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Cassia Aug 2018
"Come hear!" they cry thru the shadowed veil
"Don't you hear the blackbirds song?
Do not weep for the grievings of her heart
For it is you that is dead and gone..."

"It's me indeed!" cried the poor wand'rer
"For behold I meet death at last
My heart beats fast like the fallen bird's wings
Filled with sorrows for my lonesome past..."

"No, No!" cried the blacksmith's wife in vain
"Your heart should not grieve for your colorful days!
I n're leave home and I work till I bleed
I am caged and shall die a slave..."

"Your tunes are absurd to my disciplined ear,"
The businessman spat in the stranger's path
"You can scarce imagine my crimes toward man
I am ****** to Hell for my horrid acts..."

"My songs have begun to fade out of key!
My spirit has died," the performer mourned
"I sing alone with another's words
The crowd sees beauty, but it's pain they scorn..."

Now do you hear it? My song that I sing?
Now that you've reveled on a darkness within
Sing no longer for me the tune that I give
For the caged bird that I am, I see all of your sins.
I tried a new style. Sorry, I can't explain it or make it more complicated than it is.
Lyn Senz Nov 2013
You're properly pro and exclusively first
I'm sloppy and slow and obtrusively worse
you're steadily shrewd and notably neat
I'm sweaty and stewed and bloated and beat
you're refreshingly free and benignedly blessed
I'm distressingly me and resignedly messed
you're gold-plated and awed and hairless and pink
I'm outdated and flawed and careless and stink
you're so reveled revered you're the death of my will
I'm disheveled and weird but with my last breath I'll still


©2012 Lyn
Brooke Davis Sep 2016
S • Skin tight, skeletal cage
both ribs and mind.

K • Keep a strict diet, never break it, always hide it from those who would disapprove, so I learned to suffered in silence.

I • Internally a growl would emit, I reveled in the power I would get from it. To know I was structured, I wasnt a jumbled mess. Like the mass jiggling, clingling to this withering carcass.

N • Never could the fat girl come back out. carve her, choke her, starve her till she lost the will to shout. Shout for help, shout for freedom, shout for love in this life. Useless, everybody knows only fit people have that right.

N • Nobody would believe if I told a soul my struggle. "You are huge, big blue
whale how can someone like you have a disorder?

Y• Yell, scream "I WANT TO BE ME"
But I can't because of our society
deeming people like me are wrong,
why should my weight define wether or not I belong?

But because it does I hate myself.
I live this life with a wish to die,
all because my body is not
S•K•I•N•N•Y
jonni inferno Jul 2018
i met her    
in a waking dream    
as i walked beside    
the sylvar stream    
whose chattering laughter    
shifted suddenly    
into a sylvar pool    
of enchanted silence    
a mirrored glaze    
in muted    
misty
dawning rays    
    
her cascading mane    
a crimson flare    
sea-green eyes    
alluring stare    
my heart stopped    
to see her there    
reposed    
'pon a verdant garden lee 
beside    
the misting sylvar mere    
'neath    
the weeping willow trees    
    
dahlia lips    
whispering desire    
vermilion plunder splayed    
spellbound 
by her charms    
heart pounding    
thundering    
captured    
i stay    
an' wi' faire
lithesome beauty lay    
'pon a lush an' vibrant field    
beside    
the misting sylvar mere    
'neath    
the weeping willow trees    
    
we lay there    
lost in time    
locked    
in the silence 
of kindred minds    
an' i knew her name    
tho she spoke it not    
sipped i then
the misty morning dew    
from precious lips
that from me drew    
all that i    
ever thought    
or felt    
or knew
'pon the grasses lush and green    
beside    
the softly glowing mere    
'neath    
the weeping willow trees    
    
soft sings    
the whippoorwill    
the meadowlark    
an' mourning dove    
their voices weaving spells    
for lover's yearning hearts    
in the meadow    
by the way    
where my love an' i    
do lay    
entwined  
'pon the gleaming sylvan shore    
beside    
the shining crystal lake    
'neath
the weeping willow trees    
    
