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Carter Ginter May 2014
Sitting here trying to make small talk, I'm going insane, we're all insane.
Broken topics over chips and salsa, god its so bizarre, I don't understand how "normal" we all are.
I keep my mouth semi-full so I'm unable to speak, I can't stand myself, ****, why am I so weak?
Why does this bother me so? It's like no one even knows,
the truth,
be told it's a mess, I can't stand too much more of this, someone relieve me from this **** before it makes me sick..
All the underlying problems...drink to numb the pain but those same drinks taketh life away.
And I don't mean with death, for life still moves on, but it's broken into pieces and it's better off gone.
Cause one needs it to stay strong and the other knows that lifestyle is wrong:
Substances don't bring you happiness, they don't fix your pain, they ruin relationships and families all the same.
But we sat and we talked, topics in no particular range, and what hurts is seeing how things both have and haven't changed.
The connection is there, but the love has departed; neither hope nor intention to go back and restart it.
And now we're driving away and nothing is said, no mention of the insanity that hides in my head,
No acknowledgement to the tears I watch my own mom fight back..similar to the sick truth the whole situation lacked.
I don't like pretending that things are normal when they aren't. I had to go to my step moms house with my mom and it was sad to see how things are now and try to have 'caring' conversations. I love them both but its hard and I don't enjoy it.
ymmiJ Apr 15
I LOVE YOU, you'd say
in the sand, by hand, with care
that spot, every day
Pagan Paul Apr 23
.
Wouldst thou not gaze again 'pon this humble fool?
For 'tis his script that doth countenance histories,
hence future repeats be 'pon his wither and whim,
thou shouldst see twice his story woven sisterlies.

Wouldst thou not read more of this humble fool?
Mayhap his words doth soothe thy enquiry,
his want and wander leadeth to a contentment,
thou shouldst not ignore content of ye Fool's Diary.

Wouldst thou not focus true 'pon this humble fool?
Perchance his poems doth resonate sweetness unbound,
pray do a'linger and a'loiter 'pon his fancy delicacies,
thou shouldst taketh thy fill of love and wisdom found.




© Pagan Paul (22/04/19)
.
Follow up to poems Fool's Diary and Fools Diary (Addendum)
posted on Mar 6th and 8th 2019
.
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
observe the reader,
this semi-mythical figure
watch a blank white wall slowly turn into a mural,
a tapestry of vivid vignettes
captured by a team of illustrators.
stimulating and fiercely polite.
sandal-wearing earnestness,
curious, questioning, quick to laugh.
Bite the hand that feeds, but not too hard.
pull for the powerful and the talented,
the wittiest and best-designed,
the strongest for features,
the one most likely to reflect modern life.
disclosing its own sardonic wit.
This is where its culture has changed.
a farrago of power, corruption and lies,
The story erupted across all the media.
shining a fitful light on the mucky machinations of power.
the trail of dirt led all the way to the desk.
speaking truth to power
a defining moment in history.
a nice obit without going to the trouble of dying.
abiding belief in the free market
the seeds of its demise.
millions graze on it for nothing
This is not boom or bust, but both at once:
these millions of hits won’t pay our salaries.
The web giveth, and the web taketh away.
the knife had come close to the patient’s vital organs.
a chance to sculpt as well as to slash.
twiddling the knobs on digital.
glimmerings of light
you can learn new tricks.
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. source - https://www.1843magazine.com/content/ideas/tim-de-lisle/can-guardian-survive
Juhlhaus Jan 13
The sweet kiss of the young sun
And a bitter embrace
Begin another day.
Do people still die in the cold?
Trains and warm cars keep it at bay.
Could one bewitched by this light
Receive its kisses
While losing his life?
The universe giveth and taketh away.
Kat Aug 2018
I.
The armless maiden was your favorite bed-time story.

He ties my hands behind my back while my heart sings:

Here he comes! My king of the Nile!

For whom I will fight the gods with my womanly magic,

the spells of a women who’s eager to wield away

swollen lips and stained sheets

and her stained soul.

Let me tell you a tale of consumption,

of the flame and the burnt child:

He shoots an arrow into the darkness

and I beg to run after it.



II.

Cinderella is hanging from the ceiling. Her body dancing in crystal light.
Funny,
how it reminds me of the pink tutu still somewhere in my closet.

Never the graceful ballerina or the mother of the falcon,

only the princess in rags, even clumsy in my desperation,

even unable to make you smile a little.

My shakal faced God, my butcher,

you who giveth and taketh.
responding to dead poets
Izlecan Sep 2018
On the heap,
Thou dangle and screech
And bedeck, for I seemingly espouse.
The anecdotes and myths:
Engaged in a mutual pose.
There comes the hymn,
And the sway and the hum;
The abnormality and the deform
Halted on a single stance.
To dozen of the tokens
Whom I prejudged;
The prevalence of the chaos
That sleeps merely on my tongue.
To all the estrangements
From which I refrain,
Within the bawl of the tantrum, upon the hook of the day.
Farewell to all, farewell the haze
Farewell the cluster,
To the resolution found within a fane;
Where rituals confuse,
Where the practice becomes a fame.
There thou taketh solely,
A hymn and an interminable haze.
Whats the sense of the ovation
When no screen displays
A mourning motion
For which no motion craves?
I sigh, and mumble
To which mere consciences giveth
To me only, mine solely.
His to hear and his, keenly.
Lie down, o' so gently
in thine room full of thorns
where the floor is clothed with envy
and thyself full of scorn.

thine walls are about to shatter
with the windows open wide
the door? It' does not matter
Thou shan't get out alive

thine roof is giving in
with the ceiling on thy head
no, there is no trying
to get up from thine death bed

But then Thou cometh and rescue
How could I even ask?
Save me from my misery!
free me from my mask!

Thou taketh me up through chimneys
and jump off the highest tops
basking in Thine own glory
the moment suddenly stops

Thou giveth me a kiss
Then bid me goodbye
and said not to forget
that I could always try
these walls are breaking down/ a revision of 'The Room and the Redeemer"
Derrek Faraday Oct 2018
The human is the subject
The tale, the prefect
The hero’s sternum, stripped away
Naked and bound to be flayed

The gilded wings are neutered
The silver hand, a looter
The loss of death’s pointed sway
Nullified in vain tirades

Give the haggard hero
My anorexic steed
Feed him the head of Nero
And distill his mead

There lies a ***** paper sheet
There begs the tar-kissed feet
There lies the war to be found
Through disbelief in holy ground

There is the gun that beheads a child
There sulks a maid, ragged and mild
There strolls a girl, wed and profound
Though she knows of the **** behind Maker’s Mound

Give the sickened hero
My neurotic nun
Show him his head of Nero
Taketh from thee thy sun

— The End —