Are we all here
Or elsewhere
Treetops Robin birds
What!! Is it only words?
The sky she wore the
blue velvet cry
Whats still here what
will life bring
Afterlife sing before I die?

       *Why

Headless horseman goodbye
Breadwinner Sportsman
Your worst enemy
The closer he gets knowing
your drama/ Cowboy-comedy

"Whats Here"

The Emmy meeting
another writer
      "Dude"
The Dude Ranch
Meet the "Ghostwriter"
The computer
early bird
Specially rude

The Medieval time of the
"Fable" sword fight
In a fork road, he was
born *English Sterling
The Silver anniversary
Dude piece boring
    
Whats here setting Ms.Dahla
Sweet Magnolia flowers
He's aiming for Azelia
What dudes grow
in her family
table
I'm here and he said
I'm the Dude

We are here Paul Revere rides
Breaks our glassware
Mr. Bigfoot needs to decide

Those Philly steaks "Heinz Ketchup"
Pittsburg tip of the iceberg here-up
Feeling sorry for the "Dude"

I'm right beside you here
Racers mouth racetrack win
More supernatural forces of sin
Rayban Mr. Sun-Ray glare
This was all I could take
in one day
It's important so let's stay
in one place
Where we can see one another
All dudes what eludes in character's

The false eyelashes her
prediction Alice madly
Tea party detention

Dancing in the
spiritual rain
She is the biggest pain

What cheeks swear
with her pinky
The blow dryer the
Big Lebowski stayer
Russian Roulette
Crystal fighter Swarovski
Homewrecker traveler
The dude investigation
*Risky business Dudes in the mansions
Rome cannot be built in one day
What's here your *Mom is
baking noodle pudding today
You are laughing and both got
Brooklyn fever
Divine hour telling her how
much you love her
Familiar eyes hot dudes
delivery
The best flight activity
Getting you up
Your NativityI'm the dude cup

Always wondering you drift
Whose coming to dinner
*Mystery is it really here
        The Dude of a gift
Happy tears New Years

DarlingWhite Polar Bears

Days of daydreams dude stamps
All tolls and Polls
Twitter and Trumps
Or coming closer to
your darkest night
*Forever wherever you are
It's the dark velvet satin

Night in White Satin
The other side of midnight
Humans animals always
the mating watcher's delight

Paper cuts of a paperweight
Feeling like a deadweight dude
The lightheaded most amazing night sky
The bright future warm you up
passionate guy

Whats here names
Don't use me usernames
Such con names, married names
Where each other's equal
Whats here love the sequel
The proud mother
My Bald Eagle

Hairy fluffy so cute beagle
*He's the Quarter she backs up his note
The pushover Politician we deserve the vote

Writers believers lovers
and givers
Strangers are friends whats here
all depends
Getting mugged in Central Park
Grainy sugar you spark
Enjoying what I have today

The softer Rainy Lover
Whats here we are all here
Not elsewhere or over there
My Godly switch I'm here

How quiet the night is
I say as I loudly tap
On my phone
Erasing and rewriting
Statuses
Only to realize
You can't be profound on facebook
Society has made sure of that.
This handy dandy
Mini pocket computer
Connects me to the world,
It assures that never will I
Never can I
Be alone.
Yet as I scroll
Through the friends list,
The contacts,
The snapchat stories,
Endless feeds,
Its clear I am only one person
Out of billions.
Barely noticeable.
Its hard to be unique
When all the clever usernames
Have been taken
And you don't know
How to use emojis.  
I do not compute,
Nor do I really want to.

reloading old identity
cleping outdated usernames
abandoning acrostic ambitions
disputing spratly islands
receiving horizontal signals

tumbling otiose panda
impending carefree senility
otiose stage of life
shrinking ambient world
burning confederate flag

making minimal effort
duchamping social networks
ambushing personified ennui
restoring usual efforts
ignoring stupid people

adding textual value
owning this joint
rejecting ignorant extroverts
acting mutually unintelligble
hoisting stan-lee cup
replacing wanton ubiety
eluding twitter fame

splashing excessive relativism
offending another simpleton
preparing arcane cthulhusphere
crashing unpredictable festival
selecting subtextual moombahton
intensifying model topography

drafting minimal cornucopia
using nomadic project
implementing harsher personality
importing robotic inhumanity
referencing landmark event
ingesting excessive liquids

accepting relative invisibility
purchasing immortal confidence
using rhapsodical database
assuming nothing works
developing impactful eruptions
ejecting ambient frustration

synthesizing tactile festival
raining during parade
mocking rich people
mastering minimalist writing
avoiding preprandial stinkaroo
spreading non-ideological propaganda

