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Iska Mar 2018
We are all so clever,
With our posts and our lies,
And honest comments deleted
To wither and die.
Filters for beauty free of flaws
So we may withstand societies claws.
So we upload
pictures, stories and posts.
I wounder what is it
we long for the most?
To be accepted?
To be seen?
To cause envy?
Or Jealousy?
What is the point?
The whole worlds plugged in,
And we all have hundreds of thousands of “friends”.
yet who is it that
truly cares for us in the end?
Face to face?
What a disgrace!
Letters to send?
This must come to an end!
Written word?
Thats simply absurd!
Memories made?
They still do that these days?!
Now this is a crazy idea..
Just a thought..
But,
What if we all....
Just unplugged?
Not once or twice
And call it a night,
But more like a day?
To spend as you may?
To feel the sun?
To laugh with friends?
And make beautiful memories
to carry with you til the end?
Enjoy the moment of pure bliss,
Without
filters, comments or harsh judgements.
To be yourself
and embrace your life,
Then when your done
You can replug.
And check on all your comments and likes.
And see which was the thing you remember at night.
I get it.
I do it too
But sometimes you need to stop
And just be you.
Colt Jul 2013
for Those who eat ramen by choice, or not.*

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by disillusionment,
lacking egotistical sold, dragging themselves through the hip streets at dawn
looking for a socially self-aggrandizing fix.
Poets, as they sit in desks and discuss discourse
about discourse about discourse about discourse,
who fear that thinking itself was buried with Vonnegut,
who are lost in forests of brick walls,
inviting, because they block the wind of dying fall,
who swim in cesspools filled with academic sewage, yearning for freedom,
for truth, as they always have,
mining their minds for images, and searching for words to describe
-a reality which is virtual at its core and each act, another chore./
-a scene of life which reflects all that is poignant and sacred.
Poets seek musicians while musicians seek poets.
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly

These poets who search aimlessly for the feeling of feeling,
who are overwhelmed with meaning to the point where meaning
has no meaning in itself.
Who claim this poem as their own and continuously write themselves into it.
It is those who suffer in truth that live the poetic.
Those who sit in front of space heaters eating peanut butter sandwiches in winter,
who sweat unknowingly in summer, comforted in each’s odor.
Those who open Macbooks while squatting in empty flats.
Signing up, logging in and zoning out, forever disengaged.
Those who type prophecy on keypads and let keyboards gather dust-
stratification, signs of long nights spent in century-old homes still not renovated,
ceilings sinking at the sides while those above pogo to punk rock long dead,
or grind genitals to old soul, simulating all that is sensual.
Those who play archaeologist to their own layers of makeup, grimed on the sink.
Those who share their food with the roaches and the mooches who all have keys,
who use the books as shelves to hold ceramic mugs, stained with a single drip-drop,
who, with arms crossed, watch bands in basements play noise.
Those who replaced their nu-metal records with folk but kept the unkempt beards.
Those who drink stale beer on stranger’s rooftops.
Those who live with bags under eyes, themselves asleep, lacking a body,
sleeping naked together to stay warm,
sleeping naked together to stay sane,
sleeping naked together to stay touched.

Those who leave coffee in unplugged automatic pots, decaying rapidly.
Those who eat pizza for breakfast, cold or microwaved, as an act of ultimate indulgence.
Those who prance about in un-matching socks
from hardwood floors to vinyl floors to tile floors, all under the same popcorn ceiling,
dancing to the sound of rhythmic silence.
Those who fight with lovers about acts, but never once mention the act of love itself.
Those who don flannel plaid in springtime color, constructing Williamsburg,
who consider gentrification a new form of landed gentry,
who live in poverty as if it were a novelty,
capitalist martyrs sacrificing employment to hide being non-hirable,
who shop in online surplus department stores for unique vintage.
Those who, who, who hoot like the owls framed on their walls, eyes wide but beaks small.
Those who are oppressed by nonexistent kings ruling in imaginary suits.
Those who crave something new, not tired-as the form of this very poem-
something which is not-yet auto-tuned.
Those who, faux-hawked and shredded, rock and bop to Bowie doing Lou
on Sunday Morning from Station to Station shooting ******,
who walk swiftly with denim skin on their legs and refuse socks.
Those who, in their rightest mind, are the wrongest-minded.
Those who can reject privilege only because they are privileged,
who, in their uniform whiteness, denounce racism,
who, in their uniform straightness, claim immune to homophobia
who, with their ***** ***** in a row, claim to be feminists.

And those who search for revolution in a time when rebellion is conformity.
Listening to the  pounding sound of blog-protesters typing n o w.
who, in claiming to accept, don’t accept the unaccepting,
who got veggies tattooed on their sides while snapping bacon in their teeth,
who ironically infiltrated asylums and performed madness until the shocks came
and they were maddened, for good, eaten alive by volts resounding
ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching.
Who sleep naked together to be together but end up being alone,
exchanges from lips that move in pretentious drone,
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly.
When the abnormal is normal and the whole structure is inverted and
heaven is here and flames under the soil are no longer hell burning for soles of the
Converse, Adidas, and Nike sneakers on the bicycle pedals of poets who ride at night,
listening to the sound of owls that question:
who?
whoo?
whooo?
Cameron Godfrey Sep 2015
Electricity
Rushes through her bones as she
Lays her head to sleep.

Energy flowing,
Like straight whiskey down her throat,
Keeps her up at night.

Her pillow is soft
Soft like a summer sky’s clouds
Still, no comfort comes.

