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Grace Echols Jun 2014
People
athletic
sweet
intelligent
sporty
grew up in the south
grew up in nature places
have southern ascents
love caching fish
i wrote this poem about them because i love them
kate crash Jan 2010
daddy was dead & i liked being used
I shoulda probly taken a shower
Rinse off the fog I drew on invisibility
   & youth
         & barrel gun'd eeyes
           that mirrored only dice
                & worlds of ice & rust
                          & sweet white dust
                                    & tattooed drums

                                                          their
                                            pumping           pain

                                                   into my
                                                     sweet sweat
                                                            16 yr. old
                                                                   frame
        there i was
                on some polar bear closed shop rug
                       midnight.
                             naked.  he had taken my
                                          clothes off.
                                           I didn't wanna ****.
            i wanted to cuddle this stranger
          cuddle the fluffy bear beneath my back
       under the body i refused to look @
               his hand on his belt buckle.  caching
                 zip.  daddies last breath.  1 blk

     away.  15 min.s   b4    here now i lay
                   prayers in the grave
                              men smothering my face
                                       unshaven memory.
                                             mind games.
Grace Echols Jun 2014
sweet gentle
loving
they made
good parents
nice to there
grand children
love nature
love caching fish
so when I go see them
the first thing I say is... I LOVE YOU
I made this poem for my Gramam
and Papa
PK Wakefield Jan 2014
life, i cannot begin you to describe beyond my dreaming self your how divine moments of simple nothing.

your body is not, and i love it the how it is not. it is

and not it's


some muscles firing with hurt
seething to ache
so horribly
wondrous. it's driving

to the beach

too early in morning and you're heads not clear the sky is so wide and the sun is barely. it is

the uncurling of your fingers between
dishwater
and the winsome triteness
of the caving instant of your breath
caching in your throat
as you realize the dying
of your frail self,

clutching furiously the mundane heady song
of a coffee cup

(and in perfect silence emitting
the most enormous roar
of surging electric stillness)                                .    Life

you are half terribly
painful to. and life, you
are half splendorous to ****

sweating in the heap of your
car behind

the creeping sweep
of raging vein. Life

you are perhaps nothing. But lifE

you are the most,

and nothing hurriedly to slowly
take between the unutterably tiny *******
of snowgirls

their coldest song of closing lips,

and speak something hot

(something big).
liz May 2019
yes, everything is echoing
in conversation, discourse
a discussion paranoid, panic
setting us apart from each other
plainclothes detectives seeking
a roundabout way to pinpoint
an origin of being overwhelmed
we interrogate for naught, always
as if small questions could calm
the creaking sway of noah’s ark
carrying us to hell and back
[carry the pain, claim it for god
own the animal, own ourselves
eating away at the emptiness]
we humans hiding ourselves
in story remembered but not held
memory vs. the memorials
not caring to honor lessons
learned and seeded somewhere deep
and somehow pain traverses pages
traps us again and again
[twisted ideation tarnishing soul]
traverses veins, blood and progress
linear lines of greedy lust
swallowing us all whole, untold
yet still we echo
underappreciated epiphanies
collectively caching the chaos away
[cartography in our palms]
the lessons are in our bodies
but we haven't learned them yet
or rather, we chose to forget.
emergent strategy is our way out, folks.
16 may 2019 12:32am
thanks to adrienne maree brown for articulating my passions.
thanks to alabama lawmakers for causing such deep pain
to the point where my spiral of depression could only be
healed by a flood of emotion and frenzied capture of words.
thanks to ancestors, recent, future and ancient, for the love
and the lessons buried somewhere deep to be remembered.
we can heal and we will.
we can heal and we are,
we must.
Constant enigmatic status,
see me in the back of the pack standing static
or maybe slipping a slick soliloquy
like olive branches to panicked masses.

Violent demeanor don't overreach or
it'll be sure to see you swiftly burned
like pints of ether.

My smile disguises bedlam,
incessantly caching weapons,
I could storm the pearly gates
and boot God out of ******* heaven.
wordvango Feb 2017
he stood at the door caching kudos and high fives
the life of the party the guy at the end of the party
had the lampshade on not much else but a red grin and nose
he was invited to every one
for his brusk take no names personality
he never knew a stranger
then one day he stopped answering the door his phone emails
everything
I found out two weeks later he had met loud Sarah Rubricon
her of the store bought **** and long *** legs
and they had eloped to Vegas
where they are now performing
at Little Ceasar's Pizzeria
just down from the
big names
I am happy  for them and Sarah
by god happy she met her match
she haunted me for  two years
but I miss that Joseph
when I throw a party , it is not the same
anymore.
I was flying in the woods,
Practicing to catch tiny winds.
Then saw him: A raven like me.
Yet he was flying so much faster.

