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Alan Maguire Feb 2013
Her words stabbed me,
her shivery frosted words,
gouged my  eyes out,
scooped them out with the grace of
an armless ***** on steroids and
spilled my guts on the ground.

Then she left me to die in the desert of forgottenness.Where the scavengers stripped me to the bone
and the sun bleached moon, gazed upon my essence then drank deep and loud.

My mind is now vulcanized.
my mind has been treated with sulfur to enhance it's durability.
So, you can stretch it,
and say what you want baby
cos I don't give a ****.
B E Ragland Aug 1
smoke rings and grocery lists,
ovaries to kicks;
prisons of genetic streaming.

Kings dream of thieves
and thieves dream of
learning shinier schemes.

Laugh when the moon
sings eternally.

Laugh when spoonfuls of sense
are lifted by my shaking hand.

Laugh when anyone spits into
the abyss forever at their feet.

Laugh when the prismatic facsimiles
of mastery are scattering in the winds of change.

Laugh like it's the last cadaver stacked.

No scavengers.

No glass to crack.

No Saturn's curse.

None of that.

So laugh.
Laugh like the mad *******
you act like only exist
in past saturdays spent
in the bastion that was your grandmother's backyard.

Please, for ****'s sake, laugh.
Kara Jean Jun 2016
A fluffy party dress
Pastels spiraling
Slivers of toes nails remain
Darken pain
His head hollowed
Her hands shake with remnants of his brain
It would be simple to blame evil
He was indebted and she was no longer patient
He could not value a jewel
A polished fool
She invited the ones craving
Like scavengers taking
Her skin sizzles in the ice cold sea
Her hair tender and breaking
She is dead with a spiritual drive
She warned the hosted heaven she wouldn't arrive
Andrew Rueter Sep 2017
There's a place between society and the wild
Where aimless bodies are piled
We call it the Wastelands
All creatures die of old age
Or hunger inside this cage
The deer are never hit by cars
For they never travel that far
The Wastelands use fear
That's what keeps them here

The Wastelands are a scary place
It's horrifying how nothing happens
It becomes too much to face
So we hide under satin
To provide comfortable resting
And avoid Wastelands testing

The Wastelands are a barren environment
Solitary coyotes learn from the cacti
Who soak up meager moisture
And become prickly to protect it
Never knowing if nourishment was near
They grew prickly because of their fear

We inhabit the Wastelands
We're trapped here
Where the walls of the city
Seem to mirror
The walls of the wilderness
So it's here we build our nest
But surviving is a constant test
Because we have useless hands
Here in the Wastelands

Is reaction
Create a faction
And never leave
Even if love cleaves
It lies behind ramparts of containment
And the fear of society's arraignment
Even if peace calls
It stays behind walls
Of trees hiding predators
That keep us embedded here
So we ***** barriers to protect us
From the barriers surrounding us
We find our connections through hatred
And build teams around it
We made foolish deals with Satan
This is what we're amounted

Scavengers from both worlds encroach the Wastelands
Journalists and artists mine our souls
Vultures mine our flesh like gold
Taking what they need and going home
Our rabid mouths begin to show foam
From the frustration of loss
But inactivity is our cross
While we watch carrion feeders
Carry on eating
Our friends
Until we turn and look away
Knowing that'll be us one day
Because in the Wastelands
Friends are just creatures who are near
There are no animals to hold dear
We're afraid to lend an ear
When Wastelands use fear

The Wastelands are hell
Dry river beds tell of a time
When the rain fell
But now we're plagued by drought
You can tell by looking at the trout
They flop on the ground
Wondering where to wander for water
The cacti remain still
It's the Wastelands will

In the Wastelands we wait to die
Although we really want to fly
We're just afraid of heights
Which impedes our sight
Where we can't view over our own barricades
It's fear that prohibits our ability to elevate
And we see that the order is too tall
Back into the Wastelands we fall
Julia Betancourt Dec 2016
Love and depression are such similar existences. Both are something more powerful, too powerful, to fit under a list of just emotions or feelings.
Both are equally dangerous, and both are the most misunderstood.

But love is a little funnier.
Love can bring us together but as much as it may do so, it's better at splitting us apart.

See there are two types of people in this world; those who crave to feel love, but never will, and those who cannot un-feel love, and wish they were among the others because emptiness and loneliness may be just a little better than worthlessness.
But in the middle of these two chaotically different, demon-filled hells... is balance.
It's where only a few people are blessed with someone who loves them just as much as they do.
And these people live totally different lives than those of us in limbo.

I'm among those in that limbo-state. That state where you already feel dead, where the loneliness makes you feel like you're in some unknown dimension scientists won't discover for the next one hundred years.
Some people break free from this place, some remain floating like a weightless piece of plastic in the ocean, going wherever the waves take them, but never seeing anything more than vastness- always being reminded of how lost they are in the middle of nowhere.

