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King Panda Aug 2017
I am unsure of the geology
of where you’re from.

I expect there exists
shelves and sheaths

pale grey-yellow
like serum in the blood

and rocks resembling
sun-weathered lobster

all of this enclosed by

a festoon of green pine—
its regalia cut sonic

and naked
wrung and wrung again

by august.
on the edge

a cabin is hemmed on
the skirt of ocean—

spikes of molding logs
propped and resting

a wave comes in.

a wave goes out.
a wave stays to shake

your hand.
introduces itself as

sensate verge
and wonderment.


I can only imagine what
it is for you.
You know Eight Owl City,
                                           -ain’t where I’m from?

You know the past isn’t pretty,
                                                -why are you dwelling there son?

You know every thought’s a lifetime,
                                                       ­    -of hands wringing, hands wrung?

Forget the past, see the future now,
                                                        -Dip­-dap-a-looma lung.

Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,
Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,

Storm on the horizon,
                                   -thunder in the air,

Crack-O-lightning split the skies now,
                                                            ­ -ignore the clouds their always there…

You know Eight Owl City,
                                         -is just a place to hide your mind?

Life is hard, it ain’t pretty,
                                          -lost in a place out of time.

Get out your head or you’ll eat yourself,
                                                       ­          -consumed by paranoia, -rage!

Forget the past; see your future now,
                                                            ­-all you do in life is age.

Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
Hands wringing, hands wrung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,
Hear me now as it’s sung,
Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,

Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,
Dip-dap-a-looma lung,
A dip-dap-a-looma lung,
"Eight Owl City," was the original Sumerian name for Heliopolis in Egypt.
Never have I seen such an Avid Score
Then draw your Players back to your Credit
Once Clocks have wrung your Springs tight before
Now ring Best Conclusions to your Debit
So your Tendons ripe and joined Model Bro
Each with Burned Spectacles for Thigh's attract
And he taught you well; A Flame burning so
**** Timbers do kiss your Tongue's Good Act
The Green Elf was right. If you could agree
That Advanced Levels only stunt your Mane
But just Read the Play; And Scripts follow free
Your Lion-Born Instinct is one and the same.
Chelsea has Won. And wore Arsenal's Shirt
The Meaning of which, Tie's Variance still hurts.
Amanda Jul 2018
Before moon comes out to show
Lack of progress I think I'll get drunk
Could make better decisions
Life is easier to flunk

I look down, hide my shamefIul eyes
Heart lays in the dirt
Wrung out, tossed aside like trash
Can I run from this hurt?

I placed expectations high
In the wrong box, the wrong shelf
Cannot disentangle, stuck to my mistakes
Try but fail to fix myself

**** it, I am gonna get high
Life too short to live sober, full of sorrow
Rather die tonight with smoke in happy lungs
Than survive an endless number of substance free tomorrows
It is hard to live a morally sound life.
Lila Fisk Sep 2014
i shouldn't have called you but i'm glad to know you're breathing even
though you did not answer. letting me ring out to nothing .twice

but i wrung you out countless
blocked your number
tip-toed over you in the street. ignored you three times
one day

tonight you called me
late night
unknown number
reaching out
glovehanded from the cold

through the line i leaked
ice from the comfort of a warm room
mouth melting
preserved parts of myself

—&in a cold snap i collapsed

broken puppet
playing psychiatrist
singing for serotonin
that never made me

now the zoloft fog
is lifting i am forgetting
to forget— you. god
i shouldn't have called you—

