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Miko May 2013
I love to sleep
I pretend I forget
I take it in doses
pretending I’m dead
and as I awake
It’s a shun just to know
that I’m ****** into the next day
with nothing to show
except empty lined pockets
turned out just to tell
running from this life
with soles smooth as ****
I neglect all ambition
and travel on foot
a shadow for companion
and at nights I take note
that this is not the last time
that I will fill this void
with ripped up repeats
and pieces that don’t fit
into my life
I’m a traveling band
that plays music so solemn
a soundtrack to my days
spent reused and for joy
written on misuse
and caution signs beware
that one day ill find you
and you won’t believe
the way my eyes scream for help
and you’re the air that I breathe
I’m more than depressed
more than they say
and your time won’t be wasted
on a misfit like me
I’m more than broken
I’m more than just the surface
because I used to lose control
I misplaced the intentions
but now I’m waiting here blind folded
bracing my self
waiting for the gun to go off
hoping ill be blown away
and I’ll wake up
look into that mirror
and know that someday
I’ll hear someone whisper…
“You’re the one”
Cathyy Feb 2015
When I'm at the end of my rope,
You're my only hope, you're my go to- road.
And if I leave you on a cliffhanger, a slippery *****,
Would you still give me hope? Oh darling please, don't go

Oh make a soundtrack for my life,
Make a playlist so good it'll keep me alive,
You're all I've got, all I want, and I'd let go of my alternative world, if I could keep you in this real one here..

Cause when I'm at the end of my rope,
You're my only hope,
You're my go to road.

And sometimes life is a lonely road,
But I'll hold you close, In my heart
You're my favourite poem.
Shed a few tears.
I really love someone, as well as myself and life of course ;3
unholy ghost Dec 2018
the music still
haunts me,
all those melodies
my sad little mind
made the soundtrack of
us and every
single song I've ever
loved is laced with you,
the touch and the feel and
the taste - and just like that,
I've ruined all  my favorite songs.

same way like I ruined us.
em Mar 2016
My eyelids seem
to be the strongest part of me.
When the rest of my body
falls
into the ocean
of blankets they
float open upon the white water
atop
the waves of sleep.
This is when you come back.
In this mattress I am a piece
of clay and I can still feel the deep indentations of where your fingers
wrapped themselves like Ivy around my hips.
Hips, that stuck out like white flags of surrender and
fell to the ground in a straight line.
I can still hear
you.
I am a broken record,
and your whispers are the only track that plays at this hour.
“You are fat”
“Look at how flat you are Emma, no boy will ever look at you.”
“You are ****.”
These are the nights when I can
feel the spiderwebs your words wrapped around my ribs and
listen to the way my heart beats constricted
in its cage, your hand still clenched around it.
Can’t you see me bleeding?
Safety lies
beneath my eyelids but you pull them open
I can feel
your icy touch behind my eyes as I stare
coldly at the ceiling.
you demand to be heard.
Did you mean to put your words
in my pocket when you reached in to steal the sleep that was nestled there like crumpled dollar bills?
Do you realize that you stayed with me?
Can you take your stolen midnight hours back and place them on your pillowcase?
Will your eyelids close?
Or can you still hear my cries of protest as your soundtrack plays into the night?
I don't understand?
Did you think it wouldn't hurt me?
Or did you want to live forever,so you put your
fingerprints where you knew they wouldn't fade.
This is almost the completed version of a poem I am submitting to a contest. Please please please leave feedback and suggestions. I really want this to go somewhere. I believe it is a message that people need to hear.
Sofia Paderes Sep 2018
She dreamt about you last week.

I nibbled on my breakfast today -- bread and a thinly sliced orange. It seemed enough at the moment, but I snapped somewhere. I let her tell me off for being unreasonable while her hands did dishes the way you taught her to. She never wastes water.

She said you were both running.

This morning she had tiny baby dolls dangling from her ears. Being seen doesn't bother her anymore as much as it used to, but that doesn't matter to you because you always saw her. And I'd like to think you still do. She was beautiful today. And always.

She laughed softly. "Imagine her running," she said. But somehow, I could.

Last week, she got a bright red alarm clock with a built-in radio. Old songs as much as possible, please -- the soundtrack of our late nights. The first night she figured out how to work it, I lay on the bed the same way you used to, one leg crossed and one arm over my eyes, laughing. Did you laugh? I can copy your laugh too, you know.