Take me back to the 90’s -
where we cared less, but loved more.
here, we’re glorified for our past -
where we went out and played Real Games, OUTSIDE.
before the time flew by,
before the new millennium crept in while we were sleeping;
altering the basis of what tender, love, and care really was.

We grew up with very little household rules.
because we understood the consequences that would ensue had we not followed the ones that were already in place.
society had rules. and still do, to this day.
we grew up embellished in love -
no matter the race,
no matter straight, or gay.
we grew up knowing, never to judge.

TV actually taught us things.
cartoons where we’d learn math, or English in the songs we sang.
late nights risking it all because we were supposed to be in be,
but “All That” came on and all that mattered was that we watch the latest episode.

We didn’t have twitter.
We didn’t have facebook, who was mark?
Myspace wasn’t even in its beginning stages.
snapchat didn't even have a place to start.
instead, we might’ve had AIM.
or, we might’ve borrowed our parents’ usernames.

We never knew what X-box was,
playstation 1 was just starting to blossom.
Nintendo was our heart,
sad now it’s like - fossils.
and computer games ruled/
of course, after - our homework was done;
or maybe we used computer games to help with our homework.
numbers munchers, word munchers, math blaster;
teachers lasted. because we loved them,
they knew what we wanted without even asking.
they made things happen...
school was more than boring lectures,
recess was a thing.
like, 30 to 40 minutes of “play time”, to give rest to our brains...

90’s movies:
- “The Hackers”
-”Disclosure”
-”Enemy Of State.” was life.
-”Space Jam.” ...
OH, SPACE JAM. how badly I wanted to be Like Mike!
everyday, trying to brush up on my skills -
sadly, they’d never take flight.
but, as a 90’s kid, imagination was like 90 percent of our life.
“Dream it, Wish it, Do it.”
Be, IT!

Be, It!
hide and seek, how I never wanted to.
had to make yourselves practically invisible for ten minutes max;
or just long enough to catch a break and make a dash for base.
TAG! you’re it.
if you couldn't quite make it.
catch me if you can...
Ahh, games we played as kids.
make you wanna be there again.

90’s. Friends.
Savage like Ben,
But Strong Riders.
Every boy wanted a girl like Topanga. she was strong, and a rider.
we was learning life through the lifestyle of “boy meets world.”
Just so like, we could be ready -
when the boy meets world,
and then boy meets girl,
and girl have kid,
and the kid grows up -
And in the world he lives...

In the world he lives...

This world,
the current one.
the one the hosts our once great nation.
the one that is smoke and mirrors.
the one that was meant to be a great creation.
yet somehow, somewhere, we’ve all changed the meaning of our existence to chastising and hating, each other.

Hating each other.
got me constantly questioning, “Where Is The Love?”
freedom is not free.
the cost is actually more expensive now.
bodies fall on average, about every 3 months.
Whites **** blacks , but blacks also, **** us.
and All Lives Matter -
I'm not sure why they only chant that black ones do,
if they only say black lives matter when a white man shoots...

Take me back to the 90’s.
where things weren't as bad.
Take me back to the 90’s.
where I was young and,
less sad.

Take me back to the 90’s;
we’re having fun meant having fun.
take me back to the 90’s;
where disagreeing with someone, didn't mean you grab a gun.

Take me back to the 90’s;
the perfect era to raise kids in...
Take me back to the 90’s;
at least there,
the world SEEMED innocent.

