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    1. THE EARTH keeps some vibration going There in your heart, and that is you. And if the people find you can fiddle, Why, fiddle you must, for all your life. What do you see, a harvest of clover? Or...

      THE EARTH keeps some vibration going
      There in your heart, and that is you.
      And if the people find you can fiddle,
      Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.
      What do you see, a harvest of clover?
      Or a meadow to walk through to the river?
      The wind’s in the corn; you rub your hands
      For beeves hereafter ready for market;
      Or else you hear the rustle of skirts
      Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove.
      To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust
      Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;
      They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy
      Stepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.”
      How could I till my forty acres
      Not to speak of getting more,
      With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos
      Stirred in my brain by crows and robins
      And the creak of a wind-mill—only these?
      And I never started to plow in my life
      That some one did not stop in the road
      And take me away to a dance or picnic.
      I ended up with forty acres;
      I ended up with a broken fiddle—
      And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,
      And not a single regret.

      I've always loved this poem. To me, it's about a man, loved by many, that recognizes his responsibilities, but can't help but forgo them to go and have fun with friends and loved ones (in short, anyways). The first line, however, has always intrigued me, and I can never land on a meaning for it. I think it's basically saying that in your heart is your true character (your soul), and that will never change. Or maybe it's saying that everyone has that "vibration" in their heart that yearns for enjoyment. What do you think?

      4 votes
    2. Eldritch Love.

      Longest piece to date? Last night I saw a beast four different heads with blackened eyes. Not black in metaphor, but from the blood that dried inside. Each of seven legs was mangled and the beast...

      Longest piece to date?

      Last night I saw a beast

      four different heads with blackened eyes.

      Not black in metaphor, but from

      the blood that dried inside.

      Each of seven legs was mangled

      and the beast was blind

      but she could fly.

      .

      Once upon a night so dreary,

      and so dreadful I

      came across a weathered bar

      a woman stood inside.

      She sat me at a table, there was

      not a soul in sight

      but I felt fine.

      .

      Then she brought a glass of dark with

      something new inside.

      Leaned in close and whispered to me

      "Baby, close your eyes."

      I parted my lips and drank as

      her hand guided mine.

      My guard resigned.

      .

      She said "I know a place where you can

      truly feel alive.

      Each one of your problems fall

      defenseless by your side."

      And she wrapped her arms around me

      I contently sighed

      as she took flight.


      Her wretched and misshapen legs

      held me close to her chest.

      She let out her warning cries

      i inhaled every breath.

      Her claws were creeping out I

      fell upon them like a bed.

      I laid to rest.

      .

      I fell into a home so oddly

      shallow and recessed.

      The walls were made of rock,

      a water drop fell on my head.

      There was no single light,

      the ceiling lowered as she led

      me to her den.

      .

      As I looked around the room birthed

      questions in my head.

      So opposite the warmth that she

      had first on me impressed...

      She stroked my cheek, claws on my chin

      my heart fluttered, digressed.

      I was possessed.

      .

      She laid me on the floor and stood with

      five legs for each end.

      One aside my head and feet

      another at my hands.

      Then she gently laid a blanket

      down over my head,

      "Shall we commence?"


      I still feel it so vividly

      each night I fall asleep,

      the fused infatuated fear I felt

      at a monster's feet,

      when that heinous eldritch horror

      drained my blood from me,

      took me for libation, prayed a tithe

      she poured me out.

      Her heart could call the kettle as it,

      too, went black in drought

      She bore her fangs and lowered,

      took my body in her mouth.

      She then carried me cliffside, like a dog

      she threw me down.

      My corpse then fell so far, on

      impact, no audible sound.

      The final earthly thing I heard,

      her shriek, "The Gods are proud."


      Now upon each night so dreary, she

      crawls out to find

      a source of poor, defenseless blood

      that she can sacrifice.

      She'll lure them in with gentle kisses

      and sapphire eyes.

      We all will die.

      Epilogue.

      On my way to death, I was met

      with a choice instead.

      I could end my life or help

      ensure the gods were fed.

      In the heat of fear and pain I

      then nodded my head.

      The halls of purgatory filled with

      screams and smells of death,

      as my eyes dried from the inside

      and I then begat

      five extra legs.