alas    
the dawning days    
were passing
when came malevolence    
within
a thund'ring tempest    
lightnings flashed
in ragged gashes
'cross the heaven's    
stygian passes
an' from those
gnawing caverns
spewed
a raging
howling
demon's brood
an' down flew they
by the sylvar stream
where my love
and i
entranced
did lay
beside
the mystic sylvar lake
'neath
the weeping willow trees
    
then from my arms    
vile creatures tore    
my lifesong    
my heart's blood    
my one    
and only love
her scintillating form    
they ripped    
her silent
piercing cries    
bleeding    
thru my soul
an' took her they  
far from this    
battered    
desert shore    
as her soundless    
painful    
chorus fades    
an' leaves me
here alone    
to lay    
'pon these shifting lifeless sands    
beside    
this sylvar lake of tears    
'neath    
the weeping willow trees    
    
the meadowlark    
her spellsong sings    
thru ebon winter's    
weathering    
the silver stream    
her laughter froze    
this heart    
once fire    
a soulless stone    
    
so now this raven
winged    
doth fly
to scour the bruised    
an' shadowed skies    
to find my dove    
an' bring her home    
to lay
'pon these frozen brittle stones
beside
the darkened sylvar tarn
'neath    
the weeping willow trees    
    
thru timeless age    
an' dangerous realms    
i followed    
her silent    
morbid    
ravenings    
as her grisly    
mewling pleas    
hollowed out my soul    
'til at last    
i found her    
chained an' bound    
lost    
deep within    
peculiar planes    
an' baneful realms    
far from    
the laughing sylvar stream    
far from    
the weeping willow trees    
    
her lament    
of bitter tears    
an' fear    
sliced    
thru my defenses    
a doomed    
pernicious heart    
she was    
wandering    
thru deepest depths    
where madness reigns    
all hope destroyed    
hell's minions    
reveled
unconstrained    
    
my dove    
called i    
my love    
'tis i    
once more    
thrice more  
time  
and time again    
till finally    
she hearkened    
to my voice    
    
true love    
recall us    
you and i    
dancing    
thru ageless realms    
consider us    
twirling    
under heaven's wings    
she
spinning
at my fingertips

an' i  
drew her then    
breathless    
into my arms    
ambrosia lips    
her sweet alms    
from her dark pain    
i did drink    
of her    
malignant sorrow    
i did partake  
my questing    
thirsting hunger    
willingly  
did i sate  
gathering all    
her shattered pieces    
from those altered    
blighted    
reaches
    
chains    
now broken    
i carried her
'pon wings    
of true love's    
sylvar light    
far from    
these darksworn legions    
into    
the dawning night's    
farthest regions    
    
an' there    
close by    
the laughing    
whispering    
sylvar stream    
lay her gently    
'pon the verdant flowing shore    
beside
our gleaming slyvar mere    
'neath    
our weeping willow trees    
    
under glimmering    
starlit heavens    
sing    
the whippoorwill    
the meadowlark    
an' mourning dove    
whose soulful songs    
compose    
for yearning lovers    
charms of hope    
where pools    
the laughing    
sylvar stream    
whose mirrored gaze    
draws us deep within    
celestial    
starlit    
wanderings    
  
as the wind    
whispering
sighs    
thru our hearts  
as we lay entwined    
'pon a verdant garden lee    
beside  
our misting sylvar mere    
'neath  
our silent    
weeping  
willow trees    
      
p j upchurch
Carlo C Gomez Nov 2019
Have you been to the City of Eternal Sunshine's
navel academy?

Belly buttons in the sun, sparkling and shimmering:
crescent moons like deep wells dug by
the callus hands of Woodspur's
first settlers.

They belong to desert roses, Coachella girls,
where wearing a bikini is not a sin, but a means of survival.