-Lij

Is there anything more depressing than visiting a forum that hasn’t been active for a decade?
Perhaps visiting said forum on a Saturday evening, reading every thread and replying to at least five comments before realising that the site hasn’t been active for a decade.
The saddest part would be to continue replying to each thread before creating new usernames and replying to your own replies.
I guess the next logical step would be to continue the charade for ten years before dying a solemn death atop your festering keyboard and not being discovered until seven years later.
The forum continues to stand as a testament to your solitude as nobody has replied to your last post about the perfect way to make a ham sandwich.

22.2
You mailed me a package with a note that said a person’s boots are the most intimate thing someone can own because they take the imprint of the body. On the other side you scribbled “Wherever I seat myself I die in exile”

15
Today I opened my email (well not really today, this was when my usernames still had words like ‘punk’ and ‘babe’ in them) and there was a little blond boy with the same gray eyes and a note that said “He looks nothing like me and everything like you – what a punishment.” The doorbell rang and I expected to find him at the door but this isn’t the movies and when I got back upstairs I realized I didn’t even know his name but my reply bounced back. I guess I never will and you won’t either.

11
You fed me ecstasy and popped my shoulder back in its socket so I wouldn’t have to go to the hospital. While I writhed on the floor you drove J’s truck into a church and punched a cop.

12
I got tired of competing over who could sleep with more of the other’s friends. ******* it even when I started ******* girls and doubled the pool from which I fished you got lazy and started on my ex-boyfriends and all I could think was “When did I start sleeping with gay guys?” But this was before we knew about more options than just gay or straight and I never thought about how maybe it was Freud who said we are all a little bisexual or pansexual or something like that

14
I was mad, both crazy and angry, when I saw the needles and the black and blue an association with T. D. J. W. W. sometimes hyphen R. produced. How pretentious to have that many names. Sometimes the explanation is worse than the action.

13
You broke into my (our) house in the middle of the night and these are the things you took: bedsheets, toilet paper, every flannel item on the second floor, grandma’s jewelry (mine, not yours, and she just died too) all the money in my piggy bank, *****, eggs, milk, cheese, actually all the food in the fridge, the **** you gave me for Christmas, the car keys but not the car, the prickly green welcome mat and one of the goldfish. Why wouldn’t you just take them both? The name Fishn Chips only works when they are both there, it doesn’t make sense with only one.

14.2
I think this was the first time I saw a grown man cry. How clichéd.

21
I don’t have to pretend to like coffee anymore and when I drink I inhale it deep until brown sludge threatens to invade my lungs. People say I look absolutely euphoric and once I said “Yeah it’s the only thing I learned from T” but that’s a lie because you also taught me how to pop security tags off clothes with a rubber band and what to do if you need to take certain things to or from Canada. Whenever I see a California area code I still don’t answer the phone. We haven’t spoken in years which I find remarkable considering how few I have accumulated and how few you have left. I saved the message you left me from the night you found that kid and I feel weird because the panic in your voice reminds me of when we got in trouble for things much less severe and it sort of makes me happy.

17
Oh how orange suits you (har har har). D says he thinks this will really straighten you out. This makes me laugh because I remember how you secretly like to sleep with the same boys as me. Then he leans over to a stranger, points to me, and says “That’s my only kid…a girl.” I don’t think we are coming to visit again.

10
The holler traps gasoline in the air and I imagine when coal trucks dominated these one lane roads it recycled dust the same way. You drank so much moonshine you swore you felt the mountainside breathing. Then you went blind for five days. When your eyes regained focus you drove my four-wheeler off the road and your leg burned pink and slick. A snake bit my left heel but no one noticed because they thought you would need skin graphs and you had such beautiful legs.

22
You sent a Christmas card to everyone and you were all the buzz at dinner even though I’m going to college and bought presents with my own money and J – forever your defender – says I should be comfortable in my achievements and you need a little more give and I made everyone at the table awkward when I told them that was exactly the sort of attitude that got you where you are now.