      5 votes
    3. 12:08

      So what’s the deal with offices, amirite? What if we gave a building full of adults enough money to get by. Oh, and also they have to drive 30-60 minutes to get here. And that time they spend on...

      So what’s the deal with offices, amirite?

      What if we gave a building full of adults enough money to get by. Oh, and also they have to drive 30-60 minutes to get here. And that time they spend on the way here? Yeah what if they just gave us that for free, and we made them pay for parking!

      I know, I know, fantastic right? But listen, it’s not over yet. What if we also made the work pointlessly constrained to a particular 8-hour block in the day, five days a week so that they never have any personal time, even though this is all work they could get done in four hours a day and is fully capable of being completed on their own?

      Fabulous!

      ——

      So yeah, I don’t have free time. That means I’ve got a few half-ass pieces that I’ve been wanting to finish up for awhile.

      Apparently bars are open today, so I’m gonna get sauced and get to it. Prepare for a small dump today. (Also I got some dummy minor news imma share in another post. Stay tuned if you want. Or don’t ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ all’s well.

      Anyway here’s that piece now.

      ——-

      I remember that time I forgot your

      birthday

      And that time was today

      At 12:08 in the morning

      And for a moment

      I felt great.

      .

      My dear that was the first sign

      That you were

      Slipping on out of my mind

      Today I’m sober in the morning

      Feelin okay.

      .

      Well well-butrin what a surprise

      When it done

      Come on back to my mind

      Now it’s 12:09 in the morning

      And ain’t shit changed.

      .

      And in those 60 seconds

      Girl I swear

      I learned a lesson -

      Depression is a woman

      With your name.

      10 votes
    4. fotózás

      fotózás i wonder what it must be like to remember your life. i wonder what it must be like to record it with a flash. i wonder what it must be like to pass those memories down. i wonder what it...

      fotózás

      i wonder what it must be like
      to remember your life.

      i wonder what it must be like
      to record it with a flash.

      i wonder what it must be like
      to pass those memories down.

      i wonder what it must be like
      to be normal like that.

      6 votes
    5. nyáj

      nyáj in the shadows of a great unrest stand hallowed halls yet undisturbed by collapse. to be untouched by revolution is a lucky fate for a place like this— so stable in lives and yet always...

      nyáj

      in the shadows of a great unrest
      stand hallowed halls
      yet undisturbed by
      collapse.


      to be untouched by
      revolution
      is a lucky fate
      for a place like this—
      so stable in lives
      and yet
      always received
      with such hostility.

      oh, to be a church—
      a great meeting hall
      for those of
      the faith—
      is to be us,
      the people of this place
      who dare to
      keep their fire alive.

      we are but a
      little congregation,
      coming together
      once in awhile.
      giving praise to
      what had been;
      remembering what
      our time had lost.

      we bear upon our weary backs
      a legacy
      and hope one day
      to restore it.

      but
      we must rest now,
      and resign to our dreams
      what could be again.

      5 votes
    6. And I Deal With It

      A free form poem. You sing the devotion song and your people drink from your font of well-meant falsehoods. They sway in the breeze, roses ripe for cutting, so you reap. And I deal with it. Brain...

      A free form poem.

      You sing the devotion song and
      your people drink from your font
      of well-meant falsehoods.
      They sway in the breeze,
      roses ripe for cutting,
      so you reap. And I deal with it.

      Brain revolting, hands shaking, heart beating
      Sweating, aching, freezing, creeping thoughts
      that I'm not enough.
      I'm a failure. I don't deserve it. What if this goes wrong?
      "Sometimes it can take awhile to find the right combination of medications."
      And I deal with it.

      The blood in the streets is cleaned, pristine,
      likewise the crimes of an otherwise good man.
      Heads shake and hands pray,
      repeating robotic platitudes, but I do
      nothing.
      And I deal with it.

      The sun shines high and the wind blows cool.
      Our future dances and plays in the light.
      We watch and her skin is soft, her hair yet softer, and I hold her
      against me.
      This too shall pass, my gut twists in knots.
      And I deal with it.

      Dark nights, dark thoughts
      in front of a washroom mirror.
      Lightning thunders, they come and go.
      Drinking my hopes to keep them gone,
      I tell myself, "This isn't you," but it hurts and it's true and I can't stop the dreaming of passing this down
      And I deal with it.