And others... drown.
They die twice; once to join into limbo, join into the ocean.
And the second time they fall deep beneath the waves. And below this surface exists the loudest silence, the most brutal currents, the deadliest scavengers- all among those who won't wait until you've died to pick and tear at your bones.
Mohamed Nasir Sep 2018
There are days warring clouds raging in my head,
The hurtful scavengers are gathering large.
The wind howls like cats I'm worrying afraid,
Am I losing myself or am I still in charge?
I felt this way when I was in my twenties and suffered for a few years. I overcame by accepting my weaknesses. Read books on psychology. To have faith in God and in myself and to carry on to be brave.
Seb Tha Guru Oct 2018
You don’t like my hair.
You don’t like my face.
You don’t like how I talk.
You don’t like my taste.

You don’t like how I think.
But I still ask why.
You be on my back.
That why I get so high.

You don’t like how I’m quiet.
You don’t like how I dress.
I may seem like a menace,
but I clean up my mess.

You don’t like my page.
You don’t like my songs.
You don’t like my poetry.
You only string me along.

You can’t feel my heart.
You can’t clear my head.
After a couple more writings,
I’ll be long gone, dead.

You don’t like when I’m outside.
But you don’t like me blue.
You ignore all my pain.
This story ain’t nothing new.

Trying to no longer let you make me sad.
Tired of back stabbing friends, and people making mad.

They say time heals all, but I guess that’s one thing we never had.

But I have..
Worser things to stress.

I was trying to be so blind.
Learning how to be kind.
But contemplating up in my mind.
Why did I hang around some fakes.

It took Mac dying to get a phone call.
And to be honest, you was better saying nothing at all.

But I'll keep it all inside.
I will laugh on my own.
While you and your little clique stays scavengers at my throne.

Wrapping up another writing then I think of something strange.
It’s funny how, everyone you bought around said they was the same. Little did I know, you all would change.
sparklysnowflake Sep 2018
Beauty is everywhere … isn’t it?
Truth ribbons twisted into knotted nests
housing corrupt filth and crusted lies
            remain deliberately ignored
to spoil further
and pollute the air with
            smog the color of rupees and shifty eyes

why let sleeping dogs lie?

too many can crowd your Mind
steal the breath from your eroding lungs
press against the brittle glass of
            moral compasses
                        and shatter
            rights and wrongs
blur lines between
            honest ambition and power addiction
            use and abuse
            the lower classes and
                        “untouchable” garbage scavengers plastered
                                    with muck and grime
                                    too filthy for water to clean
                        deprived even
                                    of the life of a sleeping dog

absolute power corrupts absolutely
Power is not love
            whether you are crooked slumlord of Annawadi
            or All-Holy Divine Servant to God Himself
and neither is pride
Love does not burn tongues
            except when it is not
Holding me with his right hand
and scarring me with his left
is not even half-love

sleeping dogs don't deserve to lie
It is my universe to disturb
They will bite me but
the crushed Purple Hibiscus
            underneath full bellies
will unfurl their petals and rise up
Written as a synthesis of and response to Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and Behind the Beautiful Forevers by Katherine Boo
CarolineSD Nov 7
All of these fires of the heart
Burning on the surface like the last remnants of
Of a civilization nearly gone;

Huddled forms tending flames that
Beat back the dark
Through short hours
Stretched along a dying road.

Ever since I was a little girl
I knew
We would all leave here,

Are we really anything more than scattered bones
Across the open undulation of the plains?
The scavengers stretch their wings into the sky and dive
To sift through the fragments of life we
Leave behind,
No more significant than fallen leaves along the forest floor
Before the snow comes;

Yet, there is warmth in my skin so strong
It wants to burst forth and form a new star out of love;
Something that hangs above this pain
And calls rivers out to run
Across the dust of nothingness
Before the sun dies, at last.

And yet, it is not enough

To halt the trains of time.
My children and I
Sit outside a hollow station by the iron tracks
And keep these flames alight;

Their laughter,
How it
Colors the sky
Red and orange
And their souls hold back the night.

Still, beyond the shadows of our bodies at the edges of the fire,

The darkness is a tide.

What words should we speak into the void so that it does not

“He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.”

“You have to carry the fire."
I don't know how to."
Yes, you do."
Is the fire real? The fire?"
Yes it is."
Where is it? I don't know where it is."
Yes you do. It's inside you. It always was there. I can see it.”

Cormac McCarthy, The Road
L B 7d
The Harvest of Life Exchanging Itself

     “May I help you?” – More busy in my voice than hurried. A woman points to a quart of peaches she's been studying.  “Sure of herself.” I had been thinking,  “She won't buy anything else.”
Such delicate fruit—one at a time they must be placed in the brown paper bags. I've gotten quick at it.  Then the Standard: “Couple of those are pretty hard yet; Leave 'em out overnight in that bag, and they'll be ready to eat... Anything else?”

     “No nothing more,” small shake of her head.

     Late afternoon at The Farmer's Night Market in Scranton-- the intense bustle of of the early day over –  with its frenzy of bills and change and bags; a new line of faces every sixty seconds, waiting to be waited on.  Questions, peering, turning the fruit to see if one side's as good as the other, and it always is as the Michaels sell only premium fruit at their stand, where I've been “City Help” for two years.

