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neth jones Apr 2018
...and 'oh my God' did I cry
I sparked like I was made of knives
and it carried me
I was adopted
It took me and I gave up me
easily
This had become dimensional
Life seamed
I was played
I was playing
I was addressing reasoning
and burying it fiercely and fare
Pounding clay over it
and enhancing my surroundings
content and without trust
Restart
Welled and sad
Sick excited
A primal plug
Connected
Theses words seem borrowed, adolescent and unpracticed
But they are a correct description of the manner in which I cried for the first time as an adult
Sometime between the age of 24 and 28
LLillis Dec 2017
Eight billion people,
call this planet home.
Eight billion people,
all of them alone.

Arbitrary borders,
divide and define.
Who belongs where,
who's on which side.

Propaganda and lies,
hatred and fear,
accompany those borders.
"You're not 'From Here'".

They shout and they rant,
"Protect us from harm!
Protect us from monsters!
who work on our farms..."

Save us from humans!
That are really just the same,
but they look a little different,
or have a "funny name".

Every human is flawed,
We dig our own graves,
Eight Billion people,
Who do not want to be saved.

We have come so far,
but we have to do more,
to be better than primates,
looking for war.

Eight billion minds,
That think only of one.
And how they can prosper,
alone in their fun.

Religion and Government,
forms of control.
That tell you to fight,
for country and soul.

The heathens that march,
against the life that you made,
must be destroyed!
It's the only way!

Build us our bombs,
our weapons in space,
expand our borders,
war is a race!

Money and lead,
power and greed,
These are the things,
we are taught to need.

Complicated desires,
from animalistic wants,
pollute the whole planet,
by "draining the swamp".

We call ourselves modern,
With our dollars and glass,
but our future is as dismal,
as our most recent past.

A species divided,
is one doomed to fail.
And there's so much to lose,
with a world this frail.

Are we together?
Or alone in a crowd.
A decision must be made.
and it has to be now.
some of us are bog people
we live with the snails and the maggots
making bacteria
we're suckers for substance
the dirt speaks to us
some of us are bog people
we hang with the microorganisms
making pilgrimages
we're slimey silt and silage
full-tilt and raw
the dirt wants us

dig it or dig it not
we can't help it
some of us are just bog people
spending time in a natural environment, hills, fields, mountains, sea, sky, woods, dogs, rats, , sheep, cows, horses; watching the insects and flies doing their day inspired the above............the comparisons to us humans are many.
Elysia Veildorn Oct 2017
There’s a wildness within his eyes that sparks a fire inside my soul.
Passion, desire and the bitter taste of lust float through the air as pheromones,
Creating a bridge between us and linking us together.
This visceral feeling acts almost like a drug, pulling me under and clouding my senses.
It’s a primal game we play. We test ATTRACTion by creating friction with our bodies.
And are frightened by the REACTion we feel, finding out that love, as a catalyst, knows no bounds of race, gender, religion, philosophy or age.
That, in the end, we’re all just human and to love is what makes us so.
And there’s no error in that.
This was my submission piece to HePo. Hope you like it. Feedback is warmly welcomed.
Julie Grenness Sep 2016
Here is the primal male to keep,
Food, TV, ***, sport and sleep,
All this under the carpet we sweep,
Really no need for chicks to weep,
Our brains have more thoughts to keep,
That's why women need far more sleep,
Compared to our primal males we keep,
Food, TV, ***, sport, and sleep,
That's the way males are,
Definitely originate from Mars!
Feedback welcome.
Amy Greene Aug 2016
Primal and moaning low,
she is your salacious vortex,
the ever-whirling urgency around your core,
the yearning soul crux
in your ripe self-womb
Screaming your name,
she is lust.

Feral and ravenous,
she is the thrumming flux of oceanic heat
flooding your cells,
inciting your wet appetites
with her probing greedy tongues.
She is lust.

Ancient and powerful,
she infiltrates your mind,
diverting its purpose to her own.
The exquisite agony of her insistence
rips through all your awareness
and erupts your body-
you open your jaws and howl her name,
becoming her beast.
She is lust
Arlo Miller Aug 2016
It'll come around again soon, a harkening back to things like the moon.
Feelings in our core, a primal state, like we were before.
Not cave(wo)men or primitive society full of biblical piety,
but an advanced race with a separation between face time and a real face.

We will remember who we are. We want grass on our bare feet instead of a gas pedal in a car.
We won't waste touch on things lesser than a person we love who loves us just as much
Sounds of drums and harmonious hums will fill our ears and our eyes will cry tears to water flowers that have smells that sink to the wells of our humanity.

We will be free, from ourselves to enjoy, ourselves.
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