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JJ Hutton Apr 2013
we, mistakes made in groping dark,
ironed and cheekkissed happy accidents,
told we arrived by love, and our purpose forward: to love.

we were chocolate milk runners.
we were completion grades.
coloring sheets of MLK and jagged cutouts of billy goats.
we were girls in sequined jeans with scraped knees.
on the basketball court we pushed pigtails to concrete.
rumors of us kissing in the lobby waiting for our rides
did circulate.

we, skinny white girls of Moore, Okla.,
skipped supper and laid at the feet of TV-watchers
like bleached branches of fallen oaks garnishing their standing brothers.

we were doorbells.
we were passenger seats.
peeking in the teacher's edition and handshaking answers in fluorescent bathrooms.
we were the first ones on the bus and the last ones off.
knees to chin, untied laces on heater's ****, winterlong sweat factory.
rumors of us agreeing to go to prom over fourth-period lunch
did circulate.

we, writers suffered writers' morality,
disregarded right, wrong, norm; lounged, waiting to be under the bus,
suffering for the story. tense matchstick lovers --  dim light for a moment and then.

we were someone else's *******.
we were someone else's hairpins.
as whatever ran so hot in us cooled, dried on thrift store comforters,
so did we. ceiling fans and ***. fingernails and boxed wine.
rumors sustaining.

and so it came, after announcements, after invitations,
after subbing in one bridesmaid for another, we were getting married.
we were grooms with empty pockets and full of sound advice.
our fathers took us behind the church,
chaplipped our foreheads,  and said,
"I know, we promised you were made from love and to love.
But I gotta be real honest here. You were made from whiskey.
And there's always the distillery."


we were jobless in wrinkled suits.
we were brown shoes; black belts.
and this will look good on your resumé. and this will look good on your resumé.
translation: how about ******* this ****? or how about this one?
a resumé was one page. we couldn't fit all the ***** on one page.

we, beardheavy and deodorant-streaked,
lived in dream houses in Ulysses, Kan., drove dream Tahoes,
watched dream Netflix, next to  portly wives who looked like
QUEEN MOTHER OF ALL THE BROTHELS OF THE LOWER MIDWEST.

we were childless.
we were wanting.
after consulting a physician and a bottle of whiskey,
we lifted and pinned the sagging belly of our wives with
a wooden board. one good **** in. one borrowed pregnancy test.

and so it came, the weddings of our sons. behind the church,
we took them aside and said,
*"I know, we promised you were made from love and to love.
But I gotta be real honest here."
Thia Jones Mar 2014
Time passes, as time does
we text about this and that
inconsequential things
life and other chit chat

Then I confess I miss you
you say you miss me too
your virtual return is immanent
can we pick up once more
from where you left?
you ask me to please, please say yes
how can I refuse?
that's not something I can do
not when the one who asks is you

Yet something in me has changed
my inner subby needs to emerge
the one who made that clear
stands in the wings, cajoling
and when your return is delayed, I succumb

Then, when you arrive it's no contest
I'm yours, there's no doubt
you offer me your Dominance too
that's something you feel you can do
it'll suit you better than subbing
I have doubts this is the best path for you
at least, until you've learned to let go
but I can't be the hand to guide you
at least not now,
not at this point of my own journey

And though I know you can't really be mine
still my need for you outweighs all these things
only with you can my heart have wings
and I accept on these terms
I'd accept on any terms at all
because life without you is unthinkable

We build castles that are too large or too small
we build pubs and houses that aren't castles at all
then you find one the right size
with rooms to explore
I furnish it when you're not there
hang art on the walls and more

Though I call you 'Mistress'
we carry on as before
until the day when suddenly
that word means more

Out of the blue my kiss is refused
no explanation, no warning
the rules have changed
I'm hurt and confused
the pain goes deep
and I'm rebuked
I blink back the tears and slowly adjust
this isn't unwelcome, just too sudden
but we get through
then both surrender to lust

That night the emotions flood
as do the tears
something beyond sub drop seizes me
there's the fear that from now on
the protocol will rule
that spontaneity is gone
that the ease of communication is broken
that too much will now remain unspoken
the initial hurt of your rejection
of my kiss returns
deep down inside it burns

I have to explain
that a gradual path
would have caused less pain
that negotiation and consent
are needed at each step
but you hear criticism and ingratitude
that I'm rejecting your gift
when what I wanted all along
was to build something that was ours
not to have another's form of control
adopted and replicated by you
that it was always about loving you for you
not so much about needing you
to be a particular way
but you're not hearing
and you say we won't try that again
it turns out to have been the last time
we made even virtual love

Once again the gaps grow
the distances expand
your appearances are further apart
I feel the need to say something
to tell you I feel I'm expected
to give out more and more
while getting less and less in return
that something needs to change