She plugs in her phone.
The light still shines in the dark.
She can’t block it out.

No energy flows
As she wakes up the next day
She is still unplugged.
DaSH the Hopeful Jun 2016
Tonight, I spoke into the darkness,
No stars to light my way,
       The black void all encompassing

   My words drifting up in ribbons,
          I waited for something, anything to happen

              I felt a rumble that was akin to ripples emanating from a drop of water hitting a puddle

        I was small next to the impossible,
And when it spoke back, it changed me
      
        The blank canvas of stark black was pierced by blades of light,
    The sky becoming a shutter in a rain storm
           Blowing open and closed
       The words came and wrapped themselves across my body in its entirety
        Constricting my air flow

             I felt myself shatter
  An implosion of feeble glass
       Ricocheting through a skeleton of paper, reflecting the brightness above inside ripped skin

                I was nothing.
                I didn't exist.
                I floated in an incomprehensible place that had no end, no walls

     No ceiling or floor

            Just illumination in every direction

                    I opened my eyes
  
    And was blinded by an incredible radiance

      I shut my eyes tight and swatted in front of me
        My hand struck something metal and I yelped in pain
          
          I shot up and stared downward
    Towards the desklamp unplugged on the floor
        
          Breathing heavily, I sat upright in my bed,
                 *Struggling to pull away words that had already sunken in
Writer's block
david badgerow Nov 2011
wrapped up in aluminum foil
head resting on cracked concrete
surrounded by winking lights
and blinking eyes
warmth from the glow of humility
basking in the rays of a two dollar toaster
cardboard dwelling and trashbag scenery
paper towel t-shirt, styrofoam socks
salt and pepper lunchtime
pedastal reconstruction
hot coffee burnt tongue
peanut allergy and poisoned water
locked cabinet, rotting condiments inside an unplugged refrigerator
dying romance read only in magazines
purple heart scrawled on my arm
syringe full of bourbon plunged directly in my eye.
Regret. The act of doing something and feeling remorse later on; the act of wanting to take something back; the act of wishing something didn’t happen. I regret ever making the joke that when my sister and I fought; it was like World War 3. I regret not telling my brother how much he meant to me and how proud I was that he was serving our country. I regret falling in love with a man that would be forced to go into the military.

Ayden received the letter in the mail two weeks ago, informing him that he would be expected to be at the airport, to involuntarily serve our country. Something bad was going to happen. Something no one was prepared for. We were only eighteen, just seniors in high school since our birthdays took place in the summer. We had been dating one year. The thought of him going half way around the world to fight in a war that came out of nowhere, scared me half to death. It wasn’t just the fact that I was losing my boyfriend who I was incredibly in love with; It was the fact that all in one day, I would be losing my boyfriend, and my best friend. No one to share my secrets with, no one to wrap me in his arms and tell me that everything was going to be okay. Just like he had done the night before when he had finally worked up the courage to tell me what had happened. My jaw hit the floor, my eyes watered up, and I may or may not have started trembling. We had been sitting on the couch when he squeezed my hand a little tighter.

“I have to tell you something.” He said.

I turned toward him with a smile on my face, which quickly faded when I saw that his own eyes had started to tear up.

“What’s wrong?” I asked immediately.

“In a week, I won’t see you. I don’t know for how long, I don’t know when I’ll be back.” He started to explain.

“Where are you going?” I asked impatiently.

“I don’t know.”

“You have to know.”

“There’s going to be a war.” He said. “A big one.” He whispered.

“There was a draft?”

He nodded his head slightly.

“When did you find out?” I asked.

“About a week ago.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t know how.”

“You didn’t know how?” I whispered.

“Ava. This hurts more than if I was breaking up with you.” He said. “I’ve wanted to tell you. I have. But I didn’t know how. How do you tell someone you’re completely in love with, that you’re going off to fight in a war? That you don’t know if you’ll be coming back?”

“You certainly don’t hide it from that person.” I whispered.

“I might not be coming back.”

“Don’t say that.” I interrupted. “Don’t ever say that again.”

I let a few tears slip down the side of my cheek. He raised his hand to my face and slowly swiped them away with his thumb. He pulled me closer into his arms and kissed my forehead.

“I love you.” He whispered into my ear.

“I love you too.” I said.

Those were the last words we said to each other a week later while standing in the airport. His parents were there too .He had already hugged them and his dad had ushered his mom out to the parking lot in order to keep her from having a panic attack. Ayden and I had stood there awkwardly for a few minutes. After all, what do you say to someone when there’s a possibility you might not ever see them again? That had been when he out of nowhere grabbed me and pulled me against his chest. Wrapping me tightly in his arms, I buried my nose into the sleeve of his jacket and savored the sweet scent of his cologne.

I stood in the window of the airport, watching planes take off after he had given me a final hug and had left to board the plane. Already, I felt like I had something missing from me. Like there was a big hole in my heart. I felt empty. After some time, I decided I should probably go home.

I didn’t cry myself to sleep last night like I thought I would’ve. Instead, I just lay in bed, looking up at the ceiling, not knowing what to think. Tomorrow would be so much different than all my other days at school. No one to hold my hand while walking down the hallway, no one to go out to lunch with, and no one to look forward to so bright and early in the morning. After what seemed like forever, I drifted off to sleep, images of Ayden appearing in my dreams.

The sound of my alarm clock woke me in the morning. And all at once, it hit me, everything that I had been thinking of before drifting off to sleep the night before. Everything that had happened yesterday hadn’t been just a dream. It had been reality and it was finally starting to set in. I threw the covers off of me and started my day like any other, minus the ‘good morning beautiful’ text that I had been so used to receiving.