      7 votes
    7. bűnös & fáj

      i intended to actually post these like three days ago but that didn't happen because it has to be super fucking late for me to even want to post these and unfortunately they've now aged...

      i intended to actually post these like three days ago but that didn't happen because it has to be super fucking late for me to even want to post these and unfortunately they've now aged sufficiently that i categorize them firmly in the "intensely mediocre" column with everything i ever do. unfortunate, tbh. anyways here's stuff:

      bűnös

      UP AGAINST THE WALL, MOTHERFUCKER—
      or i'll shatter your bones
      and crush your heart—
      to dance with me is to dance
      a fine line that wrenches two worlds apart

      for on one side there is a hall of saints—
      on the other
      the brimstone of hell—
      and to stay on the side of the hall of saints
      is something you'd best do well.

      and brave souls that dare toe the line—
      that cross it
      are mighty thin—
      and their ranks are made of anarchists
      who commit most grievous sin.

      UP AGAINST THE WALL, MOTHERFUCKER—
      state your allegiance
      to the vaunted line—
      or soon you too shall join the ranks
      of those who deserve malign.


      fáj

      when i was seventeen
      the panic attacks began.
      the nightmares.
      the violence. the violence. the violence.

      violence is a funny little thing—
      insidious, slithering in through one grate
      and out the other.
      it always begins with little things,
      little fantasies in one ear and out the other.
      dreams here and there, manufacturing terror and hurt.
      invasive thoughts, marching to an intensifying drumbeat.
      one offs.

      it's not normal to
      want to hurt so bad.
      it's not normal to
      want to cut yourself everywhere,
      is it?
      to feel those feelings,
      to bear them like a cross shackled on your back?
      to wish some days you could cut to the bone
      even though you're afraid of blood?
      to mutilate yourself until you can't feel anymore
      even though you know those feelings are irrational?
      to wish you could die violently, publicly
      even though you're afraid of death?

      violence isn't a very funny little thing—
      terrifying, inescapable and ever recurring
      one night after the other.
      it was the little things once,
      the little fantasies that used to be but now
      consume the dreams, the
      waking thoughts, becoming a great crescendo.
      every day.

      when i was nineteen
      the panic attacks were normal.
      the nightmares.
      the violence.

      13 votes
    8. Burnt!

      Burnt! You embraced me with your apple-pie grin as I tumbled through the door caked in sun, and the larks and the orioles who titter their King George behind us are snuffed with the slam of the...

      Burnt!

      You embraced me with your apple-pie grin
      as I tumbled through the door caked in sun,
      and the larks and the orioles who titter their King George
      behind us are snuffed with the slam of the castle gate.
      We are alone in the fragrant silence of our shared universe,
      your heartbeat against my cheek nuzzles
      like the murmur of some public radio presenter.
      I float along helplessly like a kitten held by its scruff
      until the slasher-scream of a Janet Leigh smoke detector,
      brutally gored by the twirling swirling aerial dancers,
      beckons you away to some Burning of Washington, 1814,
      its desolation likewise impeded by a timely sprinkle.
      In the black ash-pile is the monomania of the Cosmos,
      circling like a hyena for any vulnerability
      to consume everything it touches
      so that we all might become dark and vacuous like it.
      The cosmos and its baggage are swept away,
      its might and vastness no match for a love as true as ours.

      This was my attempt at writing a poem in the style of Pamela Miller, a feminist and often zany poet from my native Chicago.

      Please let me know what you think.

      11 votes
    9. Today I found a girl Who was pretty nice To me. She made me stop and talk And rest and breathe. She said your stomach growls, Your legs Are weak. How’d you like to come And sit With me? . And my...

      Today I found a girl

      Who was pretty nice

      To me.

      She made me stop and talk

      And rest

      and breathe.

      She said your stomach growls,

      Your legs

      Are weak.

      How’d you like to come

      And sit

      With me?

      .

      And my how time it flew

      And passed

      Us by.

      Lunch turned into tea

      Turned in-

      to night.

      The way her body curved

      It shaped

      My mind.

      And then her laugh,

      Her smile,

      Her eyes.

      .