In a moment we were equal.
We've been swinging among the trees.
And we've been caching the higher winds.
And we were different in our flying styles.

Then I asked him to teach me.
He showed and I followed.
And he was always so sharp.
And he was always drifting so fast.

But I couldn't catch up to him
Always rising high and falling low
While I was keeping balance.
And he is gone and I wait.

I wait for him slow down and see me.
I wanna fly around again in the woods.
Cause he reminds me of the two of you.
Of that first tornado I didn't conquer alone.

So I wanna catch him in the storm.
Get him playing by my rules, in my games.
Therefore, I beg the tornado to come around.
So we could fly so different and so equal.
Rakib Nov 2018
Her
She's a damsel of cryptic stripe
Hiding fairly her blooming riddle
Kooky tad of lustrous bauble
Babble tales foaming my soul
Rubbles of my fondness yearning stubble

She's a mistress of deviant nature
Caching away from communal creatures
Gleaming in her own delight
Staging her individual symphonies
Crafting a zappy tale of glee

As I hover on warmth appeal
Hoping to learn her tenderness
Flickering in her radiant chant
Veer to her spirit's slant
Waiting to scribble a chapter unified
emily Jan 2021
I see the person I love
Drifting away
Loving somebody else
Another friend caching their eye
Sparking an interest that my dull body could never give you
Or a wider smile that you gave in my presence
So here we go again
Being replaced
For someone better
For someone more alive
Your eyes don't meet mine with happiness anymore
My words are not welcome to your days
So to save the pain and the heartache
Tell me you don't want me
Or love me
Tell me you don't care anymore
And I'll stop trying
I'll stop living for someone else  
A puppet used for entertainment
If you don’t love me anymore
I'll hand you the scissors
And we’ll cut the strings
Ah...a flood of memories wash over
this anointed Goatama Boo Da,
whose respected G.O.A.T status
among generic green acres,
which swathed across Highland Manor
analogous to petty coat junction
showcasing, jumpstarting and donning
a bright towering bewitched kid
barren regal deportment
proudly trumpeting himself
as Maga hatted apprentice
being mentored courtesy this ole buck,

where attendant goatherd didst ha
intimate diddly squat,
hence never did expect me
(an adept harried style swiftly tailored
windswept teary eyed pundit)
sentimentally woke evincing
young whipper snapper
metamorphosed into chargé d'affaires
exceeding wildest expectations
to apply goatee
to dab moistened eyes ma
lament tab lee recalling blissfully innocent
kickstarter libidinal oomph pa.

As a kid, this now middle aged old goat
silently bends back disbudding head
as if noggin didst float;
bleats, and thence
blinks back tears to emote,
asper remembrance of things past,
when me papa and late mama didst dote
via gently grooming my tattered raggedy coat
whereat patches of missing fur reveals bloat

head distended abdomen
no longer evinces picture
of mine prime head butting days
when unchecked chutzpah, daring do,
and exploratory forays
found this then runt
strayed far from the madding crowd
upon verdant fresh fields I didst graze
and sought out secluded cool shelter
from hot, humid summer haze,

where abundant bucking bronco energy
resorted, succumbed and tugged via natural
sluggish inertia and predilection to laze,
and oft times dreamt being trapped
within some M. C. Escher maze
given up for lost or...,when
n'er a reply from plaintive bleats,
whence upon awakening
bestowed ablutions to Billy Gotti goat,
(Latin Name Capra aegagrus hircus)
unstinting praise

groggy state elapsed with pleasant waft
of cooler August air
cloven hoofs confidently, gingerly,
and jerkily strode to espy clear
panoramic view when 'ere
afar off in the distance,
an indistinguishable glare
to view scenic
quintessential picture dis interfere

foretold a recognized
landmark comprising around
perimeter defined areas
hosting happy hustings
(no...not hustling) ground
encompassing accrued memories
to date within storied mound
caching predominantly pleasant
bouts of playtime, when siblings pound
for Avoirdupois pound
raced each other observed
by Mister Sun at his coterie of sound
clouded pillowy cerulean
celestial garden, which
helped get tension unwound.

Now while doddering, hobbling,
and limping with *** leg
(Battle of the bucks him
Boar skirmish) in old dote age,
which declining physical well being
restricts shenanigans akin
to limiting an artist prohibited
to paint with the color beige
to an ever shrinking unseen cage
soon...t'will be sent out to pasture,
whence concluding stage
of existence paid with demise
collected by grim reaper,
who only accepts deceased
as sole (soul surviving) standard wage.

— The End —