i got a poem out of it
first since winter
metaphor for spring

but with happy coincidence of
late september
this spring is more than story

Alice and I down the rabbit hole,
To a world of big and small.
Fat were skinny, short were tall,
Sky all colors we could know.
People there of every size,
Most were crazy, all  were wise.
Trees were soft foam cud-del-yee,
Dandelions bright and free,
Taste like sweet drops, red toffee.
Walk on any wall you please,
Upside down with simple ease.
Fly with birds, sync symphonies.
Words hang from chimeneys,
Hives for kissing wasps and bees.
When we went to sleep at night,
Feather beds tickled us just right.
No money or gold in sight,
No loud noises give us fright
Light was heavy, heavy light.
Right was left, Left a knight,
Kept his sword stuck in his head,
Called his mother uncle Fred.
Freeway was a merry go round,
Children sang with cooing sounds,
Never sick, went old to young,
Crabby apples full of fun.
Stories busy writing selves,
Poems painting doors and shelves.
Reindeer looked like little elves,
Santa was four silver bells.
Christmas came every day,
Calendars were thrown away,
Turned into corn and hay.
Deck of cards all the same,
Chickens played a poker game,
Losers won, no one could tell,
Which was ace when it fell.
Rules were simple write or wrung,
All returned that was undone.
Awkward seen as ballet grace.
Slowest won every race.
Fastest got there first you see,
Ribbon holder, wanna bees.
No direction north or south,
Bravest men meek as mouse.
Food is free at every bar,
Get into a nowhere car,
Think I'll have another beer,
No plan of leaving here.
Sabila Siddiqui Oct 2018
I would've torn myself
limb from limb
to appease your hunger
but you still would't have wanted me.

I would've broken my bones
to build you a throne
but you still wouldn't have wanted me.

I would've wrung myself dry of blood
to quench your thirst
but you wouldn't have wanted me.

I would've skinned myself
to stitch you clothes
but you still would't have wanted me.

I would've burned myself
to keep you warm
but you would still leave.
Claire Waters Nov 2013
you cry like lost toys and dead pets
there's nothing you can do about it right now
you cry like a small animal with a broken spinal chord
you keep whimpering, but it can only heal in time
you cry like pressing the skin of your palms
into the membranes of your eyes

when everything in your head is so cacophonous
you want to rub away all the little things you absorb
want that your hands could throw out this migraine
like a candy wrapper on the sidewalk
and if you believe hard enough that it's gone
you'll never notice the sugar rush or the comedown
so you press your hands to your face
as hard as you can and try to pray like a religious person
but you were raised christian and american and
the ways of believing and hoping and loving that you knew as a child
seem insincere now, and hard to speak
the language is not truthful
everything is what they told you it was not
nothing is what they told you it was
or everything was always what it was
and you or i could've told them that

and you think that wrapper might eventually end up in a landfill
if you go throwing it carelessly around
and sadness taken with too much sugar can be a toxic combination
so maybe making the bad things go away
is harder than throwing away the wrapper and enjoying the rush
maybe the wrapper is somewhere else now you can't get to
where you can't hear it crinkle or see it shrivel,
but you can still relentlessly feel it
getting whittled away by time and weather
while steadily melting down bits of you
as you pass your heart around
gasping inside the icebox

until one day you look up and the sun is a bloodier color
and your lungs are full of ice like pins
freezing inside of you
and when seconds before you had oxygen
as you begin choking, you think it's amazing how long
it seems to have been
since you were alive

your knuckles are dry from holding on
to a rusty ladder wrung
even when you want to move so badly
and there's nowhere to climb
you refuse to jump
and you're still trying to figure out
how to fall correctly
to break the least amount of limbs
KM Hanslik Jun 2018
We were laying down our lives
from the beginning, but we didn't know
how cold the nights could be
or how heavy our feet would sound
on wooden floors, we didn't know we were built
for more than coughing up new ways
to pass time, no we were only
practicing for this,
we were only fighting for our lives,
we were only cutting out new patterns & fitting ourselves with
our wrung-out hopes & dreams,
but those fell limp & we didn't realize
there was anything else
I didn't realize these shards in my lungs were leftover
from the first time learning how to crash & burn, the fall left bruises printed
up and down my arms,
under my ribs, but I thought that was
a good thing, I thought
we're supposed to fight for what we love
we're supposed to feel the pain
we are only a billion lonely strangers
laying down our lives here, I'm hoping
you'll pick mine up before it gets trampled on again
although we really do make the finest doormats
for feet heavier than ours, maybe
we will remain in the dust & the sand until
we are buried, or our throats are filled so that we can't ask whose deadweight
we carry today;
so come lie to me,
tell me that this all goes away
I'm tired of playing in the shade by myself, I need fresher dreams
bigger things than childhood fantasies
they tell me I am only make believe
I am only a lonely star, I am only pretending
they don't see the corners I cut or the nightmares I chase,
the graves I dig just to survive, just to bury
the rot of older skins I shed on the daily,
we don't like the way the gas in the atmosphere
hides the stars so we seek
open spaces & we lay our hearts in felt-lined boxes thinking
they'll be safer there than in our chests, because our chests might be
caving in tomorrow
compressed under the weight of passerby, if you need me I'll be here
(we didn't know how cold the nights could be)
I'll be laying down my life over here.
matt d mattson Sep 2018
**** sadness
**** self pity
**** that infinite, cold,  black empty feeling inside you.