When I was finally ready for school, I grabbed my keys and headed out the door. The weather fit my mood perfectly. Cloudy, dark, damp, awful weather. Unlike most days that usually occurred here in California. I was used to the sun, the nice warm breeze, not this ‘Seattle like’ weather. Driving to school, I wasn’t sure if the raindrops falling on my windshield made it blurry to see, or if it was my own tears welling up in my eyes. I pretended for it to be the first option, all the while knowing it was the second. Staying strong had been one of my traits. When things got tough, I wasn’t one to run from my problems. No, I faced those dead on. Mom always said I got that from Dad.

It’d been a long time since I’d last thought about him. He was tall, strong, and stubborn. He died serving our country. Maybe that’s what scared me most about Ayden having to go fight. I’d experience death through the military too many times in my book. My grandpa had served our country and had also died in military combat, then Dad. Maybe, it was just my family. Luck just didn’t play on our side. When my brother was finally old enough to join, he surprised us all at dinner one night.

“Have you thought anymore about that business degree you want to get?” Mom had asked.

“Well, yeah. Actually, no. I’ve decided against the business degree.” Ethan had said.

“Honey, you’re almost ready to graduate. You’re changing your mind in the blink of an eye and at possibly, the last minute?”

I had sat silently, not saying a word. Ethan had told me a few months before what he’d been thinking. He knew my opinion, but didn’t know Mom’s. I wasn’t happy with what he was deciding, but I was almost willing to support him. We were close, and I didn’t want to lose him like I had lost Dad, who I’d also been so close to.

“I want to join the military.” He said quietly, and calmly.

I remember Mom’s reaction almost perfectly. She didn’t say a word at first, just looked down at her plate. When she lifted her head a minute later, tears had begun to form in her eyes, ones she blinked away quickly, not letting them spill over onto her cheeks.

“When did you, decide this?” she asked quietly.

“I’ve thought about it for a long time. My choices were either, business, or military.” He explained. “And Mom, the business thing just isn’t working out.”

“Of all things to choose.” She whispered.

She shook her head slightly and I saw a tear fall onto the table by her plate.

“Mom, things are different these days. It’s not like when Dad fought.” He explained. “Ava supports me.” He slipped.

Mom’s head snapped up and looked at me. My head bent down, looking at the spaghetti on my plate.

“You knew?” she asked quietly.

I said nothing. Absolutely nothing. Telling Mom that I had known his decision all along wasn’t part of the plan when the three of us sat down for dinner that night.

“I thought there were no secrets in this house?” she asked.

“There isn’t.” Ethan chimed in. “Anymore.” He whispered.

Mom breathed in a deep breath and let it escape.

“Ethan, I love you. And I support whatever you choose to do. You know that. But I am telling you right now, I will be ****** if I lose another important man in my life.” She said, sternly, while looking deep into his eyes.

“Dad would’ve wanted this.” Ethan said, plainly.

“I know.”

And with that, she had excused herself and left the table. Walking down the hallway, I heard her sniffle a couple times.

The fact of those two simple words stung but as the saying goes, “the truth hurts.” Mom was a runner. She was the one who would always run from her problems instead of confronting them. The one thing that she had always said and will continue to always say, she didn’t want Ethan going into the military. Ever since Dad had died, she’d stuck to her word. Even though, we all knew Dad would’ve wanted Ethan to follow in his steps and be a commanding officer, it’d be the one thing Mom would continuously disagree on. I guess you could say I was the same way. After Ayden had told me that he had been signed for the draft, my breath had caught and I had the same reaction as Mom would’ve had. I would’ve wanted him to do anything, anything, besides go into the military. But I guess it was different this time. No one really had a say in who was on the list and who was absent. My bad luck had just started to shine through.

School dragged on. As normal. But it was different now. Ayden wasn’t there to hold my hand. He wasn’t there to greet me after my classes, wasn’t there to walk me to my car, wasn’t there to just be in my presence. It was like he had died. And just the thought of that alone, brought tears to my eyes. I wasn’t the only one whose boyfriend had been called off for the draft. No, there were others, but none of those other couples had been like Ayden and I. We weren’t just a couple. We weren’t just homecoming king and queen. No, we were best friends. I’d known him since first grade when he’d transferred to my elementary school. I had been the one assigned to show him around the school. We became friends, and later on, best friends. Freshman year of high school, Ayden and I had gone to homecoming together. Not as a couple but just as friends because neither of us had a date. Sophomore year, we had gone together again. Not because we didn’t have a date, but because we wanted to go with each other. I’ll never forget that night, because that was the night Ayden had told me he wanted to be more than friends. I had never actually thought about being more than just his friend until he had brought it up. That night, I didn’t just fall in love with a guy; I fell in love with my best friend.

The final bell rang for school to be dismissed. Once again, I felt emptiness inside while walking through the hallway. Blurs of kids rushing past me kept me from allowing my tears to spill over onto my cheeks, but that was the only thing that stopped them. After getting into my car, I put the key into the ignition but didn’t start it; I didn’t even turn the key. I put my head in my hands and took a deep breath. In my head, I thought, “One day down.”

After sitting for a few minutes in my quiet car, and letting other vehicles exit the parking lot, I finally turned the key and started my car. Hearing the soft music come on the radio, I turned it down so I could only hear the engine running. Putting my car into reverse, I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going to go. I just wanted to drive. Halfway home, I changed directions and headed to what seemed like my second house, my best friend’s house.

