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Louis Verata Apr 22
I'm next to a bus stop while someone
Throws away leftover peanuts.

I'm in a classroom the clock goes tick tock
With balled up paper and of course
Missed throws that went past my rim.

It's past dusk in downtown
To those who aren't hired
I keep warm with my brimming fire.

Somehow be it by chance or Providence or fate
A diamond found its way to me
No one notices it because of what I am, a trash can.
L B Dec 2017
from a dream*

...My student's name is Ari
and he's dying...

“No serious talk today!” he warns
He wants to laugh –
and so we do

He wants the Patriarchs and Prophets
on this tropical island
He names them doing something funny
and I pick up where he leaves off--
with the second line:

      “Elijah, with his ravens on a blow-up raft...”
     “...Ascends with ham sandwich, sipping wine!”

    “Jeremiah throwing mud *****...”
    “ Zedekiah's white garage!”

We rewrite the Old Testament
laughing till we cry

“Now that's what I'm talkin' about!”
He's pumped
and kicks that rebel trashcan 'cross the room
...and suddenly shouts out--

“For everything there is a season...!”

I do not finish this one....

“I'll tell Solomon you said Hi”

...and in that moment half aware...


I'm wearing a grass skirt
in someone else's dream

I'm on Instagram
and I don't know how I got there

I have coconut halves for my ****
but for the life of me –
can't figure
how to keep them on

So I let them sway with my grasses
to the languid freedom of marimba music
toes clutching warmth of sand
No one here to see
but Instagram?

Nagging in the background:
How did I ever get here?

Dreaming like this... right?
Thanks to Anon for the suggestion to switch the order of the two pieces to this dream.  Yes, definitely makes it more sensible.

These two different dreams just somehow blended together.

I have never been to the tropics, but it's nice to dream, seein' as how it'll be
3 degrees here tonight.  I've worked with kids and as a teacher in public schools, so I guess that's where the rest comes from--that, and I've read the Old Testament.
Anonymous4070 Dec 2018
There is a letter in my desk.
On crumpled-up foolscap.
And next to it a trashcan,
full of little torn-up scraps.

A note shoved into my backpack,
three words on one post-it.
In the guestbook in a cottage,
where I'm sure it must still sit.

On the back of a failed math test,
folded in half, thrown in the bin.
A scratch card worth three dollars,
that I never did turn in.

There's a confession on a leaf,
draw caref'ly with finger paint.
From camp counselling last summer,
one of the many things I'd taint.

There's a name under a rock,
I scratched in with my house key.
And lightly scraped into the bark,
of an old, dying oak tree.

Letters, notes, and words.
All never to be read.
But I thought writing them out,
would lessen the you inside my head.
M Dec 2018
i'm sick of your nasty, sarcastic tone
filtering through the house in a low hum
sharply cutting up the stairs
sliding through the vent slats
mixing with a high-pitched, pathetic whine
and floating into my bedroom

i can even hear it when you aren't talking;
the abrupt opening and closing of the trashcan
the slamming of the faucet
the angry clang of dishes
i can hear it right ******* now

please stop fighting
i'm sick of it
and i'm sick of my long ears and need to listen

i hate you
and i hate myself
Louise Ruen Jan 3
When do you want to met up?
I ask
add that I’ll sponsor the wine
But you’re too busy eating chocolate with her
Underneath blankets
That spread out like plaster parachutes
making it impossible for you to get up
I know this
still I stand outside the apartment,
a payed for ticket in hand
Late spring’s love breeze intrudes my wooljacket
your trashcan next to me smells rotten
Will people look at me weird if I go alone?
b for short Jan 4
I know exactly what this looks like.
Cold, grey, and understated.
It's the bruised piece of fruit at the bottom of the crate;
the one everyone sees but won't commit to buying.
He thinks he won't buy it either,
but when she drops him,
the loneliness consumes, it envelopes,  
and the grasping begins.
He grabs... anything.
He grabs the bruised fruit.
He sinks his teeth into its soft flesh;
juices sweet;
texture pleasing.
He forgets the superficial imperfections.
After he's enjoyed it down to its bare core,
it knows.
This was only temporary.
He won't replant the seeds to watch it grow.
He won't thank it for the nourishment
that got him by.
He will drop it, without regard,
as he admires
the polished pieces placed at the top of the crate.
When he's hungry, he'll choose, carefully, this time,
without letting on he knows exactly what this looks like.
Seeds by a trashcan;
unfulfilled potential strewn across the floor;
a rotting purpose.
© Bitsy Sanders, January 2019
Louisa Coller Aug 2018
Silver shares such calming feeling towards my lifeless shell,
responsibilities flow me with joy and smiles,
however, under my silver I wear black.

I repaint my black walls in silver coats, wearing optimism like a crown,
gazing towards my darkest moments with sophistication and charm.
Seductive, mysterious and a comfort to all eyes,
secretive, silliness and sadness overwhelms my negative soul.

Under all of the layers of black and silver,
screaming towards me for affection.
You can find the smallest droplets of pink,
slowly is growing all over.

Hope holds me in a grip of pleaing and prays,
for one day I hold understanding and warmth with romance all my days.

Femininity is belittled thrown into a trashcan of self-doubt,
for once my little childish soul states,
"Can't we let femininity out?"
Homunculus Jan 21
don't look now,
here comes
the tax man
he needs some
of your cash,
so he can turn
the middle east
into a giant
******* trashcan
he'll occupy
the Afghans
their poppy fields
are vast, and
at home
we love the
pills that come
from doctors
running that scam

cause we're
a nation
to remaining
our existence
predicated on
duress, stress
and excess
we rack our
brains with worry
as from place
to place we hurry
just as startled
roaches scurry
in the frightened
sight of light
lo and behold!
what we've been sold
In bold relief,
this is our plight!
anastasia Sep 2018
i watched a woman discard a bundle of white roses into the trashcan of a local gas station
she seemed to give it no thought, but i couldnt get it out of my head
later, i went back, stood on the tips of my toes, and reached into that *****, grimy trash can
the flowers were malleable, quite like clay in my rough hands
in the dead of night, i wove a crown out of my ever wilting white roses
placed it upon my head, atop a birds nest of hair, a bit too far beyond repair
something was roosting, deep in the tunnels of my ears, drilling pits into the centers of my eyes
i reached up with my hand through my mouth, into foreign territory
it seemed endless, a string of handkerchiefs being pulled from the breast pocket of a magician
my fingertips could not find anything worthwhile, after all.
now i am here, stranded
i could call for someone, but my voice is hoarse
a friend crawled from the pit of my stomach and grappled up the walls of my esophagus
it appears to be that they left the comfort of my body for good
it still doesnt seem to belong to me.
it is snowing
petals drift down from my head
my long forgotten crown lilts precariously
rose to wrist, i form a spile for you to drink from
history repeats itself, all your orders relayed through me
drink, drink, drink you do, filled to the brim with port wine
slice open my abdomen, a pig in the slaughter house
eat, eat, eat you do, and i am empty again
the empty is being in a rainstorm with no sound
and forgetting the names of past acquaintances and dreams you once had
and being so scared that youre not anymore
and learning to love the things you once ran from.
an old piece (:

— The End —