But when I see you next
you steal those very words from my mouth
and turn them against your other half
who constantly asks more from you
but offers less to meet your needs
(those same needs I'd give anything,
have already given so much, to meet)

But I bite my tongue
reflect on the irony
and offer you more
offer you sympathy
try to make it better
because I love you

After that, things move faster
her body clock is ticking down
she needs to feel new life grow within
but this is a step beyond for you
not a thing you're ready for
you move out yet it's several days
before you tell me this

I'm hurt again that you didn't
immediately turn to me
yet this is the seed of realisation
that we won't ever be
though the seed doesn't yet take root
for a while yet, hope remains

Then you say you're broken
you stand at the crossroads
say you know which way to turn
say you know your relationship
isn't right and must end

I weep for your pain
yet am filled with hope
that soon it'll be resolved
that at last I'll hold you
and call you mine

Later I learn that even as you tell me this
you tell another that you know you must return
yet are tempted by the attention of another
I wonder if this temptress
is chocolate valentine Argus woman
or yet another so far unmentioned

When next we talk
you have returned to her
yet have made your position clear
by staying out all night
and my heart sinks
it matters not who or what
entertained or sustained you
through that night
but that once again
you hadn't turned to me

I try to make these feelings known
we argue
and neither of us
can do this
any more...
This is the third part of my 'After Midnight Suite.
Dark Smile Jul 2017
the voice in my mind can't possibly be my own
i've never spoken such cruel words to anyone
why would I do that to myself?
it must be a demon,
roaming my mind,
using  my own voice against me
to make me feel unloved
unwanted
replaceable
urging me, after every small incident
to **** myself
i'm worthless and no one would care after all
to the demon that rules my mind,
you've gone and made yourself at home
4 long years and counting
you've reduced m to tears more times than i can possibly count
i did not invite you in
one day,
during a vulnerable time,
the door was left open,
and you strolled in as though you owned the place
made yourself a cup of tea
made my body your entertainment system
broke me
over
and over
had be subbing till i had no more tears
had me wishing i was dead
it looks like you're her for the long run.
Well, in that case,
we better lay down some rules?
I'm in control and I always will be,
no matter how you may make me feel otherwise
i am the master of my own body.
i have a sad feeling those rules will never be followed
and my mind will continue being its playground
my soul an trampoline
and my body an artwork exhibition
M Nov 2013
Today, I found beauty in hairy arms and a receding hairline.

My substitute for my English Literature class was a man. His name is Danny. He's short and a little fidgety, gesticulating with every word he speaks. His voice is moderately deep, strong and clear. He's attentive, though his fidgetiness makes him seem a bit scatter brained. His white t-shirt with a few buttons on the top and brown pants were rather plain. Rather, his attire was practical. Alongside his 5 o'clock shadow and glasses, he's average. He's your average middle-aged man, subbing an American Literature class.

But he isn't average. He's passionate. He knows what he's talking about. He's descriptive, knowledgeable, well-rounded. He's excited to examine and read and understand literature. He's genuinely excited to unearth the underlying meanings of our most recent readings. You can tell in his spazzy hand movements when he gets excited, or when he pushes his hair back and readjusts his glasses when he's in the middle of a thought. You can see it in his thoroughness of his explanations.  He's engaging- he talks to and with us, not at us. He loves his job, he loves his work, and it's very apparent.

So Danny is beautiful. I think he is beautiful because of his passion. It caught my attention and it has me hooked. For this first time this semester, I want to go to this class because I know he'll be there, eager to explain the reading and ask us what we think about it too.

People, I beg of you to be like Danny- find what you love, immerse yourself into it. Your passion for your work will flow out of you and captivate you to your core. When you're that invested, it becomes infectious. Others will be captivated and immersed as well, even if it is more so in you than it is in your passion. Passionate people are alluring and captivating. I think that's beautiful, more so than other things a person could be. It's beautiful to be so passionate about something that you exude and live it, almost as if your passion were the air you breathe.
lmnsinner Sep 2017
writing for non-recognition**

“It was exhilarating to get the chance to be useful, which is always an issue for a writer.”
          Garrison Keillor


a hundred readings, so flattering,
the heart tickled, nicely fluttering,
then one day it is a thousand,
and the crushing soul flattening
has set a new higher,
a low base needs an achieving
in every thing

**** writing for recognition,
need a few thousand, ten will fill the bill,
now
to consider myself ok average,
which shhh,
I know I am

now have to choose each word
with great daring caring,
worthy of the great writer
whose devotees demand,
offer a simple choice, want want
pleasured ooh ah's of perfection or
face sacrifice
on the poetry altar
of the Feed Me Seymour plant of
being ignored to a
vegetative death