Clothed in eensy triangles, they've walked
with farm workers, reveled with festivals,
and prized the glory of Pueblo Viejo.

One can now better understand how this place
was nearly called Land of the Little Shells.
To the city of Coachella.
Inspired by the poem "Give Me Pretty" by fellow Hello Poetry writer, Bella.
Marigolds Fever Apr 2019
Suction circle
Black hole hurdle
Mysterious course
Gravitational force
String theory
Concept  bleary
Bring about
Believable doubt
Time connect
Place reflect
Once old
New and bold
Young vision of you
Different view
Rural space
Human pace
Unprecedented in adolescence
Yearned in presence
Unpredictability
Longed humility
Start old and grow young
Time traveled
Souls reveled
In soft starlight
With new moons less bright
Marigold’s Fever 2019
I wished to hold her against my will
And envelop her in smoldering flames
She said,
Why’d you have to go and ruin it again
When all we had of love
Was much greater than pretending
We never knew the extent
To which we were being dishonest
Those meretricious arguments
Only fed our discontentment
She claimed, we seldom slept
I begged to differ
We held passionate vigil
And reveled in our bloodletting
Go to bed, she yelled
It's time to sleep
We each need to find some peace
If we are to ever speak again
When push comes to shove
I admit i was wrong
To have ever trusted her
He Pa'amon Aug 2018
convinced she had no beauty,
she stared at her own reflection
into her pupils , down her throat , into her ear canals,
until her own face morphed into something unrecognizable.
she cut herself open , let her veins run like a stream , shed her skin, searching for any beauty that may exist
deep
deep
down.

and in her desperate searching
she found it ,
lines and bumps and curves she once thought were horrid
transformed before her eyes.
in her constant and endless willing ,
wanting ,
wishing for them to be beautiful,
they became.

and the world started to notice ,
eyes widened , heads turned , hearts opened , and groins awoke
and she reveled in her new-found power.
she wrapped men and women alike around her dainty but deft fingers,
shining jewels.
her beauty was a power ignited and fueled by herself alone
and she burned , a beautiful flame , with an intensity that left nothing but ash and scar in her wake.

exhausted after ******* the life out of yet another and already seeing the next one willfully align in her crossfires,
she tried to lessen the flame , to tame what she had now become ,
she wrapped herself in cloaks , shaved her lustrous locks , and swore herself to celibacy.

but her beauty was unleashed and could not be returned to her dark depths.
it shown through every crack and cloth and she ran ,
ran from herself ,
ran from the world.
touch became sinful and painful and unwanted ,
gazes became violating , haunting ,
and she cried out at the world blaming them for being so weak and lustful and victim to the wills of the skin

and she cried out at herself , brushing her finger tips over her own skin ,
for the power she had wished into being had become her greatest curse ,
the world , in which she only wished would see her ,
to love her ,
she consumed violently and she now found herself utterly alone ,
with only herself to love.
The times are here
Revealing and reveled in expectations of love, life and hope
Today is now what tomorrow may be
We live for tomorrow knowing it will be.
matt d mattson Feb 2019
It was visceral
My gut clenched like I was falling in a dream
Deep in the core of me
Where the parasympathetic neuron bundles coalesce
And tell you to be calm

They were yelling
The wave of their signalling swept across the whole of me
I tingled and itched from my scalp to my toes
All the tiny blood vessels expanded
Fueling the sensory nerves of my skin,
My pupils dilated
My mouth salivated
I wanted to reach out with every bit of me
I wanted to expand to consume and experience every part of the world
To touch everything
To feel everything
Taste and Smell and See everything
I wanted to invent new organs of sensation
To better understand it, to experience more, to feel all of it

I jumped up
Like a dog
And reveled in the pure ecstatic joy of the sensory intensity
Every smell, the ambient humidity, the warm breeze
The color, the warmth of the sun,
The sounds of all the biologic engines of the world
Each of which was individually responsible for an infinite joy
And together were even more

