happy converted to memories and photos that  are worth a thousand times its multiplicity
if only,
or when,
he knows how

I am that pain in the left side of your red sea-parted soul that cannot be dismissed but is religiously ignored,
that you alone know of
due to its persistent existence, and because it is just tolerable,
it is a sad but comforting pain,
an acknowledgment that a companion travels with you
and that in someway is ok and you exist

I am the water on the night table that extinguishes the dry throat of recurring visions in eyes that always end badly
and make the bed’s welcome a fearful thing,
which is a fearful thing for in good sleep is the
re-naissance and re-formation and the salvation
that was given to you as a gift inside thy mother’s womb,
and that
it is I,
whispering the hum of easy soft lambs,
soft breathing you
unto welcoming rest

I am the poem that must end because of our
frailties and impatience to live in
the reality of human touch,
that must be put aside for any novocaine of words

I am the one who can only be alive
when he raises you up and
you begin a new poem all your own,
and then exit it too, willingly,
to embrace the raising up of living

and that is the
who I am
that I am
raising us up
I did my best,
And then someone told me that because I was dark they couldn't see the dark circles around my life
My presence brought gloomy feels so strong they wish for me to be gone
And seldom grown was the belief that life can be used wisely
So I cried for help, with a pillow besides my halo
And religiously corrected my every hate
For I know I did my best
But better is what I have repent.
He's viciously attractive
So I religiously ignore his backwards way of seeing things
And fall into his arms day after night
As if the floor itself inclined to the left and I could do nothing but slip closer and closer to his place
Where he'd always be waiting for me
With a warm arm open and a cigar between his lips
mannley collins Feb 2017
The body that I am incarnated in was born in the middle of the very rainy summer of 1939.
My vehicle for life.
All seeing-all smelling --all tasting--all touching--all speaking--all hearing --all sensing --perambulating -singing-dancing-cooking--drinking --painting--******* etc etc vehicle.
Born a few months before the Second World War,with all its nonsensical religiously patriotic and democratically oligarchic and liberally fascistic evil nonsense, started.
Makes me a Rider of the Storm eh?.
Eat yer heart out Jim Morrison!.
Slid out of my mothers womb in the upper room of a brand new house.
Situated on a new street somewhere on a new development on the edge of a 3000 years old walled city in 'gods' own country'--that's what they called it.
Yorkshire!.
First smell I remember,clearly,was rain soaked Lilac and Earth mixed together.
Their scent coming hrough the open bedroom window.
AAAAH rain soaked Lilac.
Second smell was Tobacco from downstairs where my father was anxiously chain smoking.
Then came my first taste.
He,my father,dipped the tip of his little finger into his glass of celebratory Whiskey and poked it into my mouth as I lay there,wrapped in swaddling clothes.
Irresponsibility!!.
Second taste was her warm rich creamy breast milk.
And so my days and nights started.
They told me the name that I was to answer to--as if it was the whole of me.
They told me my beliefs and attitudes and desires and limitations and skills etc etc.
They told me that what I have come to know was my conditioned identity was the real me---but it isn't!..
The lied to me --in innocent ignorance.
My sister taught me to read and write by the time I was 3 years old.
I grew up knowing,deep down, that I was something else.
Not the 'Something Else' that Ornette Coleman played,on his magnificent disc,either.
War raged elsewhere throughout my childhood--mainly across the seas far away.
I watched flight after flight of four engine bombers roar overhead every day ,on their way to drop bombs on children I would never meet.
There was a busy air base 2 miles away from the house I was born in.
Once an injured bomber,coming back from a raid,crashed in flames on two houses at the top of the street I lived in.
I found war to be a hellish and frightening experience.
And along the way I discovered that I couldnt explain to 'myself' who I was, exactly,either.
That my parenters gift of identity was misleading.
I asked 'myself' who or rather what was I?.
By the time I was 3 years I was a ******* from 'Osteomylitis'--or so they told me.
I couldn't walk with massive  left hip joint pain I suffered.
I spent the years from 3 to 6 in a traction bed in a couple of hospitals.
Gobbling down Cod liver oil and Malt for the vitamins--and it worked!!!.
At 6 I learned to walk--YES!!!.
All that pain was left behind.
Thank you Gautama.
My life was suffering but as you supposedly said.
Suffering can be overcome.
And I overcame it.
And I ran and jumped across streams and climbed trees and walked for miles and miles and danced the dance of life.
I foraged for blackberries and wild mushrooms and crabapples and horseradish roots and rosehips and other fruits of nature.
I fell in love with the song of the Yellowbeak--Blackbird to you.
Became enraptured by the smell of wild Roses in the hedgerows.
And I sang and sang and sang and danced and danced and danced.
And all the while I just knew that I wasn't the body that I was incarnated in.
Even though my parenters kept on insisting that I was that body.
And I knew that I wasn't who they had told me I was either.
I knew that I wasn't the conditioned identity of the body that they insisted I was..
At 9 years I passed an exam and won a free scholarship place at a fee paying 'public' school.
My education started in earnest.
Lain and French andAlgebra and Geometry and  expectations of University.
I fell in love for my very first time at around 12 years old.
Raymond was his name.
He taught me how bisexual I was.
I swallowed litres of his body fluids.
Oh how I loved him.
Then after 2 ecstatic years he rejected me because I was a different class to him.
AAAAARGH!.
Then around 14 years the monthly seizures started.
A regular dark descent into unconsciousness.
I experienced the small death of Julius Ceasar and Leonardo Da Vinci.
Back to waking consciousness after an hours out of the body trip into the Astral realms.
Waking with total total amnesia.
With no mind or conditioned identity but both came back within one hour of waking and took over again.
Along with a helluva headache.
But I woke as me--who or whatever that was.
I wasn't who they said I was.
I was me!.
Whatever that was.
Where did I come from?
My purpose in life became to find out what I was and what the source of my existence was.
Teenage life as a rock n roller started beckoned and I embraced party life.
I won cups of silver for dancing very energetically to Bill Haley and Chuck Berry.
I discovered the other half of my bisexuality.
I found girls.
Oh girls how I love you.
and love you and love you.
I started to play trombone at 18 years.
Then trumpet and drums then into my life walked MISS SAXOPHONE and I melted!!!!.
Alto alto wobbly lines of sound poured out from the bell of my alto sax.
I was 23 and toying with buddhism and social alcoholism and playing saxophone jazz(probably badly).
26 and I got married for the first time.
I was playing Free Jazz rather amateurishly by now.
In 1967 I moved to London--became a longhaired hippy--started my own band called BrainBloodVolume--took many doses(literally 1000s) of pure LSD and Mescaline and Psyllocybin and DMT--embraced diet reform--became ordained as a buddhist monk in 1966--played with Jimi Hendrix and John Lennon and the pink Floyd--went to live in the Balearic Islands--Mallorca,Ibiza,Formentera--started to do oil paintings--had a Master Class in Concert Flute playing from Roland Kirk in the dressing room at Ronnie Scotts Jazz Club in London.Became addicted to Macrobiotic Food and Spring Water and puffing Waccy Baccy(always through a Water Pipe..