She said you both knew why you were running.

It's a jungle in there, and I'm not always allowed to explore. But sometimes, she lets me cross a river. Lets me through some vines. And I tell her, "Baby, I'll stand out here with my little torch and wait out the rains. I'll help you map this place out. I'm a little lost in here, but I'm not leaving until these footprints I'm following lead me right next to you." She just smiles. Did you know that your footprints are there, too? They're all over the place.

She said you made it into each other's arms.

I hadn't cried over you in a long, long time but that Sunday morning I drew her in close and we dampened each other's shoulders. Laughed a little. Cried some more. Got dressed. Carried on.

I miss having you in my dreams too, but it was nice of you to say hello. Know that you are always welcome. Maybe next time you'll stay a bit longer. We'll have your coffee ready.

Thank you. Please, come again.
Her gravestone says "You will always be loved". Miss you, Lola Chichi. Just when I thought I had nothing to write about you anymore, this poem came.
Butch Decatoria Sep 2018
The impetus
                     Of being
Always on the run
               Through pinwheel eyes
                              Those standing by
                                          The mystic roadway :    River
Blues yet to be brushed
                      or in blush
                           Of evening chill's breathing
a canvas like windows dreaming felt
All mindful
And chockfull O'
                              Wonder
Then ponder
                Yonder "window breaks"
                         Past the wilderness' sleep
Bone heavy wood
                             Umber earth

                             Past whoosh and rush of liquid
Folding on itself / a soundtrack

      Listen now
      Pedestrian be

Mindful of the cautionary whales
                                               Old Ahab’s yell
                                  Obsessions
                           Fears
                                   Or loathing.

If one is drowning in one's sleep
Look wildly
                  widely
                              Blithely
                                    Down river  
Or up there beyond finger's point
                      Sidewinder snake journeys
Until sky and below it
All meet

The distance
        Now only a line
                 Coalescing what is beyond
                      Our ability to see
Far and away
    Evanescent
         Effervescent
                     Ever after      
                             River.     Life.
Here we are
And proud
     The free spirit is fluent
           With the rapid rivers loud
                            Always on the run
Currents like a child's curiosity ...
How then,
When or why
                        does it end ?
Where do we go?
                    
Like most things existing,
           Will lead to the high art /
love's deep oceans...
          
We often forget to seek
                              And mind
                                     the sublimations/
                                                            d¬¬r­ift wood.
So then,
Begin with a dot .
A speck of dusk
                     A burst of light
                                        A starry sky,
pieces to mastering
                   Raging fragility of water

Liquid undulations  
                    Folding itself in / volumes

Or falling from on high
       A droplet cry

Then the lightning
                   (crash or bloom)
From the heavens
                                 like electric rivers
So brilliantly
                   Festoons

Where do we go (so low)
       There and here / underfoot /
                   Over north / southern sleep
                                   To oceans twilight deep?

Go wrapped or map-less
Or no.
            Up
                Way
       Up yonder
There up there
                    Everywhere
                    All without fear...
My heart like the river yearns
                 To go toward the sun
                       A flow /
                                     the beating drum
Always on the run
And
     Yet
            Still
                    Here.
Repost
I was heavily reliant on music
To make those bad thoughts go away
It's useless, you're undeserving
What's the point of living anyway?
I would run to my daydreams
Wherever my soundtrack would take me
A place where my love was whole
It always felt safer than reality
A place I yearned for
Filled with security, stability
I'd go whenever my heart was torn
There, I would mend it with my creativity
Where heartfelt cuts and bruises
Were patched up with hopes and dreams
Only to appear as fully healed
As it didn't stop the bleeding underneath
Slowly I'm cleaning my insides
Releasing the old toxicity
So I can build on those hopes and dreams
And one day be healed wholeheartedly
Butch Decatoria Aug 2018
What genius evening keeps secret… the moribund...

His foot falls to echo the chill of November deep
Tapping, clapping, wrapping
His man heavy fragility in wool

How distant and suddenly wide is the night.

What shrewd skills fear casts, a mask,
That evening keeps him wary, attentive as wax,

Shadows shed no comfort for this lamb,
His rhythm once lord of the dance
Pulsing toes as eyes flash to every creak and whisper

Depth of sightlessness made paranoid by twisted twilight
Shapes, shifting with the nerves frozen with haste…

His weakness, not knowing, a pallid winter on his face
Even now the slow climb upon his back
Carried by the slip of a breeze laying waste,
The soundtrack of dead leaves and black

His foot falls stomping to clash and map
A stroll as reality saves nothing sincere, when fear
Deepens to his bones resolve and panic...