It was a feeling that lasted only moments
And faded in soft turns
Till I became acclimated and in time oblivious
And the grass was once again, just grass
And the flowers were just weeds
And the dogs, and the children and the people in the town
Were just local residents going about their secret lives
And not the heaving mass of cells and life,
Climaxing in the moment of their existence to become more
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2019
Unabashedly Public (return of the babies; my broken ribs, Zenith poem)


~for Sue Huff~

“unabashedly public,” the accusation,
causes me no blushing consternation
for it’s true, no secret kept worse, than this,
my sleeves, all outside-stained, heartfelt red,
the poems hide so little, with exception of my multifarious,
multivariate, semi-secret identities y’all mostly ferret out

“had no plans to look you up,”
but you kept sending selected of the eldest children,
even from 2012, I remember an afternoon well,
the odors, the food, my friend Al, now passed,
who made me think, indeed,
where do the poems come from?

a bequest to my eldest, who still never calls,
never writes, but will call me for help when
he finds himself in jail, or needs my (car) services;
its been a couple of years, but suspect time
is on my side, life makes needs, those **** happenstances,
that are never happy, but require your lawful presence

and on and on,

men & women, discovered, by their poetry reveled, revealed,
in thigh highs and backhoes, keepers of tortuous promises,
doing the quiet way, always asking, what’s the honorable thing,
all uncovered here, and secret sharers, these poets grab a holt
of my eye ducts, gifting insights that my brain tearfully inquires,
how did they know that bout me, these new kin and kindred?

my broken ribs?

the knowers know i am a summertime creature.
What they do not know, that on the last day
on where I summer shelter, a thin ring, a tree ring,
appears around my chest, marking my annualization,
some rings thick, thin, a year of seasons, all at different paces,
a year of rain & pain, thicker, slower did it pass

What they do not know, these fateful poets, all of my one faith,
these rings deep go, beyond the surface, constricting contractions,
they tighten, squeezing the lungs, slowing the breadth of my breath,
breaking ribs, reminder to write better, now that time is shortening,
labored breathing is a breathtaking experience, do, be better, chances for kindnesses lessened, why hide, time to be unashamedly public

had no plans to write today, especially this one, but circumstances
of my added-on circumferential measurement appearing, triggered by y’all sending me my poems of long ago, played mind-gotcha, this rambling emerged, to celebrate my being nearer to thee, thee, my passing, nearer than thee, this, me old-crust pieces, cutting the mouth’s soft-inside, inside softness, place where weeping & writing
leak on the poem tongue directly

to live in harmony with the
unending quests that yet, always need doing,
all in, are you, am I, awaiting your best attentions,
giving you thy own reparations, given to yourself;
if this then be my own equinox, autumnal equinox,

when the sun is at zenith, directly above,
the equator, this then my reparation, my

                                          Zenith poem**


9/24/19 12:15p
Amanda Sep 2019
i tried
let the record show that i tried

i was the queen of spontaneity
i was always secretly proud
of the number of times that i peed a little
from laughing too hard

i loved with my whole soul
a depth of love that few have ever felt

i climbed so many mountains
literal
and figurative

i treaded so many oceans
literal
and figurative

i never learned how to whisper
and i never stopped biting my nails

i couldn’t lose those ten pounds
but i genuinely learned to love them
there at the end

i was a really good writer
my sister thought it was odd
that i wrote poetry incessantly
but i reveled in her judgment

i made so many friends
because i was the kindest person
most of you had ever met

i wasn’t bad at many things
but oh good lord i was a terrible driver

i had a few too many lovers
but i don’t regret a single one night stand

and i’m sorry momma
but i had a lot of one night stands
at the end

i fought with god
and i gave up on him

i was amazing
i had so much potential
i was the best **** sixth grade teacher
i changed so many lives
i was the best aunt
to little london and maverick
i was a good big sister
i was a good little sister

i was a daddy’s girl
his perfect, brilliant, darling
manda panda

i was a 3.97 student in college
and i thought those missing .03 points
made me more relatable