I knew his Mom would be off work by now and would be there to let me in. I found it ironic, as I always have that when you’re in a hurry to get somewhere; you stop at every red light possible. Red lights, stop signs, and slow moving cars in general were the only obstacles in my way that afternoon. Finally, when I was out of the traffic and almost to Ayden’s house, I pushed my foot a little harder on the gas to gain some speed. Driving up over the gravel road, I could see in the distance his Mom’s small car parked in the driveway; along with Ayden’s. Just seeing it there, gave me false hope that maybe this was all a dream and he was actually at his house, waiting for me.

Pulling into the driveway, his Mom came out onto the porch. Ayden lived in a house that you see in the movies. A tall, white one with a wraparound porch, the swing out front. I loved spending time in that house. Putting the car in park, I slowly got out and walked up to the porch.

“How did it go?” his Mom asked.

I shrugged my shoulders, while walking up the stairs. She pulled me into her arms and hugged me. Rubbing my back, she whispered,

“It’ll be okay. He’ll be coming home sooner than you know it.”

“Can I just go up to his room?” I asked.

“Of course.”

She released me from her arms and I opened the screen door to head inside while she remained on the porch. I walked up the stairs and to the right. Ayden’s door was closed. That was unlikely. He never kept his door shut just for the sake of it being shut. It was always opened. I pushed it open and walked inside. All his stuff was where he had left it. His bed was unmade, his closet doors standing open. I walked to his closet and ran my hands over his shirts, His scent filled my nose and I just wanted him home. I grabbed a button down, blue and white, thin striped shirt. He had worn it to school a couple times. I put it up to my nose, taking in faint bit of cologne that you could still smell on it, even after it going through the wash. I walked over to his bed, sitting down on the edge. With his shirt still pressed close to my face, I breathed in a heavy breath and let everything go. The tears started coming and I didn’t stop them. I started sobbing but I didn’t care. It seemed like everything that I’d ever loved, was gone. Because technically, it was, for the time. Ayden leaving to go fight in a war half way across the country scared me more than life itself, and hurt more than if he had broken up with me. I felt alone, even when there were dozens of people around me. I felt as if Ayden was dead when he was actually alive and well, as far as I knew. He’d only been gone one day and it felt like three years. Losing Ayden to the war efforts showed the true meaning in the saying, “you never really know what you have until it’s gone.” But really, the truth was, I knew what I had. I knew exactly what I had. I just took it for granted and didn’t think I’d ever lose it. And now all I wanted was Ayden back in the same country as me, back in the same house as where I was. In his room, watching a movie, playing a game, anything. That’s all I wanted at that exact moment.

I jumped up out of my sleep, my heart beating faster than a race car zooming around a track. I looked at my alarm clock, the red digits glaring, 2:33 back at my face. I swallowed and took a few more deep breaths before kicking the covers off and walking to the bathroom. I turned the light on and splashed some cool water over my face. Looking up into the mirror, I took one final deep breath and walked back to my room. Grabbing my phone from my nightstand next to my bed, I unplugged it and ran my finger over the touch screen. Reaching Ayden’s name, I touched the screen where it said to call. Holding the phone up to my ear, I waited for Ayden’s voice to answer. After about five rings and silence, his voice answered through his voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Ayden. I’m a little busy at the moment, but leave a message, and I’ll make sure to get back to you.”

My tears broke out all over again, my already swollen eyes releasing more sobs. I pulled my covers up to my chest and buried my face in them. My sobs grew a bit louder, and I heard footsteps coming from outside my bedroom door. I tried to stop, and after sniffling a couple times, the white door opened slowly.

“Honey,” Mom said, coming over to the bed.

“I can’t do this, Mom.” I sobbed.

She pulled me into her arms and rested her chin on my head while softly rubbing my back.

“It gets better.” she whispered. “It gets better.” she paused. “I promise.”

“I don’t know.” I said.

“I do.” she replied. “I went through this. You seem to keep forgetting. But I went through this exact same thing.”

I took a deep breath. “How long?” I asked. “How long does this last? This loneliness, this emptiness?”

“Too long.” she whispered.

She pulled me into her arms even more, holding me tighter, until I slowly laid down on my bed, my tears falling to my pillow. She sat on the edge of my bed, rubbing my back. It reminded me of all the times when I had been sick and she’d s
I know this isn't a poem, but I would like some feedback, comments or suggestions. I wrote this for a class, but I really like it. Tell me what you think. All comments are appreciated:)
Micheal Wolf Jun 2015
I walked into the lounge
I wore almost nothing
Fishnets and heels
But HALO was pumping

Next night I  was naked
The candles scented the air
But grand theft auto
Kept him in his chair

I tried it all
Favourite food and beer
But he was a soldier
In an internet dream

One day he came home
I was not there!
I was with another
And game on, oh yes!

So Xbox or play station
Nintendo or pc
When I say it's bedtime
You best listen to me!
Rob Rutledge Apr 2013
"Connect your charger"
My phone commands, I obey.
The power was off.
Dark n Beautiful May 2015
When you kiss me yesterday
You said to make it last until we meet again
That was seven years ago
  I watched as we exchange that kiss on VHS

Today it made me squirm
Your kiss was an act.
Without the green lighting of  a sequel




“Our greatest weakness lies in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time.”

― Thomas A. Edison
VHS, Green lighting. sequel, kissing , time fly
Stranger Blue May 2016
Why are hearts so disconnected?
Why is hate so persued and
love so neglected?
Why are smiles so rejected while a
grimace is thoroughly respected?