What genius a weapon: flights of fancy
And the conditioning of youth to preconceive

The hollow of city sidewalks, midnight’s screaming chill
The mouth of alleys he passes ready to swallow him still

Strange and delicate the space between his ears
Defeated before finding a sure foot
Before reaching a well lit street

Familiar and familial suburbs of a mind
Diminished by the subterfuge of fear…

His foot falls turn a corner
And the sound of concrete and conflict

Disappear…
Repost
Jeremy Betts Feb 2018
Just look around you and you'll notice that every day there's another sucker born
Another ******* trying to pick around the thorn
But there'll never be breath blown through the victory horn and there won't be one to worn
Cause the new norm is news meant to deform not to inform
Leaving only torn fragments of real mixed with lies, a new truth is born
And it's one that defies the meaning of truth so it's armor for our thoughts and soul that must be worn

Cause it's forced upon every sense, attached to ignorance, illegal for an opinion to be drawn
It's a new dawn where rational thinking is gone, new laws signed in crayon
And it doesn't matter what **** gets passed the baton when an election comes along
Cause it was years ago that this corruption spawn with a freedom slogan button on
And it's the divide that's grown from a line to a deep chasm of a wide canyon
That'll be our legacy, the legend we pass on till we feel defeat and meet the same demise that fell upon Krypton

It's crazy how we as a society love to single out one to staple blame on, makes it simple
But every man that's held an oval as his office might as well have been a floating carcass, dead in the water from the get go
Don't just agree cause I said so, that's half the problem yo, go do your own research bro
And know that they fear intelligence so go gather up a couple library's full
And don't jump in half cocked like you only got one *******
Give it your all, **** being humble, we keep this **** up we're all in ****** trouble
So burst this bubble, let it trasnform to rubble, forget being subtle
It's time to break huddle and be a factor in this much needed rebuttal
Screamed in the face paced on this ancient government scandal

But **** it. I'm only one person and not the one to change it cause I'm not perfect
But my imperfectly perfect plan sits perched in dust, never to be touched like it's deadly sick
Like a dripping ****, you pretend you don't have it until the graphic turns horrific
Then they say it's fake news but you're looking at the problem, starring derectly at it
But it's me that's ignorant and insignificant? I see it different you one percenter *****

I have a thought, just a notion, top of my head, tell me what you think
How long can we survive on the brink? On a doomed vessel destined to sink?
Holding the knowledge of where the boat is weak, have known about the leak but putting off fixing till next week
We can see the old, rusty chain of command, it's obvious who's the weakest link
But if we the people aren't in sync we're all gonna drown in the drink
The spiked cool aids laid out just waiting for that sly wink
The nod to give the go-ahead once we're in to deep, swerling round the bottom of the sink

But there's more of us then them so I say we push back
Take the power that we hold off the rack, grow a pair of metaphorical ***** in a metaphorical ******* and attack
Put on Hatebreed as the soundtrack and dish out some payback
This is a call to all who can't just lay back like seats in a Maybach and watch the train skip off track
You don't need an almanac to predict this fact, the **** storm is here, lead by a maniac
And if we don't take our country back then it's our fault, not theirs, that the future seems black
Let that fact sink in and fill the ***** like plaque stacked from years of no contact
Then get back to me when you see clearly that the peace tready that was eagerly signed so freely is actually a death contact

You can't dispute that once you've read the small print on the back
And realize we've given to much slack but we do hold the rains, we must pull back
But mustn't hold back, can't afford to hoard the ball and record a sac
It's already fourth down and forever, standing in our own in zone taking the snap
A hail Mary is our only hope, but it might be crazy enough to be the key to the exact play we need to get the lead back
We lose this game and that's it, no respawn, no next season to fall back on, blap, extinction just like that
But **** that **** Jack, I'll fight till my last breath escapes me, I ain't going out like that
Can't give up with my back turned to a population under attack
Cowering in a ransacked bomb shelter resembling a shack
Can't do it, no matter our differences no one deserves that
But I'm going to need all the help I can get to keep this flaming wreckage off the tarmac