i was so close to happy

i fell in love three times
and considered myself lucky
with every fall

i was never capable of maintaining a tan
and i looked amazing
in a high waisted bikini

i was more confident than most girls
will ever be

i was always an all or nothing
type of girl

and one day
all turned to nothing

and it didn’t go back
please go back
i begged and begged

but it didn’t go back

so now i’m sorry
now i’m the girl who ruined my mom
i ruined daddy
and B, B, and A—
the best siblings there ever were
i ruined katie
i ruined ryan

i’m so sorry
you don’t deserve to feel this hurt

but i didn’t deserve to feel mine

and i don’t anymore
please don’t let anyone
wear black to my party.
say goodbye in pastels.
Michael Marchese Nov 2019
Long ago a creature
Of a far more primal sort,
Not fit to deem itself “a people”
Lived a nasty, brutish, short
Existence marked
By woe and ill
It reveled in recurring
Genocidal
Bloodlust for the thrill
Of an inherent need to ****
It was incapable of making
Gleaming cities made of gold
It barely scraped two stones together
Starting fires in the cold
To call it thriving
Would be lying
To the modern, honest man
Without some product to be buying
Or some money in his hand
Because today
We have forsaken
Savage ways
We have no stake in
And we only claim possession
Of the things we haven’t taken
Through the force of arms alone
Like troglodytes
With clubs of bone
For mass destruction
Weapon threats
Now keep the peace
A fallout zone
Unless the beastly race forgets
His place
Within society
And in this perfect world begets
A discontent anxiety
Mr Morningstar Nov 2018
My withdrawal was violent like ******
Your effects lasting like mental trauma
I reveled in you like a pagan on Samhain
You greeted me like a crusader to a Saracen
I bled a river of emotions I didn't know I had.
I was failing to fly
Like a fledgeling taking its firsit leap away from the nest in hopes of soaringly to greater heights.
But what a hunter you were,
The arrow striking me from the sky as if guided by Artemis
It leaves me wanting,
My heart turns cold enough to freeze the blood that runs through my veins
Give me the road
A place where judgments are left in tire tracks
Where worries are removed as the winds rushes around me at 80 miles an hour.
The sun at my back heating my heart
Pumping the blood to my wings
Spread them and fly
Ride the wind, race the rain, and chase the sunset
On these two wheels you leave what aches behind you.
You find freedom on the never ending horizon
You find happiness in your solitude.
-Vaun Niklaus Christiansen.
Shaylie Jul 2019
I wonder if I will notice the grooves of
Your face digging deeper every day
As life erodes you away
I wonder if we will look young forever
To each other
Immortal in our love, in a certain way
How I reveled in spending every day with you,
Until our last day.
Sean M O'Kane Sep 2018
We are the kids – beautiful blank canvasses ready to receive the joy of life.
We are the kids – hope & love consuming our souls, grasping at the shiny & new.
We are the kids who played in the fields and danced in the sun.
We are the kids with innocence in our hearts and a cheekiness in our soul.
We are the kids who believed in a benevolent God and the generous teachings of Jesus.
We are the kids whose imagination was an infinite resource - bounteous, diverse and effervescent.
We are the kids who reveled in the fancy, the nonsensical, the romantic and the wild.
We are the kids that couldn’t wait to grow up,
We are the kids who believed in our future.
We are the kids who never saw it coming.