**** writing for recognition,
you want my I-curse,
steal my purse,
reach in, take my cigarette styx,
exhale a **** poem

**** writing for recognition,
please don't read my hand crafted,
diamond cutter designed,
succulent crap
go away, don't like me, and for god's sake
don't dare love me,
that's a killer,
then my busted ballon ego can't be taped
back together again by Humpty Dumpty's men

after this will never revisit the prior past,
that will not - shall not exist

one anonymous poet
spilling with unfazed unglued fluency
disregarding what pleases,
writing spilling that which surged
that electrify
my soul
and then never
to them return

**** writing for recognition,
no more subbing
no more sinning
no more using
just me using me
up
Chloë Fuller Oct 2014
I dress and hold you
like a child
your pheromones intoxicating me
coughs
snores
gentle moans that require attention
bed shifting
the texture of the sheets subbing together
this is our symphony
I'm drunk off the scent of your hair and skin
artists created Gods in your image
shadows highlight your emaciation
static.
vibrato from sing-alongs
red wine and irish whiskey are bringing us together
and tearing us apart
we are both pilgrims
and
we are both savages
grabbing at my shirt like a little baby who needs his mommy
we sing to your body so
ceremoniously
nuzzling, rolling, blushing, adjusting
our souls require choas
clumsiness excused
something i wrote last spring for my boyfriend
Willoughby Oct 2018
Coming soon, the Willoughby gift shop featuring tee shirts with the thumbs up logo on front for only $89.99.  Made from 100% fabric like material.

  Also a novelty flammable plastic oven mitt from Mustard Joe called," ***** catch-up, I want Mustard"!  Made in Vietnam as a friendly gesture, to the very people he used to shoot, maim, ****. You don't even want to know the things he did over there!

  Anyway, stop by the gift shop. Pendulum Pam works there and she's worth the price of admission on her own (that reminds me, the price of admission is 25 dollars to the gift shop).

   Willoughby is absent this week with an STD which I think stands for "some kind of transmitted disease".  Like the flu or something.

   Subbing in is me, Creepy Ray Ray (Mustard Joe wasn't available due to an appointment with his lobotomist - You don't even want to know the things he's seen or what's inside his head).

                           Creepy Ray Ray life tip #1

   When eating human flesh, and I'm not admitting that I ever have, braise quickly on both sides and let simmer in a light sauce as it tends to be tough to chew and somewhat gamey.  I lost a crown off a tooth chewing it once.
Greetings from the gang: Willoughby--"I'm the world's first shock poet".
Creepy Ray Ray--"Send me some body parts, pretty please with sugar on top"?  Mustard Joe--"Two tours of Vietnam! You don't even want to know the things I've seen".  Pendulum Pam--" Quit staring! My eyes are up here. I'll slap you silly".
Destiny Berry Mar 2019
according to wiki, inner peace refers to a deliberate state of psychological or spiritual calm despite the potential presence of stressors. what they fail to mention is how can one gain peace of mind? no matter how “unbothered” you verbally say you are, your actions of eye rolling in their presence, subbing them on your twitter, and typing their username into the search bar says otherwise. you can block them on social media, delete every picture you’ve taken with them, even burn what used to be their belongings. below all of that rage and anger, there is hurt. no one deliberately chooses to lose someone in their life, especially one they’ve once called a (best)friend, boyfriend, girlfriend, lover, etc. but when fallouts happen, we get angry. we feel misunderstood. we say things we may or may not mean. to hide our vulnerability, we put up a front. because as long as it looks like we’re okay on our social medias, who cares about what’s going on internally right? and this is where we go wrong. inner peace isn’t about looking good, it’s about feeling good. it is a place of ease, of calmness. there is a stillness in your mind even when you peep things that would normally have you screenshot and send to the group chat. on this journey, you will need to practice forgiveness (not for them, but for you), take responsibility for your actions and learn not to put the blame on others, disconnect yourself from anyone who makes you doubt their intentions, and replace the ones you let go of with individuals who radiate nothing but positivity. accept things for what they are, accept people for who they are; when people show you their true colors, believe them the first time. giving someone the benefit of the doubt nowadays is a dangerous thing because you never know what you get in return. have patience, any kind of transformation will take time, this one especially. never lose focus, keep in mind where you’ve been and promise yourself to never look back. to those who was in need of this message, i wish you well on your journey.