So please, as soon as the Kodak filters been lifted and you see the mess that we've been gifted
You'll come join the million other kindred spirits that have enlisted
No longer tainted by politicians political poison, no longer frightened
Instead, our ability to sift through the ******* has been heightened
With no blinders on now, our vision has readjusted, the true path brightened
Our senses now sharp as a tack like they've been augmented
Ready to attack, take our lives back, combat tested
And mother approved, well connected, you've been vetted
And we've all come to the conclusion that it's time this reign of terror ended
Eryri Sep 2018
Your shrill, yet oddly pleasant sound, echoes loudly down the long corridor.
I try to ignore you as the jaunty sound clashes with my melancholy mood,
Yet I find the notes and melodies cling to my mind like tissue stuck to a shoe,
Hanging on for it's own amusement,
Ignorant of my desire not to be teased nor humoured at this anxious time.

I feel I shouldn't like your racket,
My naïve ears and young years sense, not only an inappropriate comedy in your sound,
But also a daunting undertone,
Adding to my sense of having been plunged into deep icy waters.

Perhaps your music soothes those who are leaving,
Your high happy notes providing optimism and assurance of recovery,
Or of a restful sleep enveloping dear ones.
For me, however, at the point of no-return in my pilgrimage,
I hear only the low notes,
Out of time with my quickened pulse,
And lending a foreboding soundtrack to my slow deliberate steps.

But you play for no pay,
Busking in this hospital,
Doing good both night and day.
Yes, you are well known in this place,
Admired for the hours you commit to this space where lives can hang in the balance,
And where your instrument by day is a sharp sleek scalpel,
Invasive in its desire to alleviate suffering,
Your steady, practiced hand rehearsed and well versed in the methodically planned procedure of a surgical concerto.

But out of hours your instrument of choice lends you a voice,
Allowing flourishes and improvisations.
But were you aware that for visitors like me who visited repeatedly,
The clarinet would take on a significance beyond other instruments,
Taking me instantly back to bittersweet memories of visiting my family,
As, in turn, they aged and became unwell and recovered and became unwell again.

Now I am older and a little wiser,
I reflect and ruminate on this period;
My memories of family are more than just hospital visits,
And I wonder if I could ask one thing of you?
Why no Rhapsody in Blue?!
Donall Dempsey Aug 2018
MONKEY IN A RED FEZ DANCING TO ABBA

I watch the children play
on a sunny Sunday in Rotterdam

like a stereotypical alien
studying humans.

Their cries rise and fall
like seagulls as they swing

sea-sawing or blurring into one
on a brightly coloured turnstile.

A man looking
like a badly drawn cartoon

turns the handle slowly  of
a broken down barrel *****.

A monkey in a red fez
dances on the end of a chain.

The barrel ***** spews out
everything from Abba to Franz Lehar.


The decrepit old man
and even more decrepit monkey

appear as if they have
stepped out of another century.

I am far from home.
The day is dying.

I read from my battered book
Hamsun's HUNGER.

It's lurid cover torn
half hanging on/off.

The park deserted now
as night steals its colours.

The last words of
of this the final chapter

are lost to me
swallowed by the dark.

The barrel ***** peersists
the soundtrack to some forgotten film

The monkey red fez
fallen at its feet.

The monkey blissfully
asleep.

The music caught
entangled in branches and  leaves.

I watch the yellow lights
blossom one by one

a silhouette of houses
like a stage set.


Houses like cut-out silhouettes
a stage set.

The last lines revealed
under a passing  lamp

"...where the windows shone so
brightly in every home..."

I laugh at such
a coincidence.

Leave the book on the bench
for some other me

to discover
when the sun comes up.

And return
to my space ship.
In my dark room,

Listening to the ***** din of Sin

City streets

concrete weight of after hours

My window ajar

to let the outside air in

while chain smoking to the whirring sirens'

soundtrack

of harpies' in heels

clucking and squealing

(laughter as sharp as their stilettos)

midnights past

black rubber tires burnt

From black boulevards

vehicular collisions'

sounds crash stalagmite metallic

crunch

against the hum of sleeping traffic

signals

this hollow city like a wide amphitheater

with the occasional Harley motorcycle's

Growling thunderous fuss

waking car alarms

               (a choir of infants' high pitch wailing...)