We are the kids who lost our innocence as soon we walked through the big school gates for the 1st time.
We are the kids who were told to “think of your future” and to suppress creativity.
We are the kids who were forced to grow up very quickly.
We are the kids who didn’t know we were “different” but there were plenty out there who did.
We are the kids who had to pretend to be what “they” wanted us to be just to survive.
We are the kids who came home with scars every day – both physical and emotional
We are the kids who endured the obscene words of Neanderthal hate every single day.
We are the kids who were screamed at by our parents to fight back even when we really didn’t have the capability to do so.
We are the kids who were told crying was a sign of weakness.
We are the kids whose so-called classmates stayed silent when they did their worst.
We are the kids where the school gates were no barrier to their lynching.
We are the kids who turned quickly from being wide-eyed & hopeful to being terrified & desolate.
We are the kids who dreaded every single weekday from first term to last.  
We are the kids who fruitlessly prayed to a God who had deserted them.
We are the kids taught by teachers who were found wanting.
We are the kids who suffocated in sheer hate.
We are the kids who took our own lives or at least tried to.
We are the kids who self-harmed.
We are the kids who sometimes never came home.
We are the kids who survived but never really left the school yard behind
We are the kids.
Your kids.

June 11, 2018.
Vic Miller May 2019
He lived at the top of Trump Tower,
And reveled at the extent of his power.
   To demonstrate strength
   He extended the length
Of government's funding one hour!
Homunculus Feb 2019
01/31/2019