How is it that common courtesy
Is so hard to be projected?
When rudeness and pompousness
are praised and erected?

Why are good deeds and hard work scrutinized
and dissected?
When selfishness and greed are voted on and elected?

Why do the needs of the many go so undetected?
While the wants of the few are sought out and collected?
Why are the rights of some being constantly injected,
while the rights of others are going unprotected?

I guess humanity has been misdirected.
Technology has replaced what really makes us
socially connected.
Is there any way for the family unit to be resurrected?
For us ...the human race to truly be interconnected?

I don't know...Why is life never what is expected?
Luna Lexi Mar 2014
silver flute sits in the case
Studio awaits, soul suppress
Space slammed

silver flute rests on the stand
Insecurity of melody
Gasping for air
Trembling, closed off

silver flute plays a sweet song once, yesterday
For Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, & for Uriel
Resonance, chord floating,
pure revelation

last song of hope, courage
last wild witch prayer
Last organic sound, unplugged

silver flute sits in the case
Great Open Outdoors awaits, soul regenerates
Have we arrived to the sacred tree?
Silver flute will play Naked, wild, free!

All ears wide open
Open eyes, Open hearts, Open minds
True human connection returns
CODA
Silver flute floats in my heart & hand
So I'm sitting here
in my space
and it really is space,
outer space,
and if I listen to it,
it sounds
like the spaceship
which it is,
and since
I have unplugged
the television
and turned off
the radio,
I can hear
the unusual sounds
of this unearthly, earthly spaceship
humming,
and when I listen closely
I can hear
the hum and high-pitched hiss
of my brain
and nervous system,
as I go traveling outward
into the vastness
of the universe
in this spaceship
called my house
in the suburbs.
Heather Moon Jul 2014
"We have come to be danced
not the pretty dance
not the pretty pretty, pick me, pick me dance
but the claw our way back into the belly
of the sacred, sensual animal dance
the unhinged, unplugged, cat is out of its box dance
the holding the precious moment in the palms
of our hands and feet dance

We have come to be danced
not the jiffy *****, shake your ***** for him dance
but the wring the sadness from our skin dance
the blow the chip off our shoulder dance
the slap the apology from our posture dance

We have come to be danced
not the monkey see, monkey do dance
one, two dance like you
one two three, dance like me dance
but the grave robber, tomb stalker
tearing scabs & scars open dance
the rub the rhythm raw against our souls dance

WE have come to be danced
not the nice invisible, self conscious shuffle
but the matted hair flying, voodoo mama
shaman shakin’ ancient bones dance
the strip us from our casings, return our wings
sharpen our claws & tongues dance
the shed dead cells and slip into
the luminous skin of love dance

We have come to be danced
not the hold our breath and wallow in the shallow end of the floor dance
but the meeting of the trinity: the body, breath & beat dance
the shout hallelujah from the top of our thighs dance
the mother may I?
yes you may take 10 giant leaps dance
the Olly Olly Oxen Free Free Free dance
the everyone can come to our heaven dance

We have come to be danced
where the kingdom’s collide
in the cathedral of flesh
to burn back into the light
to unravel, to play, to fly, to pray
to root in skin sanctuary
We have come to be danced
WE HAVE COME"
Do not know the author, don't normally post others work but this spoke to me.
John Stevens Sep 2010
10:55
           The lights went out
                  in church today.
           The Sun light flooded
                  through the open doors.

           Voices raised in sweet song
                  in a natural way.
           The Son Light flooded
                  through the open doors...
                         of each heart.

11:30
           The lights came on
                  in church today.
           The Son Light reflecting
                  on each face!
                        In every heart!

           The "Sounds of Praise" rising,
                  The Son Light's shining
           An experience  reborn
                  of days of long ago.

later:
           The  memories stored
                  in each heart.
           "Remember the Sunday
                  when the lights went out?"
(c) 09-12-2010
Written by candle light.
Joseph Martinez Jan 2011
The setting was stately

Overweight, stationary, smoking
she was totally content

unaware of the vibrations
which to me, were uncomfortable

television droned

I wished it were turned off, unplugged

But she did not know

She was dead to vibrations
Joseph M. 01/20/10
yesterday the telephone rang non stop
and the dashed thing had me on the hop
all my time was spent saying hello and goodbye
I had to tell the person on the other end I must fly

those telephone marketers are an insistent lot
they are more pesky than a horse fly bot
not for one minute did they leave me alone
ring ring ring went the overbearing telephone

to get some peace from the telephone's hassling
I unplugged the ruddy rampant thing
one is fearful of reconnecting it to the socket
as it may well send one right off one's rocket
Tori Jurdanus Aug 2012
We are the disconnect community.
We think, therefore we are.
We blink, therefor we see the
ticking, flicking florescent FIVE HUNDRED.

A personal "connection-collection" of mine.
500 pieces of redefining human identity as bees in a hive.
Buzzing. Whirring. Chatting.

A world can be displayed on a single screen
of ticking, flicking florescent FIVE HUNDRED.
All tuned in.

All turning into hive minded creatures.
Degeneration at it's best.
For the most advanced generation,
We are zombies disguised as cyborgs;
carrying our hearts literally out on our sleeves.

For home, I'm told, is where the heart is.
And though books say it's in our chests,
One look and tell you "Homepage" is handheld.
And with the world in the palm of your hand,
the rest comes fast, calm and easy.

Like breathing,

But without feeling.