Its been seventy seven years in this incarnation that I have been wandering the face of this big ball in space seeking the answer to the eternal questions of life.

What am I and where do I come from and what is my purpose?.

And here  is the answer--!!.

I am an individual isness formed solely from a small but equal independent and autonomous portion of the isness of the universe.

Each individual isness is an eternal, small but equal, independent, autonomous,nameless, formless,genderless,classless,casteless,non physical and unconditionally  loving portion of the isness of the universe.

The isness of the universe is the whole of the nature of reality and is the sole source of all existence and is eternal,nameless,formless, genderless,beingless and autonomous and unconditionally loving and is not a 'god' or a 'goddess' or any kind of being.

I live in the joyousness of shared unconditionally loving union with the isness of the universe.
Hello Daisies Mar 10
I watch many shows
About a savior
Who is separate from the world

They were chosen
To save everyone
Yet they are so depressed
Being seperate from everyone

Buffy wished she was normal
She considered herself a freak
Eventually stopped being alive
And inside she died

She had friends
But felt so alone
She could not socialize
And show her trueself

She was a freak
But everyone saw a hero
She was empty inside
She wished for death
But only could hide

I watch these shows
Almsot religiously
Becuase I feel i grow
As buffy losing reality

All i wished for
As a little girl
Was to be normal
And see the world

All I get
Was being a freak
While everyone else praised me
For being innocent and sweet

They look to me as a saving grace
Their last fall
When they hit their face
Then they leave

The hardest thing in this world
Is to live in it
Buffy said
As she dove into her death

Only to awaken even more dead
Inside a deep grave
Living life depraved
Of basic emotions

Everyones falling apart
All around her
But she has to work
And be a good girl

I dove head first
Into numbess
I died
And woke up
With no bliss

I see your suffering
I do not care
I'm so gone
I'm going nowhere

I lost my morals
And sense of heroism
I wish to destroy
The city of hell
That is my prison

Maybe then i can be free
And see my reality
Show love to those around
And finally be proud
Like a normal girl
Robin Carretti Aug 2018
We spread all over the continent
Your underwater girl event
So many times we
spoke curled up in
each other
I heard your getting
married to my
friend's brother huh?