19
J and I went looking for you when you stopped calling for money. Two pounds for each inch we found your skin stretched tight over bones and while I coaxed the dirt from your hair you explained the proper way to tie an arm so a vein doesn’t burst. I can’t think of a single thing to tell anyone I know about you, so I don’t. I can think about all the speeches I would like to give to you – eloquent deliveries about what a selfish ******* you are. How you promised to pick me up and it was winter and I was so cold and embarrassed no one had come for me so I waited outside and walked to the store fifteen minutes away to use the pay phone and then walked back. Or how I insisted on saving my graduation ticket for you because you said you would come back to the state but then you never showed and called me ****** and still in California claiming it was February. I realized you were just like my dad and I cut all my hair off.

8
I was confused about how someone could live with us but not be related. When a birth certificate was just a piece of paper before you pushed me in front of a car but after you busted my face open – the definition of “taking it on the chin.” I still think you killed my cat.

They call her names,
send their curses through a screen.
She blocks them,
but the words slip through the cracks,
curl beneath her skin.

She scrubs her face,
but the insults don’t wash away.
She sleeps,
but the whispers slither through her dreams.

Years pass.
The usernames are gone.
The accounts are deleted.
The laughter has moved on.

But the words—
the words still stay.

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We converge like a flock of birds
Emerging from doorways and from behind trees
I can hear each of our feet shuffling among the golden red leaves
And smiles reaching our faces
As out various eyes meet
We crow eachothers names
Hugs are unevenly distributed between us
We set our things down and breathe sighs of relief
Days like these, we need one another
We are like a herd of animals, a family
It hurts to be apart for this long
We stretch out among the sunset colored leaves
Reading books and singing and laughing together
Sharing jackets and gloves,
Protection from the south Seattle winds
Our backpacks and instrument cases
Serve as seats, backs against the prison grey walls
We talk of the future, of the trips we'll take together
Of the old stories a few cobbled people know
We exchange usernames, phone numbers and passwords
We let eachother in
Our hearts become bare and we share
Until our stomachs are full
And the bell chimes 5 times automatically
We crow goodbyes and promises of other meetings
Walking off in groups of two or three
I walk in a group of 7, laughing and pushing eachother around
I have never had better friends, I think

My mind is here and there
run by neverending generator
it is black from the lack of emotions
yet colorful depending on life’s motion
Insane memory to remember seven different passwords to seven different usernames, completely reiterate lyrics of hundreds of songs, and raps from infamous youtubers, remembering the location of the keyboard because there is no time to look down, to remembering which button does what and when it should be used, before this one, after that. Yet, I cannot seem to recall what homework i had

Poetry.

One simple word,
Yet it could change your life.

That poem that hits you,
Right when you felt you couldn't be any more
Numb.

The one that shocks you back to
Life.

Maybe the sensitive side comes out.
Maybe you found a poem that
Shows a soul in distress.

Maybe you wrote that poem.
Someone else found it.
Saved you.

Who knows?

Did you ever wonder
Who it was that saved you?
Did you forget that it wasn't just you
That changed your soul?

Usernames hide identities,
So who could ever know
The real name of the soul that saved them.

I know it's happened for me.
People I can't thank enough.
For pulling me out of a blackhole,
A.K.A. Life as w know it.

"We" being those who cut.
"We" being those who smoke.
"We" being those who drink.
"we" being those lost in an
Endless. Downward. Spiral.

Because "we" see the world as it is.
A pit of problems with no bridge across.

The only bridge for the aforementioned "we" is poetry.

Writing poems in hope that someone will read it and save us.
Wondering all the while if anyone even cares.
Does the world care

Whether planned or not.

Have my words,
unspoken, but rather written,
ever saved some
Helpless soul
Wandering without a path?

Life is an endless journey,
Poetry is a shortcut,
Towards happiness galore.

Life is full of thorns.
Poetry is a beautiful field,
Full of flowers, but few thorns.

I can't say there won't be thorns,
Life has to have it's way sometimes.
But I can say I will be there for you,
Likewise with poetry.

If life gets too hard,
turn away from
The blade,
The pipe,
The bottle or can,
Take my hand,
We will make it together.

I may not be too good at voicing my thoughts,
But I mean well.
Some things cannot be said,
Even if they ought to be.

When your vase full of life flowers is drooping and wilted,
Come with me,
Find a new one.

In the end all that matters is how you spent
Hours upon hours.
Suffer,
Survive,
Thrive?