Invisible networks bond the inner workings
Like an ultra-cranium.

Or a hive, dangling precariously over the valley.
Lives, carelessly unaware that a bow can break
when it forgets it's roots.

Like jumping in puddles in rubber boots.
The difference between what's easy and what's simple.
The little ******* Youtube who can't flip a page of a magaizine because all she know's are HD touch screens.
Learning to type before learning to write.
Obesity, skyrocketing to a sun we barely lay eyes on.
One by one, we stop hooking up, and get hooked up to the trending crazes.
Hang up. Telenophobics praised.
E-mail and texts.
Social skills wrecked.
Eye contact replaced with descontent looks.
Pirating crooks
Torenting video games, DVDs &books.;
The 25th of December is more for toys than the son of God.
You can't remember the last time you went fishing with your dad, because you've been too busy playing C.O.D.

Unplugged is savagery.
but escapism with a drug by any name is just as inhumane.
Just as fatal.


For all the blinking,
and thinking,
chattering,
babbling
500 redefined "friends",
Can you easily feel alive when it's more simple to call us dead?

Do you know all your neighbors names without checking online?

Can you understand relationships, as they were meant to be?


We are the disconnect community.
Cut out "unity".
Leave the rest for our virtual home page address.
ᗺᗷ Feb 2013
I jump onto a heart warm as sun in cold space,
Rumbling like the earth moved in rough quake.

I begin up the cord in front of my wake,
And grab onto scales that rattle like snake.

Will every tug and move I make,
Harder than the last, my own heart that breaks.

Almost to the end I dangle like flake,
Wonder to myself if this is a mistake.  

I look back to the heart, naught but pain and ache,
Longing for someone to pull on the brake.

My hands clench tight and nails like rake
I yield a breath with a whole world at steak,

I pull out the cord that gives life but fake.
A life that has coveted its own to take.

Expelled now my doubts from a feeling opaque,
The heart now can sleep with its soul wide awake.
Give much
Give  time
Give  money
Give love
Give support
Or untill  you drop..
Shashank Virkud Dec 2010
The wind blows hard tonight. The wind takes every bit of warmth from my marrow and doesn't bring any of it back. No, this is not an art that you have mastered exclusively, as much as that may disappoint you.  

Ninety six days culminate and rot within my intestines. The feeling, well, the feeling is like ****, but the images interpreted are more than appealing, beautiful I would say.

I don't stay at home anymore; I go to other people's homes and stay there because it fascinates me. It fascinates me for so many reasons, expressions, to name a few.

Keeping true to the convention of keeping true to the convention, I shed a layer of skin when I threw the old tea box full of photographs from the terrace this morning.

The air smelt of coriander and fresh mud, fresh rain. I took it into my lungs as a restatement of my existence but it felt smug and in vain when winter's wisdom slapped me as I exhaled. The pain was a harsh reminder; I was real. My face was red more from the shame than the sting of it.

The whole occurrence was organic, and the memory makes me laugh. Some say to me that I'm made to laugh easily, that I laugh like a fool. I'm a bad hand out of a deck of cards. I am dealt with. It's all in my stars.

In comparison, sardonicism has never known a friend, but I've had one or two. Most people are hopeless to me; I am unplugged. 
You speak to me, you want me to be connected. You have a longing in your voice, not so much for me, but for the thought of me rejected.

I had stars in my sights the nights you ignored me and made my hands your ******. Time, and time again, you justify keeping me pressed against your window, believing every inclination is adored. 

Time has passed, these creases will stay forever in my corduroys. The fragmented fire wood we never got to burn and those forgotten chapters of childhood still litter my mother's yard.

Maintaining a reserved tone, tensing those muscles in your face, for what? Try dying twice and then you will see that there is no magic, no mystery behind the way things are happening, especially here.

Happy to be hurt, ironic, the pain in my neck reminds me of you.
Michael DeVoe Feb 2014
I've become acutely aware of the gravity in the fact that all I said to her was that I don't want to be the one who starts all of our conversations anymore
And that since then we have had no conversations.  
I don't think I will be rid of the haunting that this is my fault until I am haunted with the fact that it may be hers
In so making her not the woman I wanted for
Nor the woman I was all too eager to give myself for
Thirdly making me that man who opened his rib cage exposing his heart for her taking
Only to collect dust, rain drops, and those twisty helicopter things that fall from trees in the autumn
All from being left open so long on a very windy day when she saw what my heart was stretching to offer her and chose to leave it there
Couldn't I once be the one worth taking
Or at least notice when she's not the one worth opening up for.

There are days I wish God hadn’t built me with a zipper for a sternum
You know I don’t always mean to show them everything
It’s just sometimes I forget to zip it back up after I take it on walks to the liquor cabinet
My heart is a bow-tie drinking Manhattans at the center table with a chair full of friends and a twinkle in his eye
My tongue is a rolled up cuff drinking whatever’s on special at the end of the bar confusing, “I’ll have another” with proper conversation
My mind has an unplugged mini fridge in the corner with two luke-warm ciders waiting for a chance to celebrate...remembering to brush my teeth
Depression is a funny sort that way, it’s all her fault, right up until you remember how hard it is to brush your teeth everyday
At which point it’s either your own fault, or we’ll try again tomorrow.

