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A wane
in monsoon
when substance
would refrain
again in
platforms shaped
round our
insistence to
wage what
luxuries would
become again
with those
leaders in
the chairs
as they
brought more
futilitiy there.
Zero Nine Jun 2017
For once I think I'll speak clearly. My hands are a megaphone.
I feel like my legs are buried in paper up to the iliopsoas.

                                                                           do you feel it?

I am improper syntax incarnate. My hands are up to my mouth.
I feel like I call to you and you won't visibly position yourself.

do you feel it?

What a tragic life to be terribly lonely so overtly by my own design.
Words I should easily speak disguise in the esoteric words I write.

                              i feel you.
               i do

in fact like an acid trip dusted over days i hang onto every letter

and in the subtle twisting of the pen your vibrations enter my eyes
and in the drumming of your zealous fingers against the keyboard
and in the tapping at the glass as you ignore your text messages

your affecting verse travels my arterials and fills my chest with life

     are we alike?

I can't help but ask it. I sit puffing cherry pie,
feeling quite abandoned. You know the story.

Do you feel absolutely sundered by your insides?
Can't stop the gnawing unless you actualize your leaden brain.

     well adjusted to deep addiction to discord.

and i join your audience in admiration of the grace absent in myself
The End

I appreciate the **** out of you all. I wouldn't write if I didn't read, and all your words are worth repeating. All of you. Your words are a ******* blessing to such a casually deteriorating, increasingly dreary world. When I'm feeling dead, your words connect, and I want you to know that. It's a home away from home. Spill it, spill it.
AP May 2017
Rentrez sortez discorde.
Je saigne du nez.
Et mes globules meurent en paix.
La fenêtre illumine ma corde.

Ma vie marginale.
Couleur rose de pastel.
Douleur du cœur mal réelle.
Lit pour faire du sale.

Je sais qu'on ne se connaît pas.
Sortez de ce salon.
Mon image mon rond.
Spam de panique je ne suis plus là.

L'ambulance arrive.
Je n'ai plus de vie.
Tout le monde crie.
Couleur vive.

Discorde rentrez sortez.
Discorde mort reporté.
JR Rhine Oct 2016
Our souls are extension cords
meandering through the junkyard heap
looking for an outlet.
Oby Oct 2016
Grunting and growling,
Like a feral animal in a cage,
Her spirit lashes out,
Clawing at the bars of convention.
Copyright © 2016 Oby. All rights reserved.
Brett Palmero Jun 2016
A reckless nature, the seed of disaster
Impulsive at heart, chaos flowing
In a world of mayhem I am master
My first instinct always showing
Who cares it's not my bullet bit
All because I feel like it

The universe even knows the truth
That to stay alive we need chaos
To create disorder and keep our youth
Destroy harmony, the fool's oasis
I hate this world, every piece meant to fit
All because I feel like it

Entropy a euphemism for discord
Actions meant to dictated by instinct
A message so loud it brings down the Lord
From his seat he creates order so distinct
I feel compelled to make even his will submit
All because I feel like it

It’s madness that’s come over me
To want to break the perfect machinery
That moves like a mind in harmony
It’s a want for a change in scenery
For a need is too easy to permit
All because I feel like it

Is it a sin to live and act on a whim?
To forgo all thought and just do
Thinking leads to an outcome grim
Even if logic says I’ll come through
I’d rather blank and go for the hit
All because I feel like it

Impulsiveness is known to be for fools
But for me it’s an escape from reality
For I become different than the tools
That move the machine so carefree
I continue to act my way, never quit
All because I feel like it
Denel Kessler Jun 2016
Forty-eight floors up, a God’s-eye view

a man practices tai-chi on a tired patch of grass
he is measured, beautiful

families rest under new-green trees
in Yoyogi Park this early spring Sunday

Mt. Fuji rises like a myth, fading
to illusion in the gathering smog.



                                                            A few inches can be an impossible sea

                                                            we sit, silently contemplating discord
                                                            and the meaningless reasons for it

                                                            cherry trees paint the city pink
                                                            while faded petals cyclone at our feet

                                                            tears, fleeting as sakura
                                                            bloom and fall.
Brent Kincaid Mar 2016
I was thinking love,
You were thinking leaving.
You were moving on
And I was still believing.

Life is ever changing
No matter how it starts;
Some of it is wonderful,
Some can break our hearts.
We start out like a storybook
Two souls that meld as one
Everything we choose to do
Becomes our special fun.

Going out and staying in
Are legendary loving things.
Today it’s easy to ignore
Tomorrow waiting in the wings.
So, I paid very little mind to
That you chose not to talk
And never quite got around to
Holding hands when we walk.

I was thinking love,
You were thinking leaving.
You were moving on
And I was still believing.

At first even in wintertime
My heart was warm as toast.
Sitting by the fireside snuggled
That was what liked most.
I was storing up memories
Of every single loving day.
You were figuring how you could
Quickly go your own way.

I was thinking love,
You were thinking leaving.
You were moving on
And I was still believing.
the Sandman Mar 2016
She was in her heavy, heavy
          Auspicious reds
On that cold winter's night,
When he arrived in white.

She stood shivering, dreaming
Of domestic bliss
And watching mindless films
On new couches with the plastic still on them
And pitter-pattering little feet.
She didn't know the names
Of some of the things she wanted
But she wanted them anyway.

All she got was barked orders
Of "have tea ready by 6 am sharp,"
And "you missed a spot."

And she is shackled
Under the weight
Of her oppressive reds.
She is scrubbing; she is trapped;
She lines her forehead every day,
Right where her hair is parted,
With the red of her blood
And devotion.

And he whispers to her
In the silence of the night that's on their shoulders by now
When they're at a traffic light,
Waiting on the blink,
"I'll send you a bill,
For each day and
                                night."
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