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Purcy Flaherty Jan 2018
I see you!
You’re a chancer, an unusual impulsive, persuasive & promiscuous women; unconcerned with remorse or guilt!
You’ve created a life & career through crazy schemes and dreams!
You have a certain glib, superficial charm and an impressive sense of self-worth and I liked that !
If only you’d had the ***** to formally introduce me to the genuine you, without fear of rejection!
You Fool!
X
A stark reminder of just how far you penetrated my heart & mind!
I have a soft spot for you,
but your hearts as cold as ice.
Dirt crumbled at my feet, as moths finish off my sleep. My whole skull is uncovered, unconcerned with greener leaves.

Will this comfort ever stay? I'm losing hope as it decays. Decorate my heart with iris, because its carcass has faded grey.

Lace my body for the crows; nest my ribs, and clean my bones. Residue of torture palpitates, from within its catacombs.

Who knows when winter will come, so freeze your lungs until they're numb. Because breathing isn't worth this turmoil, and I think the dark swallowed your Sun----
All feedback is welcome and appreciated :)
Sebastian Macias Sep 2018
The artist must become a whole
Completely obsessed with their art
Obsessed with who they are
Truly, who they are
Without hesitation
Infatuated about how they create
The art that makes them be,
What it makes them live for
From how they take their coffee
To every moment of a good ****
Reading in peace at dawn,
Picking fruit from a grocery store
The truest of artists are always lost
Lost in their own mind
Unconcerned with the lashing of
Society's moral tongue
Pushing themselves out to sea
Creating only to be alive from within
Where it all counts,
And it all has some value
Lily Jun 2018
Ive grown concerningly unconcerned
with my unwavering indifference
to all the things
that once made me

maybe
I lost myself
the moment I went looking
and trailed off
a little too far
from where I once
was found.

Like climbing a tree
and forgetting that
i'de have to make
my way back down.
Like food,
dreams are rationed

children slip through holes
in buzzing fences

like bees

the light touches
of a fly

unconcerned by chemical spills

and broken hazard
signs
Natalie Jan 2018
i can still feel your touch,
your soft hands grabbed my face and i was quickly intoxicated with your scent.
i can still taste your lips,
the fresh mint that feverishly entered my mouth without hesitation.
i can still hear your laugh,
it roared as you threw your head back in blithe.
i still feel the distance,
the way you shut me out, unconcerned of how it would affect me.

i long to feel your touch

to taste your lips

to hear your laugh

just once more

but now,
you’re just a memory.
Paul Hansford Feb 11
We named you Daisy
for your white fur, because
you were "short-haired white".
Not only that,
you were not blue-eyed or orange-eyed,
but "odd-eyed white,"
one orange and one blue.

I took you to school
to show you to the children,
and they loved your strange beauty,
drew pictures of you
with their white, blue and orange crayons.

You lived as our other cats did,
tame house-cat in the day,
but free to come and go;
half-wild at night,
following your instincts,
even if they were dangerous at times.

Then, one sunny morning, as I watched
from the bedroom window,
I saw you running back home,
heading across the road, and that time
it really was dangerous,
as a car came past, exceeding the speed limit,
because in a race between speeding car
and running cat,
in the event of a tie,
the cat loses.

I ran downstairs and found you
by the gate,
warm and unmarked
but unmoving, unbreathing

Carrying you gently to the back garden,
I laid you on the ground,
preparing to dig your grave,
as Marmaduke, our tomcat, came by.
Not the father of any kittens,
but surrogate to all our females,
after a birth
he knew what to do.
He would visit briefly,
sniff the mother, sniff the kittens,
walk off, apparently unconcerned,
and a day or two later
return with a mouse for mother.
That was his function.
That’s what fathers do,
even surrogates.

Only that day there was no birth,
no kittens,
and this time . . .
he sniffed at you,
at the hole I had started digging,
and walked off
in complete puzzlement.
This time he did not know what to do.
If you're interested, you could try another, rather similar, one of mine -
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1844825/drowning-kittens/
To think that I didn’t realize

How loud is your laugh on my back

To think that I didn’t realize

How you treat me like a fool


Perk of a wallflower

I let them walk passed bothered

I let them talk undisturbed

Perk of a wallflower

I pretend to be unconcerned

I pretend to be unaware


But it’s all there

In the back of my mind


When forgiving become hard

What do you think forgetting will be?

I can’t forget

I can’t let go

I will always remember


Your laughs, their laugh

Your whisper, their whisper

Your words, their word


Someday, it will help me

To remember how you treat me

To remember not to trust you

People can change

But memory don’t


Therefore, I will always remember
With love, Andhizky
Bryce Nov 2018
The coca-cola breath!
Flashing lights, tweetie birds, the rough narcotic stench

The sky is devoid, it is scared of the streets etched in starlight, everything shining-- tangerine and Coit and ohhhh boy
don't'cha know what you're in for?