Knowing is not half the battle when the battle is not being waged in your head
Knowing it is all going wrong is just another reason to never put on the helmet and see what the battle may bring
Seeing what right looks like on Pintrest is not motivation to check my zippers
It is the battle cry my stomach gives my lungs after lunch
It is the battle cry the fists of my mind give my heart when we are alone
It is a crop duster driven by the Morton’s Salt Girl, who never misses the open wounds of my torn innards strewn about an open field after losing the battle for the day.
I am a slug on your porch and I shrink with every grain
And you will never hear me scream
It’s just so tiring to tell someone you hurt and have no blood to prove it.

I do not much dream for stars or skinny girls anymore
I am afraid of what their sharp edges will do to my fingertips
I’m just looking for something I can hold on to
Someone who will remind me that I have a place here
If that place is only to take up oxygen
Sometimes I let my dreams get away from themselves and I dream of great magical things:
Like being loved back
Feeling important
Sleeping peacefully

On occasions I even see myself at work opening a love note in my lunchbox from someone who felt compelled to take the time to tell me they love me
It always swells my heart
Makes me want to be a better person
To get out of bed
Run a marathon
Sing an opera
Lift a weight
Sky dive
Read a book
High five a stranger
Take a dancing class
But then I wake up and look across my room at just how far away the light switch is and decide I must be afraid of the dark
Since I never remember to turn off the light before lying down and I never have the strength to get back up

I dream most of all of having someone to tell me the things I need to hear
To give me a purpose
A vision
A reason to live
To stop letting me find better excuses
To yell in my ear or write me a note that says,
“You are worth it, every minute, every cent, every effort.  You are worth it, because you will become a great man and because I love you, and because you are destined to change my world, and because your son needs you, and because you are brilliant, and because the world needs your words, because I need your words”

But the only notes I get are the ones I put into my own lunchbox as a reminder come noon-time
That even if for no other reason than because I said so,
I am worth it
A collection of poems by me is available on Amazon
Where She Left Me - Michael DeVoe
http://goo.gl/5x3Tae
alxndra Sep 2014
places I rarely visit
consist of programmers obeying restrictions
operating under false assumptions
distracted by faulty wiring

swarms gather under fluorescent lights
to contemplate organic life technologically
never satisfied with the diagnosis
for it always leaves them feeling empty

can I be blamed,
for not only wanting this digital life to be restrained,
but for also wanting it to change?

a persistent desire to aspire some revolution
to move away from
light pollution & pixel resolution
absent of
abbreviated emotion & cyber fixation
only
unplugged love & three dimensional conversation
Megan Hundley May 2012
In the corner next to the underpaid electricity
where no one wants to sit and reheat leftovers
admitting each bite taste better than the original,
hardly ready to walk down an isle of silver ware
but if I were I 'd pick the Waterford to match
during the reception I'll wear my glass as glasses
the shallow smiles will ask my dress to snake
as I crave the framed grace, the crisscrossed
napkins and two bites of the others peanut butter
truffle cheesecake, I'll hardly have to worry about
a thing, easy on the musty air my lungs won't
stop flexing this microphone everyone saw got
unplugged an hour ago and as the last couple
to enter will be the first to leave I'll eat a strawberry
to taste the sweetness of the moment
later I'll put my guard down long enough to side slip a
glance to the guest who walked around laces flapping,
shoulder tapping, fingers mapping with eyes stating
the impossibility of believing any of it
Lucy Tonic Nov 2011
Phone rings, only breathing
Landlord yelling, dog barking,
Mexican music, nosey neighbors
Long cigarette and goodbye girl
She’s absent and she’s catatonic
She’s boiling in unwanted fever
She hums as she irons unplugged
She hums as she cleans up the blood
She’s levitating against her will
She’s nailing the door shut with a candle
She’s rolling him up in a carpet
Yeah, your high horse and your sports
Are just heavy metaphors
For something a lot sweatier
****** Made Her Menstrual
You supplied the weapons
Paul Hardwick Feb 2012
Does my *** look big in this?
Darling it does!
Just know I will get a bad Response to this :-)
Carla Marie Jan 2012
I’m trying to have a

Pity Party…

But people just won’t leave me alone…

I’ve got all the necessary accoutrement...

A bottle of Richard’s Wild Irish Rose...

Flannel Pajamas with oddly shaped holes

In all the wrong places...

A proper toothache ensuring my face is

Properly lumpy…

Worked ******* this body now properly bumpy

From too much soul food

That is... Food For The Soul

Such as

Pizza… and

Pudding…and

Tater Chips and Dips… and

Coco Puffs by the large serving bowl...

Donuts

And the holes to go with them...

Lifetime Channel already tuned in...

Blinds pulled down...

Unplugged my phone…

But these people!

They just won’t leave me alone!

Being all supportive and huggy and lovey and clean-y

I don’t see…

Why they don’t see…

That now is just not the time…

They need to get on out’a here

And let me drink my wine… cuz

I’m trying to have

A Pity Party!

But I swear they just won’t leave me alone…

NOW HEAR THIS!

NOW HEAR THIS!


Would

All

Pity

Party

Poopers

Please

Just Go Home!
Paul Hardwick Jun 2014
If you have read my last three poems
and blame it on my surreal head
you just might realise
that if you add the titles together
they read>---.

* Just thinking of doing Exercise.**

At the Gym
thinking of doing some weights
maybe some squats
the spotters and me
put on some weights
I send them off for beers
lift the bar off
tears and pain
I push back up
my **** hits the ground
and will not come back off
the ground.
TRUE Story maybe    P@ul
Pays to exercise in your head first.
Rain that falls as dust
Rain that feels like ashes
Wasted on skin that might as well be dead
Not feeling it
Not the life of the party
My life a crime scene
That nobody bothered to report
Knuckles glossy red
Unplugged like spilled lemonade
Face-planted on papier-mâché curbs
And I didn't even get to keep the balloons
No more wicked games
This was my ship
To wreck
Just raise it from the bottomless pit
They say
Live like an adult
But I'd rather
Die like a child
Rain isn't stopping today.
And I'd like to jump in the puddles, but I'm not supposed to do that.
I'm an "Adult".