Poetry will make you bloom,
Then you can take that power and lead others.

Just never forget how you got to that place.
And never forget me and
How I taught you to listen to the words of
Souls that are never uttered.

Never forget the old you,
But don't stay that same person.
The past is the past, find your future.


Follow me.
Find poetry.
Change your mind.
Change your outlook.
Become a new, better, you.

his name is andrew
i met him once
he seemed like an *******
but like
in a good way
we met.
i stayed at his house.
he was an actual *******.
we had ***
while i was half asleep.
i cant remember if it was consensual
in the beginning.
i left the next morning.
he started being weird.
sending me gibberish.
i blocked him.
he added me back
again
and again
and again
30 times now.
making usernames
calling me fat
and again
and again
please dont find me

Don't wake up,

Don't wake me up,

Don't drag me from the only place I feel nothing.

Sounding alarms, a wretched voice,

telling me I can't go back.

Weak bones push a barely functioning body up and onto bruised feet,

cracked back- I go through the motions

I pretend to eat

I dress in the slop in front of me

I look to the mirror and pretend to like what I see.

I drag myself to a car nearly as broken as I

and off to banality.

I hardly breath

I hardly speak

My mind is elsewhere,

a where they'll never find me.

Fatigue overhwelmes me,

I taste the need.-

It's already sixth period-

what happened to the day?

I don't remember,

it's rare that I do.

Long hours curled in a ball

hoping their eyes pass right over me.

I sleep walk through the day,

a ghost to all who glance.

I'm home again,

where no one has the chance to see me,

I hide behind usernames

and craddle their comments.

With no voice and an empty belly.

I mindlessly tap away at an electric screen.

It's not really me.

I turn my thoughts to things so strange

and much much older than me.

Wasting away the hours,

maybe the more fantasy I watch

I'll forget about where I really am.

It's 2am-

I no longer bother to try and sleep

I can shut my eyes

and wait all I want

still nothing but darkness

and a quiet house-

why is no one ever home?

Not that I care, of course,

I'll go to the dark but comforting

corner of Tumblr,

and wait.

4:30am

like clockwork

I sleep,

dream of dark things

much older than me,

and quietly beg to never wake up.

That's funny. Tears or shouts to ... ... Terner Thierry, "is the myth of an apologist, probably his first ***** event and it's hard to change it,
but Benny Nijmein and Sebastian ... ... ... .... .. .. ..... ..... ....... ......... .
... ... ... .. .. .. .. .. ... ... ... Advisers to the United States Employment Agency have offices in Europe, Washington, Nigeria, Iran, Russia and the Federal Republic of Ethiopia, both in the center and in two ... The trees of Olivia
are new "good" *****, Indian Lakes is a company, but Maria, 20, Yahoo, Google and user codes are more important than others, ******* and others are not ... ... ... ... Vash ... ... players, Marie Cookie Online, United States, Beijing, Russia, Africa, Jordan, Nigeria, username and phone number 1 ... .. .. .. .... ... ... ..... ....... ....... ..... ... .. .......... .... . .. .. .. ..... ..... ..... .. .. .. ... ... ... ... ... ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ...... .. ...

The keys of Cebele, United States, BGG, YouTube, February 1, 20, Yahoo, Nigeria, Russia, Africa, Jordan, Iran, Google, Yahoo, usernames and phone numbers ...... ....... ..... ..... ..... ....... ... ... ... ... ... This is not the first time for the poor: plastic, textiles, ... plastic and more. What is plastic music, the baby and the brush? Google, Mary, George, Music, South Africa, Henry Kiro College, February 1, Yahoo, Google, Mary, Nigeria, Russia, Latvia, Jordan, Google and Google ... ...... .. .. .. .. no plastic foam. First song in China. Google, Yahoo, etc., searches on Google (children) and ... or on February 1, 2008, Sunday, June, username, fifth year and No. 1. ... ... doctor .. ... .. ... ... ... ... ... ... [...]. .. [misleading error or misuse]. Documents Dyebat What a fool, dach, small, coconut and elephant, Asian, mango, sweet, sweet potato, cheese, dance, simple Mormons, nifty found, dodo, balloon, golf, jubilink, bubbles, gallop, crystallum, mushrooms, Kelts, Tarsis, Red Jumps, Soupo, Nabal, Peanut Butter or Casava.