     “No, we won't have cider till after Labor Day when the Miltons come in.”  Funny, I'm starting to sound like a farmer – even know the apples by their different tastes, appearances, and order of ripeness.  There are summer apples, fall, and the winter keepers; and a smaller, rather homely variety, MacCowans, are the best for eating.  I like Cortlands myself.  They remind me of making pies with my mother – the smell of dough and apple skins – the little scavengers waiting for the cores

     The customers have thinned now, scurrying like loaded pack mules – off to their trunks and station wagons.  I can even read their minds!  They're planning dinners, canning pickles!  Roasting corn for cook-outs, planning novel ways to prepare the bounty.  I know these things.  I've been a customer for twenty years from mid-July till Thanksgiving.

     Wiping my sweaty forearms on my jeans, I try to get rid of the prickly-itch of peach fuzz – small price to pay for the afternoons's sweetness.  Then leaning back against some crates, I watch the edges of the canvas shelters flap – storm later?  This place, I was thinking, not much changed from the markets a hundred years ago-- the gathering of life to exchange itself.  We city folk – dependent, fume breathers and asphalt beaters.  Machine-like, silly with wealth or lack; paying, playing, dining out – driving our bad-*** cars toward some goal – never enough – just to wait for old age on the steps of “check day”  Not that farmers don't have their desperate years.  Weather can't be trusted, and there's always the hosts of gnawers, crawlers, and rotters – the unexpected that comes with living things whether cows or turnips.

     I've seen it here: life exchanging itself.  The early yellows and greens of lettuce, squash, beans, and berries; ripening to August corn, tomatoes, and feathery bunches of dill.  Then descent with cooler days to pears and apples, corn, and squash. Late September brings the Indian corn and pumpkins, cider, bushels of potatoes, frosted concord grapes, and zany gourds.

     With the return of Standard Time, come the bare bulbs that light the stands of produce.  At Ruth's the sign reads: “Order Your Capon Here.”  There are hams and roasts and sausage for stuffing.  The winter apples – “Stock up NOW!”  Ideas for holiday decorations; recipes exchanged.  Bushels and bushels for the canners!  And, one farmer sells those branches, heavy with scarlet winter berries for the city doors...  “We close the Wednesday before Thanksgiving”  I always buy those berries.

Good-byes are brisk and sweet – cold breath steams the air.  City and country marking their seasons –  their lives by the market.  The warm greetings of July, “So good to see you again!”
...Marking their lives.  Our children grow so much between the markets.  Generations exchange.  This co-op started eighty years ago, 1939.  For so long, it was the last and only, farmer-owned, open-air market in Pennsylvania.  

     Generations born; some pass or retire in the winter.  Nancy never seems any older than her smile.

     The vegetables always look the same – they're not.  They are the children of last year's veggies.  I suppose if I were to come here for the first time, I would think everything hereå has always been this way.  And, perhaps, I wouldn't be so wrong.  It really didn't seem so different or so long ago in late October when I first watched the farmers huddled around kerosene heaters in parkas, rubbing their hands together, drinking soup and coffee to warm them – stamping a little – pulling off their gloves, reluctant to handle the freezing change.

     “Can I help ya?”
     “Yes... Where's the best place to store potatoes for the winter?...I'll take that one...Yeah, You got it!”

     Dust rose from the spuds, tumbling from the basket to paper bag, and I propped them in my red wagon on one side of my infant daughter.  She was bundled in a plaid wool blanket and wedged between the corn and apples.  Her cheeks were pink with cold in the midst of orange, red and yellow – the colors of life exchanging itself.
Okay, closer to prose and dated a bit-- around 1993.  Published in ergo Magazine  and this week on Facebook.  Check in now and then.  Ya never know.  I share my thinking there.
Keith W Fletcher Aug 2018
That mantle we placed upon you
Is not to be assumed
a shield or shadow to hide behind
Nor is it a place for scavengers to await
the approaching fate.... create
its own existence
So that you can then
assume a place
among the remnants left behind
.If you stand on the side
In the tangled weeds
among the reeds... thinking
Instead of acting... reacting
To all that is sinking
what now may only be
The fingers you see
above the surface
while deciding
to weigh out
all values to yourself
before making your decision
while you ignore the march of time
and the banging and clanging
those plaintive peals of Liberty
In a frantic wake up call... To all
As it echoes out...
,... among those hollowed-out
halls of Justice
so to those of you...
... with the mantle of power
that we placed upon you ...
must decide to rise up and roar... becoming
an American icon
that future generations will
look back on with honor
or will we someday realize
That by believing all these lies
accepted what we were told
Bought what we were sold
We never knew
that only The echos
of Liberty's Bell were being heard
long after the Hammers were curtailed were
all of us that you have failed
While weighing out
what values yourself
You did not stop and think
It was those
hands of time....
the fingers of fate
ringing the Alarm
until allowed to sink
into the murky history of that ever-growing swamp... while you decided to wait!

— The End —