Twilight and she is a figment on my mind
the bark of cigar is fiery opal on my slender frame
I can hear something along the lanes of love
Echoing behind me, the rising sun

Funny dudes in new suits, pressed, steamed, machine-rolled
pills in the pockets
shipped locomotive
Every etching has its china
every etching is porcelain skin
The fog is a silken balloon, unconcerned, wayward
The men longingly abide in its cool, the breath of an over-excited lover, singing in the showerhead an embarrassing microphone
over the west coast

It's all over! it's the end
the roads are devoid of the things that called you
They are a clarion horn on the Claremont, facades etched with windowpanes
here the americans eat tofu and pretend it's bacon

I am in the rapidly rotating spoke, enjoying the taste of woodchuck, upchucking my guts every Sunday, white knuckle-- praying to god
release
release

what a steal that's a fantastic car for the price!
it is only 10 years of payment
only 10!
House worth 40, kids worth 60, medicinal payments
corn flakes
Fortified iron gates and god says,
naw let them all out until they drown,
I'll never flood the earth but I'll make it puddles
and if they want they can lay face down

I am eating Korean stew and wondering what will happen
when unification builds a railroad from Moscow to Busan
I will travel it and write a novel or two
it will be
"On the Railroad"
and start in San Francisco or a little while outside
on an October evening with not a fog in the sky
Just sky, blue, blue sky
A child on the hillside
blowing bubbles in the apartment complex or the gravel mound
next to new homes, now cookiebread gingerbed frames
Doing tricks on BMX bikes, getting our elbows smashed, a designated paramedic
It's all built up now, concrete streets and lonely streetcorner lamps saying
Hey we're gonna light up this little space
Hope you don't mind
Please don't play too loud

And given that these spheroids are monumentally moving
hurling like a pitched water glass
everything staying put under the motion of it
Such a lovely rooting of mass

I will call alongside it, crawling towards answers etching on murals and on the stamping of curbs
E-5 West main
4451 Lowell Street
554 Happy Valley Road
It's all the fun little tributaries of surface waters
heading with precognition towards seas
roped into it by specific gravity

On the phone i spoke to Mr. Victorious
I asked him about his particular drone
down south there in the more direct limelight of the night
he told me about his uncle, in prose
of course
we just hung our heads over the speakerphone
Not sleeping the way we should
shouldering burdens as ***** in deserted zones
laughing and preaching to cottonfields

Then there was the girl
the one we forgot, truth be told
The one unrequited impetus for all art, all physicality and feeling
loved by god in the corporeal
She is the saffron reed in my eye, the one i forgot to preach Victory to
She that one oblong pebble, rolled by the stream
passing our campgrounds and continuing her journey to sands
small little microscopic tetrahedral perfection
I could get stuck in between my teeth
or perhaps left on the sweat of the skin
the lost moments of beachside living, love for the expansiveness, left in the diner seat of the car, gotta keep moving
Carrying her away and if not careful,
nestling her back atop the summits from whence she came.

it is a cola in the glass on the shores of the bay,
it is a divine moment of contact in the oceans
two sailors acknowledging their vessels
with light shows and the play of eye
off the horizon, a green light o' sprite.
Arjsha Feb 27
What occurred to the complacent road,
That rode over an un-tempting *****.
A heavy hold, pulled me back,
I carried a burden, previously lacked.

What occured to my unconcerned soul,
Which inquired of its being un-whole.
My mind gained thought, will lost,
In my journey forward, each step cost.

What occurred to shadow that quietly followed,
It gained depth, its weight was burrowed.
In the brightening sky, path was lost,
What seemed clear, turned obscure.

What occured to my resolute sight,
Which guided me since the inopportune twilight.
Rest before success, burdened time,
Heart longed for that hut left behind.

What occured to that noble dream,
That once oust sleep, have no mean.
End that meant to be cherished alone,
Soured with reminiscence of a face forlorn.

I stopped, stared in the contemplating light,
My path revert as destination acquired sight.
An echo swelled swiftly in my mind,
I turned to gather what left behind.

What occured?
What occurred to me? I cried.
Terry Collett Nov 2018
Of course he will want it
all his own way; always has,
always will,
and you sit facing
the dull wall,
in that creaky chair,
wearing the old dress
of black and white,
gazing at the bland wall
as if secrets of the ages
were painted there.

You are taking a few
well-earned minutes to yourself,
forgetting for a moment
the calls or wants
of those upstairs,
and sit, musing,
your hands in your lap,
your feet unshod,
the shoes lying there
like vacated vessels.

Up at 5.30
to wash in the dark
in that old basin with cold water,
then dress; downstairs
to light the fires,
and go see what cook
wants you to do,
listen to her moans;
lay the table in the dining room,
ensure the fire is going strong.

Now to rest, wait for cook
to call for your breakfast,
having waited on them upstairs
as they decide to have breakfast,
listen to their chat,
look unconcerned, but secretly
listening for gossip.

Here it is quiet;
no one to disturb;
can sit and muse
on your life.

Of course, he will want you
tonight in his bed,
after the others are abed,
to creep in, hush hush,
climb into his bed,
and he will kiss, hold
and have his way with you.

The large clock in the hall
tick-tocks loudly;
chimes loudly each hour;
reminds you the time
ticking away,
day after day.
A maid in 1890 London

— The End —