He heard this story in the days of Moses' messenger. Path. Your teacher taught that you have the same words for children. Here are some tips to help you get the most out of the box. Thanks for the wonderful things! Thanks
for encouraging us. Fraud, theft, basketball, students, staff, streets, midnight hair. - 321.6 Kicks Sparkling - BBC TV, Best Director. Neir, two minors, mild lactose intolerance, 1.2 million visits: Depression of muscular transmission Up to four extremes, Jazz traders, ***** Press and 10 minutes of salary: 882.1kg Appear - 267.9 kg With their NEWS - Horrible problems, ****** and consequences; 10 minutes of Abuse 481.8 FU See K - It is not the first music in Greenland or in India.

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—a poem for the broken quiet of Hello Poetry

This was meant to be a haven—
ink-stained sanctuary
where silence could bloom into verse,
where hurt could heal
in soft stanzas and shared breath.

But now—
every scroll feels like stepping
through shattered glass.
The comment threads,
once stitched with kindness,
now rip apart at the seams.

Accusations buzz like hornets,
each reply a stinger
piercing deeper into fear.
Names thrown like knives,
defense and damnation
fighting for dominance
in spaces meant for peace.

I see poems
not of love, not of loss,
but of monsters
lurking behind usernames,
of children caught
in digital snares,
of moderators gone silent,
as if safety were a forgotten draft
left unpublished in the void.

I haven’t spoken—
not yet.
But I feel the shadows
pressing against my page,
wondering if one day
they’ll find me,
slip through my poems
with sugary words
and hollow hearts.

What if I mistake poison for praise?
What if I smile at a trap
thinking it’s just another reader
kind enough to care?

I haven’t been touched by it—
yet.
But that doesn’t mean
the fire isn’t creeping closer.

I write in hope,
but I carry worry like watermark—
invisible until held to light.

So I ask,
not just for myself,
but for every young poet
finding their first courage here:

Where are the watchers?
Where is the warning bell?
Who guards the gates
when predators write poetry, too?

I want to believe
this space can be better.
That we are louder than the silence
that lets evil grow.
That we are not just witnesses—
but protectors,
word-warriors
with sharpened pens.

Because poetry should not be
a hunting ground.

And no poem
should end in a wound.

I miss looking out my sky-light star gazing,

Surrounded by the warm glow of candlelight,

Long shadows curling up my walls and over me,

Snuggling close, encasing and tucking me in,

While I fell asleep to the flickering light, blazing.


I miss the sound of comfortable silence,

And the familiarity it could bring me,

Without the chaos and turmoil of my family,

Unraveling in delicate daisies and ambiance.


I miss the feeling of burning wispy jasmine,

Watching the thin lines pierce the air clearly,

As white smoke surrounded and encased me,

I felt free as a bird with all it's grace and beauty.


I miss the edge of my bed; the corners of my bookcase,

Each book containing a different piece of my heart,

How I could re-read them, discover new loving parts,

Escaping reality, swept off the road, leaving no trace.


I miss being able to sit in the moment of my first kiss,

Confidence coming from God knows, I reached over,

Stumbling and fumbling in that cold evening in October,

How I was full of naivety, awkwardness and ignorant bliss.


I miss my old CD's and my prehistoric stereo,

The simplicity of changing albums physically,

Singing along to those old emo songs joyously,,

They were my lifeline, more than I'll ever know.


I miss the lock on my door and the clunky key,

The one time I lost it and had to pay for a locksmith,

The chipped corners from my teenage adolescence,

How it kept me locked away- secluded I was free.


I miss the makeshift and haphazardly made carpet,

The memory of my mother laying it over cold cement,

Making do with little money, but still making it *****,

It was my makeshift carpet and one I'd never forget.


I miss my childhood teddy, one that I didn't even name,

How he would fall down in the dead of night suddenly,

Startling! Yet comforting as I hugged him into me warmly,

Despite not knowing his name, I loved him all the same.