Sacrifice your self imposed mindset of misery
On an alter of the ***** you should have stopped giving

Take a deep breath
Like you are getting ready to dive to the dark bottom of the sea

Like you are ******* up the whole of the world itself
Like a god consuming the universe
Till the very cells of your lungs are stretched beyond meaning



Hold it

Past the point you want to scream

To the point where your tears are only for your physical pain

And then a few awful seconds more

Hold it

And just at the moment

Where you think you might have forgotten how to breathe


Let it go

Let everything go
Every last ******* piece
Every last bit inside
Like a deflating balloon

Let it pour out of you
Like the entirety of your being is seeking to leave

And when the easy bit leaves
Keep exhaling




Till you are as empty as the infinite void itself
Till you are as empty as you tell yourself you are

And then blow off a little more

And when you can't release one more molecule of CO2
from your wrung out lungs,

Take a free breath

A deep but normal breath

Look around
The world doesn't care what goes on inside you
It doesn't care how you feel physically
Or emotionally
So stop feeling sorry for yourself
Take charge of it
Because it matters to you

Because you matter
Whether or not your sadness let's you admit it
Tilda Jul 2018
She was born at 3.41am,
Neon lamps,
And mouth masks,
From a place of great peace,  
To loud,
Shambolic fuss,
Open wounds,
Not immune,
Drugs forming spirals of inaudible sounds,
Drowning and gargling,
Naked and cold,
Turning blue,
Being wrung out,
Mum crying out,
Wanting to feel flesh upon flesh,
Tear upon head,
Hands clasped in prayer,      
Hoping the girl,
Innocent and young,
Was lying cradled in heaven,
By 11.41.
mc ish Oct 2018
i have never met one who makes my soul so willing to be wrung
she conquers all idea i had of "Peace"
demanding to be felt
requesting to be seen
i wish nothing but to lay between her legs and dreams of days yet to come
she is a ******* pipe dream
she does not know the consequences of her loving
and she does not care
that is why i adore her soul
look at me
look away
believe my lies and hope to God she never sees
she could destroy my very psyche
how ironic
she is a ******* thunderstorm
she creates the pit in my soul that will only be filled by dancing
through her rain
i will not run at the sounds of danger
i will not hide from my destiny
unless it is inside her clouds
her mouth
i will drown myself in her fears and bury myself beneath her seeking rain
i cannot stand this
i cannot stand her
i will kneel.
Cindra Carr Jan 13
There is desperation in youth
Each heartache and heartbreak crushing
In its overture of need
The petals of broken hearts litter the floors
In the wind of longing cries
Pieces are glued back on
Cries become sighs of what was then
Until the next time the heart is wrenched and wrung
Youth despair and keep going
Despite the thoughts of what it was

Donall Dempsey Aug 2018

The morning found
only blood & feathers.

The fox leaving
only Death

& its presence

& the gossip of the frightened chickens.

My uncle swearing
‘til the sky was blue

(early morning clouds that the sun shone through) .

An embarrassed ****
like a mad alarm clock

crying like a cartoon “****-a-doodle-do! ”

My uncle dispatching him
with a quick kick.

“Oh yeah, and where the hell were you? ”

I take in the scene of the massacre
& whisper:

“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a chicken! ”

*    *      *

All that next week
my uncle stalked the chicken coup
waiting for the fox

who was clever enough
not to turn up

until the eight day
driven by his hunger & his nature

she stared into my uncle’s cold metallic sight
& the evil acrid smell of a cartridge caught in flight

as both it & the fox(shot through the head)  
fell dead

at my uncle’s muddied boot.

My gentle uncle delirious with Death
the frosted air
stained with his breath.

His voice almost transformed
into an animalistic hoot:

“Hey boy, betcha didn’t know I
could shoot! ”

The good side of the fox’s face
seemed to still laugh
at the very idea of Death.

I whimpered:

“I sure wouldn’t like to be    a fox! ”

The countryside
brutal & Biblical


a life for a life

Yet all I could see
was Death...Death.


I knelt & whispered
a quick act of contrition
to the fox’s carcase.

My uncle probably thought
I was barmy.