Best friends acting silly
Girly- Goose rhymes
Girls with special
privileges


Like the magical tales
All the males get
better wages

And we are stuck
The unfurl girl
On fuel she got
The longer life eyelashes


The Gossamer
Pink Owl it's her
The Consumer Male
Play Bill

The pink lady fussy-Playgirl hat
The dreamer what's new Pussycat
Her body lined all sheer inside
the curtain's play pretend
he calls every time
Her pink slippers are on

Mystical time of men
Lucky Red dragons
* She Opens up pink for him
She's around all He's
Kitchen pink polka dots
In her Galley pink apron
He's in Las Vegas winning
the slots
Pink Mustang Sally
The dark magenta
Pink sugar pop
Mary Kay
Faraway Fay Dunaway
Powder Puff Maina Delray
Jekyll and Hyde
I'm certain I see him, Sir
She's in the Girl furled State

"It's a girl thing always
showing up late"

Girly whirly Artsy celebrate
Like a party pink
Gatsby
Impromptu
Pink pillow talk naps
Spinning bottle
Oh! her brassiere
******
snaps

Girl gone Genie
in her tutu
The Girly gathering
Coffee and brunch Kong Fu

Whats up with her menu
Eye opener Pirates Carribean
Had her Jungle Jane meal
Those feminine smiles
*** appeal
A million stars of
masculinity the rough shave
Pretty in pink ladies
never behave

Girl's of pink pearls of
Mercedes
Let's bury the hatchet

Unfurl Girl Girl

Her Pink/Gold locket shines
Boys and Girls rocket
Spa creamy
The religiously told prophet
Easter Bunny Jack Rabbit
The habitats of the fervor my
Godly savor
The girl goes overboard
Femininity ****** creatures
not Saints we cannot be
what we ain't
      Gods
We got the girly features

Many people despise the rose crush
We are a naturally sweet  whole bunch

The pink feminine gift
Be careful in your
girly ways look to your left
Let us change our evil days
Unfurl Girl Girl her path to the right
Prayers become artificial
Materialistic Girl talk should be realistic

Animalistic our instinct ******
The girly specimen up to date
The sweet and so modest
She's the divine
A kiss on the hand
Confidential
Smelling all sweet

Elizabeth violet blue voice
She symbolizes
Grace so sweet the papers
For a real divorce
Wild untamed unfurled
All softly curled and loved
He looks at her the way
she looks now
But here to Eternity, she looks
amazingly well
Shes the girl-girl unfurl
He's handsomely tall she
is the Princess dressed frilly
Pink champagne ball
Their girly wishing well
who wants to tell?
Unfurl so many twists then body curl or the cheese curls but we are "Girls" having fun what we do best  the world turns but we are girls in swirls spinning twirls we do what we are told to learn? We love feminine smells of perfume and masculine smells of men perfect balance how we look at it remarkable gift we all have
moon Nov 2018
the blue morning sky reminded me of when i used to religiously listen to twenty one pilots.
how i'd stay awake in utter sadness and fright.
i never realized the sun came up until the lamp in my room wasn't the only thing providing me light anymore.
anathema would save my life over and over again.
i remember feeling sad as i was asleep,
i'd wake up crying just like how i fell asleep.
i missed everything and nothing at the same time.
i wanted everything to end.
i hated seeing the morning sun,
i hated that i gave myself another chance at life,
over and over again.
my room is so different now,
looking around.
the only thing that's the same is my headboard.
A little boy of ten watches Doctor Who religiously
because the Doctor has time travel
and oh what he would do
to turn back the clock
to when his sister was still alive

A little girl asks her mother
when Daddy is coming home
but Mommy doesn't know how to tell her
that the history teacher became a statistic
in a national tragedy that goes ignored

A teenager sobs in a corner
hands over her mouth
as she thinks, 'Dear god please, please no'
and the kid next to her texts their dad goodbye

A boy with dark eyes and darker clothes
wipes his eyes
because his phone just died
and the last thing he told his mom was 'I hate you'

The teachers lock their classrooms
and look around at their students
They wonder which ones they are going
to say goodbye to today

The children march
for the lives that have been lost
but the screams of the dead aren't loud enough
for those who can end their suffering

A kid makes a mockery
about shooting up the school
but even as they laugh
his friends wonder if he's really only joking

Everyone will say
that they are sorry for your loss
but they can't fix whats been done
and they won't stop it from happening again

We fake stomach aches
skip school
skip classes
beg our parents
because there was another one only yesterday
and 'What if we're next?'