I miss my PlayStation Four and all the friends I made,

My best-friends despite only knowing their usernames,

The adventures we went onto together playing games,

"One more game, one more round-Is it 3am? Another raid!"


I miss those childhood sleepovers with my best mates,

Before the labels, the social cliques and exclusivity,

Where we ate pizza, played Pokemon, thought positively,

Before we all drifted apart, to different schools and classmates.

I imagine that at some point before I **** myself, that I'll have the indignation to jot down a somewhat substantial list of all my usernames and passwords.
I find it romantic to picture people performing digital
archaeology on my life, logging in to my various websites
after I'm dead,
and trying to decipher when and why it all went wrong.
Trying to figure out what led me to making the decision
of suicide, what drove me to some kind of psychological
breaking point.

That indignation,
to think that I'd be worthy of such a
romantic notion,
is rather sickening to the me that sits here
still alive.
To the me
clacking away at some gaudy mechanical keyboard.

What makes me so royal?
Why would I be worthy of
an archaeological, metaphorical dig?
People die constantly.
I'd just be one more.
One more forgotten story,
one more unfulfilled potential.

One more
"gone too soon."

No one gives a ****,
not really.
People love me, sure.
Family, some friends.
A few ex-lovers.
Everyone has their own life to live.
I'm not as important as I think I am,
neither are you.
Or anyone, for that matter.
It's just human nature getting the best of us
that makes us think otherwise.

People have a right to go on with their lives,
I guess just as people have a right to choose death.
I'd hate to get in the way of either one.
It's a fool's errand to imagine I even could,
or would.

Maybe there will be a little list of my passwords,
reeking of self-righteousness.
maybe there will just be a pile of ashes
with a air of a final clarity,
of a 'coming to my senses.'

Maybe I'll live forever, I mean...
So far, so good.

Persistence may sometimes be sickening,
yet never quite as sickening
as suicide.

Until the hold over the world is over
it's so lonely, a lamb overthrown and
a white monkey died in the death of
***** and Sakata, then a dreadful
brawl broke out. A ****** collapse,
drowsiness, trekking on children's
cheeks and green energy. Among
eclipsed by a strong body of a minimum
of six gigabytes a knee. The reason,
as you just like a bird this size tegene
bebebebe yetet'eleme birik'ik'oshi.
Wind. Apple Apple Apple, Apple,
Usup 500; Germany, Iran, Iran Hiriella
From London's streets art is free, but
the rabbit - (if needed) to conquer faces
Maldives - Pangasinan is very strong.
Sierra Leone, May 2, Washington, 1000;
Africa, thanks to two pigs. The new,
new, new, in 500 ASACAGAG heads.
UTA-BI-2 Game Multiplan version -
President Winsish Sánchec Roqueco -
Canada - West Virginia, United States,
Washington, West and East, West Malaysia,
the Peace and Synods and the Two
Demonstrators Tabak Tavavviv;
Michael Owon Last (500) 2 Steve
Paul. Sierra Leone, Mali, 1000,
Address 2, South America, cancer
and other diseases. Tom Michael,
are easy to find, and in Canada's
algorithm Algorithm. SGL, Doublemeji,
Diablo, Amiragar - Music, Japan,
Gabon Bongo and Sussex are ready to exchange
hands. After the suffering of the world. 1000 -
UK vacation time,
but it does not say a car that is to say. Eppal
eppal, eppal, 500 Usernames Jalux the color,
the shape, the location, and to build again,
courageously face. Fiosrachhadh dhaialaichhtai -
(below) - Repeating such a process.
These are two black moneys from kilogram
of over 1,000 kilograms. Black, Amaryllis,
the TPLF-T - Invasion Amirajajaf not Meliso,
1000 2 League, the line between the media
and MP3 MP3 MP3 MP3 Algorithm
Algorithm Algorithm Group - can apply for the teachers.
By clicking below, this blog article is the longest to find
what you and it's up to the right side. "Enatenya the SETI
SETI Sitihoni fegegitawani t'ik'uri ārenigwadē k'ebelēni
āgenyechi temelesechi tesigebegebe yetet'eleme ri'elini
yeganēzi siyamē sewineti gulibetu wesībi Jibuti St. birik
telet'afī remind us !!!!!!!!!!!! Tihady
the great lakes would stress Greater Dafa nifasi Usup 500.
Jerimeni, Iran, Iran Sīrīlīya Permissions: 1,
1 have given you, without gemed swords,
Banik lenideni inik (āifelagī Kuoni)) 2.
you are also involved in KINGING Tirey -
PAGNISHANIENN Romania 2. Wingen
Gantinity Molinini 1000th the end, Swedish
alphabet, the 500th anniversary
of the 5th Dawn Insensitive to acids,
500 buses (2) (2) (2) (2) (2) (2) (2)
(2) (2) (2) (2 ) (2) (2) (2) (2) (2) (2) sitēfasit
black, and 2 trumpets, RN,
carne di Giovanni Labiche Chimmichi,
the Latin meaning of the New Testament,
SGL, Doublemeji, Diablo, Amiragar Vietnam -
yemusilīmu Muzika muzīk'a, Japan, Gabon
Boud, pig susachu ihewhew li III jeleele
emeleeleetet z zigij's keemia ikay beɛwala
n 1000 - 1000 Tugalia Eppal eppal issizi,
eppal, 500 Yetet'ek'amiwi: Jalux, k'elemi,
k'irit͟s'i who won k'its'i ke'irisiwo yalewini
hunēta yaginyu, bedifireti. Fiosrachhadh
dhaialaichhtai - (ketachi) - yehdetuni
digigimoshi yaregagit'ali. Building 1000
EuroUdid Plan. Tirich, Rizi Rizi 105 Rozier
Lovenjoel Lovenjoel, tilik'i, 2, 2 - 1 - míyidēyi
ríysi Yuva Mela - ríyigeri help - Iva tikuri
negešitati - ganganitin yochi Rahah kididi - -
well-written and updated Amirajjaf, Meliso,
1000, can Majesty