Today, I learned the true extent to which I loathe the IRS. To be fair, I've always known that I hated them. I've had plenty of legitimate reasons for this in the past. For instance, every year, they casually extort our wage and salary, pretending to allocate it for the building of bridges, roads, and schools. While in reality, the infrastructure and educational system crumble, and defense spending grows without limit.
But then again, I do suppose that in a certain sense, roads, bridges, and schools are built indirectly with these funds; but only after the funds are used to blow these institutions to smithereens in third world countries, and private corporations like Halliburton are contracted to rebuild them for egregious profits. Profits, mind you, which are shuffled to dozens of offshore shell corporations, ensuring that they are taxed at a rate exponentially lower than the profits of the average working citizen.
But today, I experienced a type of hatred entirely novel to my conceptions of what is even possible in the realm of consciousness. A loathing so intense that it paralyzed my rationality, sending me into fits of rage and bewildered astonishment that I would wish on NO ONE . . . except Cheney or Kissinger, the ******* *******. For today, for the first time in all my 28 years of life, I filed my federal income taxes. I knew that one day the chore would inevitably arise, but I still consider it an accomplishment to have made it through an entire third or more of my life without ever actually dirtying my hands with the wretched muck. All that aside, the story goes like this:
I work as an “independent contractor” for a friend who runs a small business. I perform various services around the office, and he cuts me a check at the end of the week. I've been working there “on paper” for about a year, really a bit longer, but “what they don't know...” so goes the old adage. We had, the both of us, anticipated with tempered irritation, the arrival of this bureaucratic beast of burden. However, neither of us knew that the deadline mailing date for “independent contractors” comes nary two months sooner than for payroll employees. This information was sprung on us at the very last minute by his tax attorney who, from this point on, will be referred only to as 'G.S.' (grease stain).
As I was fulfilling my duties, my friend urgently beckoned to me “STOP WHAT YOU'RE DOING. TAXES ARE DUE TODAY, AND WE HAVE TO FILE THEM NOW!” Naturally, I panicked. I had seen an income tax form . . . perhaps once or twice? . . .  much less filled one out . . .  maybe once at 17 during the employment process at a fast food joint? . . . Initially, we had thought it would be a simple matter of the W-2, the likes of which had been filled out automatically for me by employers in the past as a part of the hiring phase. Nonetheless, since my status of “independent contractor” placed me into a different tax category, I had to fill out what is known as a 1099-MISC. “Simple enough!” thought I, “I'll just fill in the relevant details and get back to work.” . . . “NOT SO FAST, CASEY JONES!” screamed the form, with all its talk of “fishing boat expenses” and “crop insurance” . . . “O...K?” “and what precisely has this to do with me?” thought I.
My employer, courteous as he can sometimes be, called up (t)rusty old G.S., who referred us to a site where the form could be understood more intelligibly. After a bit of head scratching and chin stroking, we figured it out. No matter, though! Because once we figured the form out, we couldn't figure out what to DO with the ******* thing. 'G.S.' was once again consulted, and he told us that we could simply print the form, and take it to an H&R Block office for submission. “Okay, simple enough!” thought I . . . but alas! It was not to be so. When we arrived at said office, the agent . . . who looked like a burned out caricature of William H. Macy . . .  reviewed the forms, and said that to apply the deductions I had calculated, he would require a $300 fee for his services, and that I would need to fill out a “Section-C.” This lanky, rasp-voiced, twig of a man then withdrew from his cubicle, at which point, my employer whispered to me “**** that, I've done Section-C forms hundreds of times, we're ditching these crooks”
At this point, we retreated back to the office, found what we thought to be the relevant forms, but were soon swept up in a vicious monsoon of bureaucratic legalese which, although it resembled English, bore few similarities other than word spelling and grammatical form. It is sometimes alleged that Kafka was haunted by ghosts which had an insatiable appetite for stories. The legend further has it that he would write for them to quell their unyielding wrath. Those of us who have read Kafka know intimately of his satirical preoccupation with the absurdity of bureaucracy. Perhaps these stories pleased the ominous specters which loomed over him like the fluorescent light beaming down upon me as I type these words. Some things can never be known for certain. If, however, this were truly the case, then it would seem that Kafka's ghost had now taken the role of writing MY story for his own amusement. Every cliché of the DMV and social services building was present in this ghastly affair. “Fill out this form; stand in this line; oh, I'm sorry, sir. You've got the wrong form. You'll need to file a (…) and take it to (…), their hours are MwAhMwAhMwAhMwAhMwAh” This futile circumlocution went on for SIX HOURS. All the while, thoughts of a perfectly wound noose, crafted of thick hemp rope, with thirteen pristine wraps forming a slipknot to be fitted as though tailor made around my neck filled my mind, as the acute stages of benzodiazepene withdrawal began to set it. Luckily enough, or so we suspect. We figured it out, and now I have only to wait for my return to come in the mail to see what I owe.
But once I got home, I got to thinking. There is a copy of 'Infinite Jest' on my coffee table. A literary epic whose magnitude cannot possibly be overstated. I began to think deeply reverential thoughts of the author of this book, and then something clicked in my mind: on that fateful day when Wallace took his own life  by the noose, he was in the middle of writing a novel about nothing less than the 1985 Tax Code in Illinois, and a group of IRS agents. Being the adamant researcher of all topics that he was, we can hardly imagine that he did not give this terrible ******* of language what he felt to be its due diligence. Of course, any responsible thinker understands that correlation does not equal causation; but as the admittedly ironic thoughts of suicide filled my mind over the course of this afternoon and evening, I can't help but be left to wonder if a mind so vastly superior to mine as his did not experience these ideas with markedly less irony as he reveled in the vile idiosyncrasies of bureaucratic jargon. Again. Some things can never be known.
I have begun keeping a journal. Not so much for the sake of documenting my daily experience, but more so to experiment with different writing styles and, perhaps to help clarify my own thoughts. I will also continue to write poems, of course.
Allyssa Feb 2019
My love to you,
Is no longer.
For the whispers that I believed to be your caressing words,
They were not.
It was the wind telling me to run and every aching bone in my body screamed it.
I laughed in the face of nothingness,
Diving into the abyss you created.
The look of sheer terror flashed across that stricken face,
Expecting me to run from that hole.
Darling,
I’ve reveled in the dark and I’ve danced with the devil.
A little heartache can’t hurt me.
I wore the heals you bought me to the dancefloor I left you on.
Michael Marchese Aug 2019
It shouldn’t be something
Just to get through
But a skill to take pride in
As one of the few
With a craft to be reveled in,
Relished, enjoyed
And on rarest occasion
A weapon employed
Should a dire most need
For a war of words waged
Upon those who prefer
The more literal graves
For their victims and enemies,
Childhood reveries
I bury mine
In descriptive serenities
Remedies curing me
Of morose maladies
Banal, mundane
Every day
Gray realities
Splitting dualities
Self-contradiction
Cognitive dissonant
Lawless conviction
A chaotic orderly
Misanthrope humanist
Spiritual atheist
Radical pacifist
Gifted with empathy
And equanimity
Equally balanced
In stoic disharmony
So alive
Dead inside
Cynic sanguinity
Outspoken introvert
Mortal divinity
Half full of doubt
And half empty of faith
Powerless to bring change
But I try all the same
And when shamed by a world
Torn apart
Just like me
I am wholly at peace
As I write poetry
Star BG Jan 2019
I want to go back to the time
where cell phones existed not,
and communication was more personal.