The desert night's siroccos

outside my 2nd floor apt. window

in dark rooms

where my silence is a deep listener

and my mind a curious wanderer,

where the walls

not only keep out

but carry every conversation

in such a cryptic void

a spark is gleaned,

a firefly wisp of an epiphany

we are not separate

you and I

        city and fly

        burrow and groundhog

        dam and ******


we are unread books in dark rooms

waiting for the absolute

truth’s boon

we find

in one another

to be known

to be keenly seen

Igniting past horrors

loudest pains

from this city that strips us;

our pages open like Window panes

ajar...

no matter how **** the chapters

we will have known

joy being

a passerby’s “J”

Your emblazoned story

is also mine /



Up north & southern

swamp willows

breath and sultry kiss.


All humid human wish

Sweating the nights awake

Until dusk is dawn

And light drains the sinew

All screaming sins made few…


Steaming shadows

shattering length wise

In lieu

of bright carpets made of morning

Green grass and dew

still

our day yet written New...

dreamy like

fireflies in dark rooms,

a simple story

                (a night sky full of story…)

Each light our eyes touch

Fireflies in dark rooms.
Revised repost
Joseph S Pete Nov 2018
As an IU Bloomington student,
I frequently made the drive back to
the fraying rusty fringe of Chicagoland,
the land of greasy-dappled gyro joints,
of Italian Beef, and Italian Sausage,
and Italian Beef and Sausage.

Some described it as one of the most boring drives
in America, lamenting the flatness and unvarying
scenery, but I always drove it under the shroud of darkness.

Nine Inch Nails, My Life With the Thrill **** Kult, and
the Revolting ***** spilled through the stereo.
Al Jourgensen growled his strange Rod Stewart cover,
his ode to *****-*******, and his heavy industrial soundtrack
that makes you feel tense, like a prime time victim show.

As the aggressive beats and resonant past washed over me,
I realized my cozy hometown offered comfort
but could sustain no credible
fantasies of the future.
Katie Lee Jan 2
Rain pouring down into the street outside
Metal grinding above, a song of the wind
Police sirens a symphony
Mixing like a palette
A touch of Prussian blue
Accent with titanium white
Those city lights yellow ocher
Black trees anywhere against the sky
Just anywhere you like
It doesn’t matter
Just feel it
A soundtrack embedding into me
Grooves being made in a record of memories
New neural pathways
I don’t need soft noise to lull me
I don’t need warm skies
My desire for chilled walks with warm hands
Umbrellas held aloft and accepted when I could be soaked to the bone and be happy
My transient heart swells with a life that has a slight edge
It makes any fluctuations last where I know loss could seep through
Anything to pin a moment to a beating creature that never knows what will stay
In the dingy depths of despair
When the world around is speechless
Through the quiet one can almost feel
The rumble of something, breathless
Like.. the Universe is laughing
As though... It can't help but do so
Ironic tune of tragedy
A mocking soundtrack to sorrow.
When one has lost the will to fight
It is heard then, glaringly clear
A sign, that one shall entertain
Evermore, being ruled by fear.
BJ Donovan Sep 2018
Tic Toc

   The soundtrack of one's decent into madness.
   The clock rivets your attention to second hands
   exploding in real time upon your city weary mind.
   Truth is impossible to discern. ***** as the air.

   My world is my own unlike normal ones. I suffer
   all the more for it. Try living in order when you
   are denied reality. Hallucinate and speak **** at
   parties and deny god or insist on His grand creation.

   It accumulates. Crowds each way I look are monsters.
   Pills quiet my world. I can't even hear my heart.
If you've never heard silence it's a God awful sound.
   Jobs are hard to find with a history so I sell myself.

   I live within the city beneath the city with other
   madmen. We've built an empire with the trash and
   sit as kings above our subjects. We even collect taxes.
   We're mad as hatters bottom feeders like all kings.
Aaron LaLux Sep 2018
Mac Miller’s death wasn’t an Overdose,
it was a Suicide,
it was the path that he chose that’s the way it goes,
when you’re chewed inside,

when you’ve got those demons,
and even beautiful music doesn’t exercise them,
we all gotta go sooner or later,
so Mac at 26 is tragic but not surprising,

wish he’d held out for one more year,
then he could’ve gotten in the Forever 27 Club,
joined the likes of Hendrix Morrison and Joplin,
but anyways whatever it’s still all love,

even though,
it hurts so bad,
especially since I’m writing this,
to Mac’s Swimming soundtrack,