That night in celebration
my uncle wrung a chicken’s neck

(the chicken’s name was Patricia)  

& I declined the clean
white breast

still haunted

by the chicken & the fox’s

to hide, to lie
to string dangling participles
along on metaphors

use poetry
where lips won't work
and mind can't find
The Way

let crystal crimsom flow
from serrated wrists

obscurity allows for
solshimmers of the ineffable
so don't eff it in the a
like a persie Snap channel

in the event that may potentially be a thing possibly occurring perhaps I dunno and I don't know what I don't know but it sureasshit would be nice to because me and truth are like this [crossies] and on occasion it comes and knocks on my door so the Uni bringeth and I laugheth all the way to the wet sodium facepalm speaking of which I don't like the taste of that **** I like my truth rare and still mooing would you believe I'm a vegetarian tho but still **** ******* like it raw crunch munch nom noms even though I slurp soup like there's no phoking tomorrow also down af for digressing and running onward and sideways stories from where the sidewalk never ends and I really don't think ours does plus it sure is the weirdest neatest thing ever did you bring the proper shoes darling I sure hope you can keep up in all the ways and FYI my door is not blasted off the hinges it's wisened and slightly ajar and I'm standing over threshold with eyes wide and slightly red because I waved goodbye to sunsets left for mf good but never got to see our light rise so just know that these wrung hands are actually open palms crippled from reaching and being singed on handles that seemed oh-so cool from my limited optical view like a mountain of honeycombed Dixie Crystal dust knees that you had been on yours praying for but gave the **** up on long before he walked in and changed EVERYTHING and I am so grateful but I am sad and I am hurt and I am confused but I am not scared like I once was of you and All our tea leaves foretold but scared I am of never really knowing you and the accompanying truths so please give it to me dagger deep I meant what I said and I said what I meant I like my men sharp and penetrative 100% and if you can't handle being earnestly struck by your own syntactic constructs direct in the ******* whinging outta my sometimes salty sacrosanct then me and you just won't do since that happens to be my forte as it were and maybe you're not up for the uphill to heaven with this mystical inferno but if you think perhaps maybe your life will never be the same without me in it someway somehow then let's fill the grey unnamed with a foundation of friendship where all is safe and found and all that means to me is everything so if you trust me to know the things about love a.k.a. the holy mystery which you ahem did as I recall with glowing warm curled around my formerly shaking cold then don't worry about getting back to it there's no such way to a thing it's there - always was, is, will be - it's just we're having this hooded entourage over for dinner first and honey I don't know if we have enough chairs but I'll sit on the floor with you and we can laugh and cry and eat sixteen courses of humble pie until the holy ghost enters the room which she undoubtedly will do and leave periodically only to return when we get all cozy and still or maybe upon the exodus of tears when all the walls have been torn down and we finally see clear through that one room has indeed been forged from two

or whatever
Salmabanu Hatim Jun 2018
A boneless,soft,small flesh,
Most beloved to God,
A truthful tongue,
Most hateful to Him,
A lying tongue.
It is the sharpest thing on Earth,
Can be deadly,
Pierces deeper than the spear,
Leaving scars forever.
It is the most difficult thing to control,
Think before you leap.
Like a ferocious lion on the loose,
It will wound someone,
So put it on a leash,
Reap its fruits.
The most powerful and dangerous weapon,
Explodes with expletives,
Lucid and sweet, a lullaby,
Can take you to great heights,
Bitter,****** and full of deceits,
A heart is wrung,
From a pedestal you fall to doom,
It is the taste of your kind and tender heart,
Pours speeches full of grace,
A medicine that heals,
A balm that soothes.
An evil heart,
That spits fire and crushes spirits.
Lastly it is the companion of the lips,
Seal and zip the lips so no unthought words escape,
Imprison the tongue with the teeth,
Lest venom pours out,
To break strong bonds, and powerful relationships
aisha zoë Aug 2018
I; megalomaniac
my ego so wrung with pride
my psyche, broken psyche
swallowed by hell- but still mine
a string of hazy days, my days
shattered yet sublime

convinced God has touched me
with His forefingers on my forehead
bestowed some sort of end to me
an aim to follow till I'm dead
and then He filled my eyes with dreams
He set greatness on my head

Olympus holds my dreams for me
in great heights, in silver light
but I a river Styx, am drowned
I cannot see wrong from right
so every dream of mine is pain
and never seems quite right

I, great egotist
delusion gone so far
that I would think myself a giantess
eighty eight hundred feet tall
I yell upon the mountain
tears streaming as I bawl
high up in the clouds I be
and longer is my fall
Wednesday August 15, 2018
12:38 a.m.
Captain Trips Nov 2018
When I wrung out the sweat
it went and stained the carpet,
like when I found that dead cat
and took it in as my pet.