Where TV was radio
and eyes with mind collaborated for imagination
as ears reveled in sound.

I want to go back to a time
where people would be on street holding hands instead of phones. And individuals looked at one another to see each others expressions instead of impersonal texting.

I want to go back
where there was no internet to steal ones time on a Face Book site that takes your information and tries to promote fake friendships.

I want to go back yes back
to a time where I could meet a poet for lunch
instead of only on a site that keeps one at distance.

Time waits for no one and so progress
for the sake of disconnect continues.

Until robots replace our reality.
This poem is so so much NOT like what I write. Its just tonight I found myself disconnecting from everything. I turned off my cell phone, don't have a TV so didn't have to do anything with one  and am just chilling with myself
as I feel distant from most of who I know. (my decision)
I think everyone should sometimes step back to do a re-set
Sea Aug 2018
Your words once intoxicated me
I inhaled deeply, against my better judgement
And allowed you to engulf me,
both my heart and my psyche
I ignored the lies
And reveled in the ignorance
Until the inevitable day came
When truth dawned on me like a blinding light
And obliterated every lie in it's white hot truth

I'm still in denial,
Not anymore about you
But about everything
The fact is that I'm an addict
to numbing myself
Because I can't face life's harsh realities
So I just keep running
Into oblivion
I shoot myself up with vices
Blindly wasting time on devices
And all sorts of unfulfilling endeavors
And so my double-mindedness persists
My my pain echoes loudly between my ears, and my gratitude is running low
But there is a deep inner knowing within me
that tells me, ever so softly
"Violet, you have to grow"
f Jan 2019
you fell in love first with the curvature of my hips.

your love started at the base of my spine,
where skin and bone and all that was in between
were imbued with lust;
hips that moved of their own accord
against your own,
hips that jumped at every touch,
however rough or delicate,
and drank in your hands

then your love manifested in the indent of my waist,
fragile and so breakable with your sturdy hands framing me,
steadying me through the frantic rut of our bodies.
next, it materialized in my collarbone, all over my chest
in deep kisses and in your mouth on me,
in the desperation as i pressed myself closer to you
and the sinful things your tongue did to me

and then you kissed me;
between my lips, in every crevice of my mouth,
your love had infiltrated my soul,
marking my insides
and i reveled in the pleasant hum of my body,
knowing this is what it was made for
and that you were all i wanted

it was not sobering enough to realize
that this is not where love was meant to go

your love, in fact, was meant to reside on the surface of my skin,
nowhere near my fragile heart;
i had not planned for the shocking warmth of it there,
or how quickly attached i’d grown to it

it transpired that you hadn’t planned this either,
that you weren’t ready for someone to take a hold of your love
and make a home out of it

now, the memory is on the forefront of my mind,
stuck in my throat mixed with hurt,
because still you kiss a path down my throat,
hold me and bruise my skin,
my heart;
my organs are cold now,
only ceasing to shiver when you touch me

but when you are talking to other girls,
or ignoring me,
the nipping at my heart is merciless
and i feel like i am being devoured alive

i fall in love with hickeys that litter my skin,
praying and hoping i see you once more
before they disappear
taking your love with them

perhaps this is not love,
for it hurts too much to be kindhearted,
soft love that i mistook it for

still, i look for it in your eyes every time
before you close them and kiss me hard.

— The End —