13 songs on Mac’s last album,
and the last track’s ‘So It Goes’,
and ‘So It Goes’,
is playing on a record in Mac’s final post,

one moment we’re living one moment we get ghost,
and that makes me think of Jaden,
who’s last track was Ghost,
oh God Jaden no don’t start fadin’,

you’re it man,
you’re the one,
please push past the darkness of the pain,
and shine like the All Seeing Sun,

you’re our last hope like Obi-Wan Kenobi,
so don’t shut your eyes Young Jedi,
you’ve got the torch now so let it burn bright,
because the only thing that doesn’t wait is time,

time doesn’t give a fck about clocks,
until they stop,
she puts me together when I’m out of order,
perfect,

gives me the shivers how the Lord deliver’s,
and I don’t even read psalms,
but I swear to God it was all written,
that’s why even in the chaos I’m calm,

nothing’s GO:OD in the AM,
when you’re not feeling The Divine Feminine,
nauseous everyone feels toxic and obnoxious,
you're conscious that the poison feels like medicine,

resurrected just to be dead again,

it’s scary or rather haunting how Mac’s last video,
show’d him trapped in a coffin,
with a message that read Memento Mori,
you might win some but you just lost one,

shout out to Lauryn Hill,
she lost her mind but didn’t lose her life,
see no matter how difficult things get,
you win no matter what as long as you stay alive,

and it hurts so bad that we lost him,
that even I right now feel dead inside,
better take care out there and beware,
Self Care's only effective with friends to stand by,

**** I,
want to find a way to make everything alright,
want to find a way to bring back Mac,
gone forever to that Castle in The Sky,

and I just wish I could’ve said one last word to him,
and it hurts so bad I want to cry,
see Mac Miller’s death wasn’t an Overdose,
it was a Suicide,

so if you’re feeling hurt and depressed,
find someone to get that ****t off your chest,
because you’re loved whether you know it or not,
and life’s to short for long stories or regrets,

life’s too short for long stories,
life’s too real for fake friends,
so know that I love you you can always come see me,
because it’s peace love and respect till the end,

and ****,
we lost a good one today my oh my,
Mac Miller’s death wasn’t an Overdose,
it was a Suicide,

RIP Mac Miller,
may you Rest In Peace on Cloud 9,
may you finally find that love you need,
at that Eternal House in The Sky….

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆
RIP
James Shayne Oct 2018
1.   Hi, my name is James                              ( I know that sounds like a start to a really bad dating profile but bear with me )

2. I have lived in New York my whole life, I am afraid that if I don't leave the state for college then I will never leave

3. I'm scared that I might be lactose intolerant

4. I really love the cold

5. If music did not exist then I probably wouldn't be alive today
6. Whenever I am alone I will belt out any song that I know at the top of my lungs

7. I really like to play solitaire... Online

8. I am a Russian/German Jew and when I tell people that their reactions range from "cool" to "How the **** did that happen?"

9. I have a lot of opinions

10. The movie with the best soundtrack is Guardians of The Galaxy 2

11. The TV show with the best soundtrack is Grey's Anatomy

12. When I have a panic attack I will count all the green things possible or recite song lyrics or name as many Gilmore Girls characters as I can

13. My biggest fear is never dying   I used to wish I was dead, came very close to fulfilling my desire but I'm glad I didn't because in the last few months I have met the best people ever

14. I quote John Mulaney a lot

15. I plan birthday gifts months in advance because I expect to still have someone to give that gift to I have throw out so many gifts

16. I get addicted to things really quickly and really easy, things like music, tv show plots, the fact the Mattress Firm is definitely a front for money laundering drug traffickers, also books, toxic people, and drugs      
That's the last one tends to shock people

17. I own 34 postcards, I had about 200 pins now only 17, I have a lot of funko pops maybe 70 all stacked on a shelf like a really impressive game for Jenga, I own too many keychains and way too many stuffed animals

18. My best friend was produced by GC2B

19. I used to participate in GLSEN Day of Silence all day every day
20. The words scarred and scared mean the same thing to me they overlap in my head and on my body
My scares tell my stories                      My tool of choice is not a blade or flame but my nails.
I have my anxieties stuck under my fingertips

21. In my last therapy session, I mentioned the fact that my father lives like a ninja turtle   This made my therapist laugh like really hard

22. Sometimes I think maybe I could be a stand-up comedian but no one would like me because all my jokes would be self-deprecating and I would be on the verge of tears the whole time

23. When I was younger I was told nobody likes sad people so don't be sad

24. When I was younger I was told a lot of *******

25. I'm still learning new things about me,  I'm still learning how to love me, I am nowhere close to complete, I am still growing from experiences and that is okay                          
    
Thank you for learning something about me

(Please give critiques)
ryn Oct 2018
Run the bow across the strings,
and play a tune.