Then I lied to the landlord
said "I don't smell it a bit"
but the bugs gave me away,
too many flys and maggots.

Walking down these dark streets
never going too far,
looking for an empty seat
at any ******* dive bar.

Slugging now, I don't sip,
I ain't got time to not drink,
when drunkenly I trip
and the bottle breaks in my lips.

So now I eat up bits of glass
and they splinter in my gums,
and my teeth start to crack
as I wait for day to come.
Nana Magnus Aug 2018
lead me light-wise & lumined-weird;
spun silk skin streaming silver sips.
eventually i'll dilate time & you'll dine  
likewise on impossible starships.
ancient-declaimed arrival yet wrought.
mopey & sulkish & overly indulgent in prayer.
this was mine, not your lot;
one earned & honed; never mind fair.
loan me your trust, i'll fashion you rib-wrung;
a blood-borne/o-negative galactic dust.  
imagine me a moon: starvation-slung & scar-hung,
an pale alloy of sorts, liquid of mnemonic rust.
i'd promised to magnetize you lunar -
swim the moonbeams to mother you sooner.
their smiles said miracles wallowed cosmologically,
though mama's fascia furied my flesh genealogically.
"forgive them," they say.
"not for them, but for you."
"forgive but don't forget."
i never understood those lines.
why would i ever forgive you
for what you did to me?
for some peace of mind?
no, i don't think so.
it doesn't work like that.
not with you.
not with abuse.
forgiving your fake excuses
for all your permanent abuse
is something i can never justify.
and it will never bring me peace
no matter how hard i try.
i can't forgive you even if i wanted to.
but you don't deserve it anyway.
and i'm fine being resentful.
i have every right to be.
you strung me out
and pulled me apart thread by thread.
you bled me out and wrung me dry.
and forgiving you won't change a single thing.
it doesn't undo the damage thats been done,
and it doesn't stop future sleepless nights.
it does nothing but make it seem okay
for people to do what you did.
it does nothing but justify your actions,
actions which have no valid justification.
it does nothing but make me look weak
because i gave in and forgave someone like you
because the pain was too much for me to handle.
so i won't do that.
i refuse to be weak.
i will triumph despite the rage and pain,
and we will both die with this hatred in my veins.

- i will never forgive you.

// q.h.
June 17, 2019
misha Jul 11
I sit by the window on a Saturday morning
with nothing but a cup of tea in my hand.
I was too late to watch the sunrise, so instead
I watch the way the flowers blow in the wind
painting streaks in the canvas of the sky.
The incessant scratching of a coin against a lottery ticket burrows into my mind.
My inner voice shouts over it, just to remain in control
filling up my head, pushing out my thoughts and threatening to explode
but perhaps it is too late.
The scratching already comes from within.
It reminds me of the time I scratched my arms raw
after my mother told me
no boys would like me if I kept hurting myself.
Just like the time my mother told me
that I could never make it as a poet.

I redirect my attention to the window
trying to focus on what I want to see
(is that what they tell you to do in therapy?)
I had already wrung every drop of poetry
Out of this humble garden.
Back in the kitchen, my mother stands up,
and I notice the scratching has stopped.
Instead, the sharp and familiar sound of ripping paper fills the air.
I am reminded of all the poems I had ripped to shreds to start anew
as she curses and throws the ticket in the trash,
dramatically slamming the door.
A selfish part of me is happy that she didn’t win.
Because I know that if she did, she wouldn’t hesitate
to do the same to our lives.

Relocating us to a place
where flowers and fountains are found in rows
like fresh cuts on an arm
and not in haphazard paint splatters
like stars in the sky, or freckles on a face.
A grand white mansion,
elegant as a mausoleum,
where the sound of scratching
and early morning yelling
and late night sobbing
would echo through the empty rooms
bouncing from wall to wall
until the house threatens to fall apart.
Or else, we would be on a plane,
to some far off destination,
Sitting all in one row and
shielding our phones from each other,
thinking how much better it would be
to sit amongst strangers.
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