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70 Percent Feb 2018
Why are all of these poems, published on this site, either about *** or depression?
I mean, that's generally what sites like this are for, but come on.
Write something fun.
Faith Jan 2018
Yes. Oh, yes i did. God

Erased of Contact. Not erased when DRUNK....

HOW THE HECK WHY THE FUDGE AND CRACKERS AM I ALLOWED TO DIAL PHONE WHEN 4 DAYS AGO TO DIAL... WAIT FOR IT... WAIT

My frickin exs number

Lovely to awaken see the PHONE

LOG.....NO.

SERIOSLY. TELLING TRUTH...

HES ******

BUT.. ( DRUNK ME WANTS TO TALK TO HIM)

SORRY TO MYSELF.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/                        kneeling? seriosly?!
             can't we accept this act,
counter to standing,
as...
                fruitously-"intuitive"?
to mimic:
          a, "minding a cohort"?
                    death by abundance?!
val kilmer
         in kiss kiss bang bang?
                 like spitzer on anabolics;
       worth contemplation
                                 akin to jerking off to
a "mind", of a toilet paper wrapping
inside of
                      a bottled glue
                                           ooh-moment
of oozing out
                     the necessary extract.
kneeling...
      kneeling...
                          ­ seriously?
                     that's a "bad", "thing"?
church comes... you kneel!
           what's so bad about that,
and there nothing being bad
about a church-state fission
   explained by excess export dynamism
to countries outside
the u.s.?
    you can't, really, can you?
     america all export all extrovert
and then the "shy", introvert
europeans?
                       no woo'm'ah no cwy
bob marley type of
scenario?!
           ****...
       forgot my barth roberts' lost beard...
and m'ah umbrella!
woof woof!
   started to call her: ride on, anna!
barbados via bonkers:
and the pristine
   Cheshire (chess, make a move =  dire):
copper-skinned
                    mixology of *******
evaluations to market standing, army like,
                           up-right: schtiff!
harp of wanting a loss of silence,
   against an itchy finger -
and a heap of hay -
   with a "missing" needle...
            that's a double metaphor that is...
are these poets sure
that they didn't loose a nail
in that bundle of hay?
    perhaps a squinting eye?
     or a lung to admit the circumstance
of drowning?
no?
                              too bad.

— The End —