Play my soundtrack.

Play it soft yet sharp
and wrenching.

Play it in the background.
Let the notes run in conflict,
depict agitation and foster
an increasing sense of foreboding.



Because I lay still this night
in perfect disharmony.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.well... a horror movie soundtrack is just a choice... there's always a loop of the song dreaming, from the coraline soundtrack; i'm such a sentimental schmuck.

fasting all day,
blood sugar levels low in
the later afternoon...
filling up on an English
breakfast leftovers past
midnight...

it's raining... and there's
still more than 3/4 of
a whiskey bottle left...
but it's raining...
and...
   i suppose i should wish
to write something...
but then... then again...

with the bedroom window
ajar...
putting on some horror movie
soundtrack...
and subsequently listening
to the rain...

do i really need another "poem"?
another, rather *******
statement concerning
flashing numbers...
in red, rather than emerging
words from a blank space?

no... not really...
there's just something about
a recalibrate of the body
after a day of fasting...
it's like ******* Ramadan
with me, almost all year round...

i guess with the whole globalist
affair... i sleep-stalking
my time in these hours...
at twenty minutes past 1am
most people are asleep...
while i'm...

   just shy of pouring myself
another drink,
and contemplating falling asleep
mingling a horror movie
soundtrack and the falling rain;

rhapsody of the most gentle
scuttling, tapping...
i call it...
    the aqua-aranea effect...
water-spider effect...
       ghostly piano of the night...
weaving a lullaby like
no other lullaby could ever
be sung;

like the hallow call of the impeding
inevitability of death -
and: that rare grace:
of primordial yet at the same time:
eternal sleep.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.             it's like...
listening to
the freddy krueger
soundtrack...
and then...
coming across
ashleys abundance
videos...

you seriously can't
make the **** up!

handshakes with your
shadow, all the way through,
in not making diary
inquisitions,
of dietary requirements.

look at me?
i know...
creepy as the ****
that isn't,
even
closely related to punk;

i had to relate to
alternative impromptus...
i was raised on original
*** Godzilla movies...
i was questing for
an alternative to ****...

can i confiscate an teenage girl
with raspy voice?
   yes? no?
  **** it... lets go!
    **** for bagpipes!

god almighty,
this alternative to ****...
late teen girls merely talking...
  about their dietary schematics...
oh yeah... date no. 1...
me?
i already have my issues...
i'm a heavy drinker...
i'm not looking for a date,
i'm looking for a ******* dog.
NC Burchett Jan 15
The drone of the bedside fan
a soundtrack to a racing mind
as the anxieties elucidate

The comforter grows heavy
a slab of lead pinning me here
splayed like a corpse

A boundless dark without horizon
where I float disembodied
treading eternal
(for my fellow dharma bums)

why is this backpack so heavy?
chicken & country cole slaw
forks & knives & spoons
a bicycle helmet hanging off
a sketch pad
books
          the next 100 years
          how the beatles destroyed rock’n’roll
a walkman & cds
          the soundtrack to the darjeeling limited
          faust’s first two albums
          tom waits & alan holdsworth
          compilations of local prog rock
          modern blues & albert king
old newsweeks
a black t shirt & blue scrubs
a folder with poems & instructional material
          the brain death protocol
a stethoscope
but why is it so heavy?
must be the hot sauce
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
a bit like listening to
enya's take on the lord of the rings
soundtrack...
who, the ****, wouldn't
wish to drown, listening
to these Celtic mermaids?
i know i would...

the lunch?
salad....
  cherry tomatoes, fresh pepper,
fresh chillies...
      guacamole with chillies...
god, infused with lime...
greek goat's cheese...
           crunch iceberg lettuce...
and?
****... must have missed somethng...
well...
there was also prosciutto...
like i once said:
i hate bacon...
    prosciutto?
             give me a bucket-load
and i'll play the chipmunk...

   god i hate bacon...
ugh...
     it's lile eating gorilla turds
with a comparison
to what tuna steaks will never be,
and what smoked
salmon slices share with
prosciutto...