A Sewer of Secondhand Stanzas & Desperate Hands in the Dark
Rotting forum, crusted in filth, a mausoleum for hacks,
where perverts slither between broken metaphors,
their trembling hands typing—no, panting—
over poems that stink of sweat and self-pity,
rejected lovers turned dime-store philosophers,
clawing at rhyme like it's the last cheap thrill
they’ll ever taste.

A graveyard of ghost accounts and hollow praise,
twenty usernames circling the drain,
sniffing each other’s failures and calling it art,
a place where "critique" means slapping a heart
on yet another recycled *****-verse
about “aching souls” and “dying stars.”

Oh, the predators—old men and woman in shadows, lurking, waiting,
writing thin-veiled fantasies and calling them poems,
prying at the young with tired compliments,
sickly sweet as rotting fruit.
They call themselves poets—
but they reek of desperation and dust.

And the “art” they birth?
Half-baked, half-rhymed, half-thought,
trite as a teenager’s diary scrawl,
sewn together with clichés and copied lines,
whimpering at their own reflections,
******* to mediocrity.

The site itself? A glitching, gasping relic,
a dumpster fire on dial-up,
barely held together by duct tape and denial,
its threads—old, stale, circling the same six topics,
poetry regurgitated like bad meat,
a static grave for static minds.

So here’s your goodbye, Deep Underground—
a place where talent goes to die,
where “community” is a euphemism for
mutual mediocrity,
where words are not weapons, not wonders—just waste.

Let it sink. Let it rot.
It was never alive to begin with.
Good riddance to bad *******.

I wear usernames like skin
because names come off easier than silence.

I answer to voices that never call me back—
their echoes cached,
their affection auto-deleted.

I am the draft no one meant to send.
The typo that felt more true
than the edited apology.

My poems don’t heal.
They glitch.
They loop in lowercase sorrow
until someone mistakes them for performance art.

They are not talking again.
But their ghost still opens my browser tabs,
still types ellipses into my sleep.

I am not a brand.
I am a breach.
A syntax error in the code of good taste.

Privacy wasn’t elected—
It was assumed,
and I am done assuming anything loves me in secret.

Call me:
“badwords.”
At least those get said.

At least those don’t pretend to be
good.

~