"Mom, I love you."
"Daddy, I'm scared."
"Mr. Davis, is this a drill?"
"Will you hold my hand?"
"I don't want to die."

Kids tremble in fear
because this only happens at other schools
this only happens to other people
and they weren't supposed to join them
as another number on the death count
I am a black girl with locs
I wear head wraps and put on African prints
I do not speak with an African accent
or religiously follow the traditions.
For that I am not African enough.

One says he loves me
One looks at me enough to burn holes into me
One comes looking for me only to act like he doesn't know me
One winks and seeks attention when I'm done giving it
One.... one said He can never like me
That one I think I like most
For that I'm foolish.

I am a small girl
I however seek to loose weight more
than people way fatter than me
They all say my size is okay but they are not
my brain and thus don't get to feel fat the way I do
For that they say I'm ungrateful.

I appreciate black men
I just prefer white men
I try not to date black men long time
For that I am racist to them.

I speak to my parents but don't go out
of my way to spend time with them
Past hurt and experiences and avoidance
of future heated discussions leads me
For that I am ungrateful.

I sit in my house and cry.
I cry at worship and feel less and lost most of the time
I take smiley pictures and eat a lot of ice cream
For that I am happy.

I love eating at restaurants and cafes
I love ice cream , cake and wine
I don't like food and rarely eat
I take pictures of my food and ice cream a lot
For that I am a show off

All assumptions, all untrue, all your thoughts
Ask me my name and hold me when I feel I'm falling apart
Love me on days I cant love myself
Ask me about me first.
Then think truths about me.
the girl behind the assumptions.......
Summer Cove Sep 2018
I dread the day I accept loss.
I dread the day I can sleep without crying.
my eyes and heart have gotten used to months of tears.
Each one a reminder of you.
I dread the day I don’t drive past the little church.
By the school on the hill.
I dread the day I forget.

My blanket of sadness and guilt
has become a familiar comfort;
tear stained memories, a broken heart
are better than none of you.
I dread the day I forget.

I dread the day I can’t remember
the curls in your hair.
That nike jacket you’d religiously wear,
The small details
I can attempt to capture with my poems
but
nothing about you was simple enough
to describe with a pen and paper .
I dread the day I let go.
I dread opening a new page.
one of the most personal things I’ve ever written.
Saumya Dec 2018
His thoughts keeps her eyelids dreaming all night,
Her fingers and her sighs become the best delights,
When memories of him, cross thru her  mind.
She opens her up and down,
Caressing and ******* herself
For her very favorite clown.
Her sighs and movements then knows no bounds,
When her fingers play religiously,deliciously and wildly,
Across and inside her mound .

Ah!  My lover,
Ah!  dear he,
His name is what,  
She secretly repeats.
While her movements grow hard,
Outside, inside and really deep.

She repeats the movement,
Can't really sleep,
His thoughts make her wet,
Deep and deep.

She rubs herself,
After ******* deep,
With a pillow,
The one she secretly keeps.

Her ah convert to Ahhhhs so sweet,
As contending thoughts keep her in peace,
And once she **** for him so deep,
It makes her then, sleep well indeed!
For my Fiance.
Hope White Aug 13
The compromised daylight still pours into the white Chevy where a rifle sits passenger- there will still be whisky on his lips when he walks into work.

Her body braces like she has rigor mortis to the sound of her morning alarm after a night of writhing to the bittersweet taste of ******* drips.

He seeks solace between arms and hips and lips and skin, which never satiates his ache for only her.



Time is a parasitic hangover, leaching from our highs and the small passing moment of brightness we seek all our lives.

Even if you cancel all your credit cards, make love to beautiful strangers, sleep in the streets, find yourself in Europe, lose yourself in your career, curse your parents for your own faults, write poetry to lovers you never had, seize every day every second every moment, join a cult in the backwoods of Northern California, donate your retirement to your church, torment your veins until they collapse into craters, visit your grandma religiously every Sunday, smoke ****** off of tinfoil, sleep eight hours a day and always take the stairs, drink Black Velvet you've hidden in the basement, bribe God to love you on Sundays and threaten him on Mondays. Even when we wait, even when we consent to waste away Time's a slow-creeping hangover already crawling up your spine and seeping into your brain. You won't have time to ask her why all she does is take. It's already too late.
ghostbroadcast Nov 2018
What are we
but simple beings, wannabes
Every one a small piece
of the game, Reality™
We all live in conformity
social norms followed religiously
Until one dreamer dares to dream
steps away, breaks routine
gazes upward and flies free
Imagination is all we have
when this world is our lab
where we can be extraordinary
philosophers, never ordinary
Without these dreams
what are we
but simple beings, wannabes

— The End —