Childhood series #8
JB Claywell Oct 2018
On October 2nd a local high-school teacher invited me to her classroom to speak to her students about writing and poetry. More specifically, the lesson of the day was one in which the exploration of a subculture took place. Subsequently, the questions that were posed to the students in the beginning were: “What does a poet look like?”  What would a poet sound like, conversationally?” “What kind of clothes would they wear?” “What do you think makes someone want to be a poet?”   As we got set to go forward with what became an easy and enjoyable group conversation, it all seemed a bit esoteric to me and I began to wonder if I was indeed the right person for this particular gig.

I started to wonder if I was a poet, if I am a poet.  What does a poet dress like? How did I come to be a poet? I know my backstory, as it relates to the when and why I write what I write and way that I write it.
But, in the end, we talked about the subculture of poets and poetry, the need for more human interaction, the thrill of the live poetry reading and the fact that this particular subculture that I am a part of also tends to be sought out by those from other subcultures. I explained what The Thunderbird Sessions are and what they continue to mean to me. I explained that we have a regular attendee whom is very obviously wracked with anxiety, but that he comes to life under the lights and through the PA-system at Unplugged during a Thunderbird Sessions event.  Additionally, I explained that we have, often, subcultures within subcultures represented at a Thunderbird Sessions reading.

It seems that the fringes, the weirdos, the people who don’t quite fit in anyplace else, fit into the robes of the poet or the writer, because people that write have an escape hatch, they have a valve that releases the pressures that they feel every day and in almost every way.

I have done my best to make sure that my subculture is as accepting of any other subculture that might step through the doors of anywhere that I might be reading, writing, or otherwise existing. Because, really, the only culture that matters is the culture of kindness.  

Before that roomful of high-school kids was done with me, I told them that despite the fact that I didn’t know them, I loved them unconditionally. I told them this, because no one told it to me outside of my own childhood home and family. I felt like I didn’t fit on the planet. So, I found music and books that made for good companions when I needed them. Records and books are often quite a bit more reliable and dependable than people. People will let you down at every turn.  It’s a pretty rough room out there right now, so I’m trying to be one of those people whom you know will absolutely not let you down. I hope I’m doing okay.

A few days later, I got a thank-you card in the mail. It seems that I failed to communicate thoroughly enough on the subject of subcultures. No one wrote: “Hooray! Now I know a real poet!” “Now I understand how a poet should dress!”  “Now I know how to talk like a poet!”   Instead, the teacher wrote something like this: “Those kids remembered how you told them that you loved them unconditionally despite the fact that they were strangers to you. That really meant a lot to them.”

I want to do more of this sort of thing. It’s the only way I feel like I’m doing the very most good that I am able to do.
*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
* an essay culled from journal entries. (645 words)
Revelatory refractions held in the disco ball’s reflection, glancing off the wall.
Dim-lit dreams tilt forward, spilt into a paper cup, bounced backward and sprinkled up.

******* synonyms from the cold, dead pages of the riddle’s mask.
Breaching spatial avenues left for those who understood the task.
Taking hits from a dry-lit flask, leaving windows closed to bask

Clapped the snap back bass kit as it turned Wallace snitch.
The Wire drawn and laid on lawns boundless in the ditch.

Deaf to congruencies of affection, brought about by an adolescent *******.

Blind spot in the centre of view. Rhythmic dancing, oblivious to the pew
Unplugged mixing, interlocked twisting
Pulsing in tune with distorted computation
Dehydrated seizures next to the watering station

Molly Mary caught in the flashing lights, blinded by the car’s brights.
A necklace found, nothing else around.
Body grasped for fun, stuffed, mounted, late night pokes meticulously counted.
Colorfulpen Jun 2013
I held on
to every golden word
that spilled from your lips
until your malfunctioning mouth
frayed my heart
and I called disconnect.
Jon Tobias Mar 2012
I want to stumble into you
Like the locked door at the end of the hallway
The one with the sign that doesn’t say
DO NOT ENTER
As much as it says
I ****** DARE YOU

And I dare
I dare to devour your deviance
Like a grungy punk rocker on a microphone

Head shake tongue wag cartoon coyote horn howl

What?
I have no discretion
Leave the lights on
I want us both to see why we taste so bad

I mean
Let’s pound like pistons
Until the oil dries up
And our engines seize

I have nowhere to go

I do not want to go home tonight
I want to sloppy seconds myself
Before passing out
With my head in the crook of your neck

Even drenched in sweat
You smell so sweet

I want to kiss you
I want to taste your body’s attempt
To cool what I do to you

I want to heat you up again

I bought the clapper and unplugged everything else
Just so you could tell me to ******* like a strobe light

Well
Gorgeous
Now I can

Come place your lips on my throat
And I will sing for you

You are so much more beautiful than I could ever be
Let me know what that feels like
By wanting me back

This gentle ache
Of dancing
And drying joints

I wonder if you’ll still be this **** when you’re old

I ask because I have lost any desire for grace

I have fallen from it

And want to stumble into you like a locked door

Fumble for the house keys

Might actually make it inside

If you took your hands off me

— The End —