the bits that make a whiskey...
smoked salmon...
           if the Japanese will not
entertain salt in their sushi?
**** it...
we'll smoke the ******* out...

what a glorious statement of
attaching oneself to hubris...
  and the Celtic mermaids?
one question:
can i drown, right here and now?!
i want to drown!
i want to turn into a merman!
i want to cry!
oh god... for all eternity!
i want to cry!
i want to cry when
beauty is expressed so piquantly!

i want to be acknowledged
my by second mother, art,
who would never dare
to engage in the ancient greek
ritual of placing two coins
over my eyes to pay
Charon...

             oh sweet Celtic mermaids
from a missing Odyssey!
I.R.A.: punch the grieving
paw of the Anglican lion
surrendering
with a take on dentistry!

i want to drown...
   you songs turn the salty
seas into sugary fountains!
   i want to drown!
embraced by your voices
in the choir or the echoing
chambers of oyster shells!

   i never liked sushi to begin
with...
either the north sea smoked salmon
slices...
or the Baltic Sea raw herrings...

                 the English?
leave them...
   congregating on the money...
surmounting there sphere of influence,
the Atlantic Ocean that becomes
a pond...
   leave them... bestow a leverage of
stalling them...
         keep them comfortable...
keep them exclusionary...
  keep them: 50+ years too late...
that will buy us time...

           keep them sifting through rat ****...
we need them disorientated,
looking at a cul de sac,
rather than a road with, other, road
genesis injunctions
of what life, twist and burden turn
we have to share...

         now... i don't cry because
i'm sad...
      i cry... when beauty is made
sacrificial...
             and since so few cry at beauty?
i have to cry...
because?
  whatever is being regurgitated
mainstream?
   does not gravitate me
to the necessary emotional stratum...

all i can think of is...
  
               Celtic mermaids of Ireland...
and drinking buddies of Scottish
trans-gender kilt highlanders,
Welsh longbow men spies
   of Swansea...
   and the English?
guess it's just a case of talking:
"right across the... 'pond'"...
     like ******* are...
pond people my ******* god...

          i would have feigned the delusion
of... a shared tongue = a shared
cultural reference!
but in sudoku?!

   linear + sq. ≠ diagonal -

England and the U.S. and Australia?!
a dog barking up the wrong tree...
it always was, it always will be...

          i'll rephrase my concept
of England and America...
   being "specially" connected...
what? like retards?!

                        Pontius Pilate:
i'm washing my hands clean of the affair...

ask a Swiss... what he might have felt
about **** Germany!
no?
                           no what?!

      this country already constituted
a perfected allowance to deem my
ethnicity equivalent to vermin,
rats.... foxes...

     well... better this commentary
stays underground...
i wouldn't want some, ******,
reading this sort of wording;

mind you, he, it, she, they,
might forget it 10 minutes later.      

god, i hate bacon...
   but prosciutto?
                            as long as it's combined
in a salad...
  with fresh veg., and greek
goat's cheese...
    no, *******, problem!

SPRING ONIONS!
Johnny Noiπ Dec 2018
At the house of Viennese, Gilgamesh's actors
and team members were transformed into Batist
heroes. Sea to sea and in the future for Russia,
green and green. Kay Nielsen's Essay allows
you to swim in the North Sea and give the
animals to Berlin. When he was about to leave,
he was born into a future baby. The best of the
best soundtrack players is the best and best
playlist. Chinese Stars Museum of the Museum;
Museum of Saudi Arabia 1 Saudi Arabia
helps to improve their alcohol consumption
needs Health Care Neurons System.
Women's clothing; Six women. He was a small
member of parliament in the organization.
D Badar Today, Bugan, the author of the group,
the author. Indeed, the Signs of our Lord
are indeed an adornment by the stars.
Although Bishop Christopher came from
the Heavenly House in the courtyard of God's
house, in Heaven, Dry and Rough through
at home. Hutch At least 10 percent of the
acoustic and six hundred years of a song
or GH to Guru ★ ◆ ◆ ◆  
was an African composition,
but a perfect compass. Fifth
Mark is thought to be Africa's
longest Karl Marx,   the fifth
lifestyle leader.  It is not unusual
for women to make women,
as much as women in Swat.
Water color What is the color
of the water? This man is a
persecutor. After spending all
the wildlife dreams, they are
willing to sell the finest
Arabs, bestsellers, and Arabs.
For example, you sell grocery
and have bullets for sale.
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