- d.berry
The Big House  

I could not live in a house with many people
Voices at all hour of the day no privacy the precious moment
When the world rolls slower and I can hear time's clock tick
In a house full of people there is a din of violence to come
And whispering sin at night
Flushing toilets, subbing feet
The tears of the misbegotten those who are cheated on
Drunken brawl screams and police sirens.  
TV that is full of banalities
Every news programs from the same supplier.
To live in a house full of people must be very lonely
With no time for reflection
Intrigue me, no wait, no sorry,
Am not baffled, despite the world deceive me,
Boy not even grown, only ten,
Mother's son want to live no more.
Standing on a broken forefront,
Of a high tower,
The boy is under the ticking
Clock.
The clock strikes nine,
The boy life flash before his eyes,
Fill with tears and contempt,
He made his mind up to jump to
Death.

No!!
Make sense out of this before you
Jump,
Don't rush, don't shake nor stump.
Only ten and you wanna die, sister falls, big brother crawls and mather cry,
He said my father is not here never will be because he died.
Leaving me inna world after so much torture and abuse.

Look me in the eyes, and tell me not to cry,
Or "Don't worry boy" it would be fine.
Oh do it and don't you lie, I have no pride, my childhood yet early manhood taken tragic the scare upon my soul.
Deep he cut, deep he injured my poor fragile life,
My mind now know too much pain for it's age,
And my heart knows too much sorrow before it's stage.
Let me jump, let me meet him and look him in the face,
The face of a drunk, disgraceful liar,
Who prey upon the little children,
So defenceless, mostly weak.
A catastrophic stature of hatred and grievance in my little heart,
Ain't my father suppose to teach,
Instead he broke me apart.

Tick tock, time is passing, clock keeps ticking, child keeps subbing.
As help rush, with such pace,
Like lightening from the sky they went up the tower,
The boy's power, lessens by the hour, his pressure drops then rise,
Like yeast in flour,
Suicide, no premeditated manslaughter,
The boy under the ticking Clock, rain pours down, what an unholy
Shower.
Tock, the clock strikes six, the heavens opens, car doors closes
The press cameras captures,
Stumble raptures of poor Casper's little light slowly dims.
While he falls to uncertainty below all pain and unexpectations.
No more to be, pain from daddy yet he went brave to meet,
News day and ah new day, such a
Terrible sight,
He died in such terrible way
On the headline, the newspaper it say,
Boy under the ticking Clock
Realeboga M Sep 2020
There's quite a lot that I could put to words.
And to be fair subliminals aren't my forte.
But consider today a different story.
There's just so much I'd want to relay.
But so little ways to convey.
Without getting in trouble that is.

I'm not saying much,
But I'm saying everything all at once.
Can you tell I'm subbing you?
Snow 1956

Snowy night, streets were covered in a calm,
carpet of white and since it was Sunday morning,
with few cars about, the grubby town looked as
beautiful as a fairy tale; till Monday, when traffic
would churn snow into yellow, ***** slush and
people, in black or drab grey, would have mist
coming out of their mouths as they moaned about
the weather. In the park, the snow would last for
days and I could make my footprints large by
subbing my feet on white ground land contrasting
black trees and pale sky made for stark beauty; in
front of park benches where old men sat, talking
ships. Tobacco spittle. Winter 1956, colours only
appeared in comic strips, and in western movies.
Infamous one Nov 2022
R69
Writing about it is the best feeling
Experience it makes it more rewarding
Things don't happen right away
Turned out better than expected
A late kiss that finally happened
Asking a girl out and she says yes
Not sure how to feel or react
Getting the job years of subbing
Treating it serious now it's happening
Working out seeing results come together
Due to dedication hard work motivation
After years of things being plateo
Finally rise up to the next level
Not getting a crush to end up let down
Trying those feelings that are unsettling
Appreciated ones company being alone
Processing making sense of things
Exploring ideas the creative process
Infamous one Oct 2023
T88
You dk my story or what it took for me to get where I'm at. The sacrifices made for a job. Subbing for 7 years lots of time conflicts giving up jujitsu.
Saving up for school to finish something that was started. Being called a college drop out ridiculed by family. Trying to have saved money for a car that might mess up or go on the frits.
Held back on dating saying once I'm a full time permanent I'd ask this girl out but this cockblocking job. The girl I wanted to ask out is now married. We talked about things I was able to open up and share never made my move. I had an opportunity but never took the risk.
Now working to keep up with health insurance because finding out you have cirrhosis is no joke. You have to diet and change your lifestyle the fear of dieing. Trying to be strong through this wait the transition. Life on hold waiting for the procedure hoping to be normal enjoy a meal without fear.
Not use to special treatment or expecting to be babied. Grew up with tough love No one did anything for you. If you want it you get out there get it your **** self. Not use to waiting on, or relying on others patients is tough.
Some days I want to cry and scream
Other days I feel numb and empty inside
Learning life's not fair not always about you
Being criticized by family and friend making you want to shut them up prove them wrong

— The End —