      Would you mind if I stayed

      For an hour or two

      Or three?

      We could sit and talk

      And laugh

      And crawl between the sheets.

      And maybe I can stay the night

      Or two

      Or three?

      And you’ll hold onto me.

      And we can spend forever

      Cus talk

      Is cheap.

      And maybe nights will

      Slowly carve a curve and crash on

      Into weeks.

      Maybe we’ll be cuddled

      On the couch or sipping

      Sex on the beach

      Maybe I could stay

      For life, just

      You, and me.

      9 votes
    10. Wild Turkey 101

      i got fire in my blood Wild Turkey and the nicotine might just call my doctor have him put me on amphetamines driving past the memories i'm pushing on 100 speed crossing single-white lines with a...

      i got fire in my blood

      Wild Turkey and the nicotine

      might just call my doctor

      have him put me on amphetamines

      driving past the memories

      i'm pushing on 100 speed

      crossing single-white lines

      with a blade til my bones weak.

      cold-brew hipster

      gothboi fantasies

      hard to think straight when

      my thoughts are attacking me

      here i let the voices out

      inner demons writing rhapsodies

      before i go and swing from

      a noose and a dramatic tree

      .

      can't decide what i want between

      freedom and consistency

      i say i want it done

      but i think i want her missing me

      last week i bought a gun*

      this week i went to therapy

      when will i be free from all the

      thermo-manic tendencies?

      .

      drowning in my bed

      breathing wild turkey

      i couldn't feel if i were dead,

      but i like the way she hurts me

      i've come to know the pain

      it's like a second home to me

      liquor novocaine

      im falling from autonomy.

      if mecca was a bedroom

      girl you were a God to me

      and laying here alone is

      a wicked act of blasphemy.

      never knew you were a snake

      feeding hate from an apple tree

      I'll chop it down, and build a tomb

      so you can hold me,

      as an effigy

      (* didnt actually buy a gun. me no like. literally 0 plans to.)

      7 votes
    11. short one. wrote it sober, so i couldn't (didn't?) really expand on it. either way, just bought a bottle for the first time since shit happened but i don't plan on going too crazy this time. then...

      short one. wrote it sober, so i couldn't (didn't?) really expand on it.

      either way, just bought a bottle for the first time since shit happened but i don't plan on going too crazy this time.

      then again, do i plan half the shit i do? or am i just constantly fumbling my way up through life.

      either way here's some shit about math.

      enjoy.

      You said I was the one

      But that was only when you managed

      To get some rest, and breathe, and

      Keep yourself from going rabid

      But must of the time you

      Wore your claws out like a savage

      So if we’re being honest I‘m the

      .08 on average.

      8 votes
    12. űrrepülés.

      i'm bored and entirely too fucking tired to still be up, so here's a thing i wrote in a little burst like an hour ago. see also enikő, the considerably longer weird shit i wrote in a similar...

      i'm bored and entirely too fucking tired to still be up, so here's a thing i wrote in a little burst like an hour ago. see also enikő, the considerably longer weird shit i wrote in a similar burst.

      I. űrrepülés
      having once been the dreamer of many things,
      having once been an eternal creator,
      having seen the birth of great star systems and galaxies
      and life itself
      only to be snuffed out
      with ignominy
      i feel compelled to explain why i too must
      inevitably follow them

      hurt
      is a funny little word. it seems so easy to come
      to a common agreement on what it means and yet,
      if i told you it hurt
      would you really understand that?

      would you understand the feeling
      of hopelessness,
      the vast indignities of having to see
      your every piece of art,
      your life's work
      snuffed out
      like the stars?

      II. űrlény
      you can't play god
      with the people in your life,
      but that never stopped me from trying,
      from creating those great star systems
      that people care about.
      from creating life where there is none.

      and that never stopped me from failing,
      and the stars becoming great cataclysms—
      black holes destroying the life around them
      without regard for its beauty.

      you might say it is callous
      to try to move the heavens and the earth
      and to die when they don't arrange the right way,
      but,
      i would rather die than be that hurt person again
      watching the stars go out one by one.

      7 votes
    13. In the shadows Like a ghost you hide In the single most foreign Corners of my mind Therapy and pills still Can’t subside the angelic choir Of your pretty lies Promises you made, The bones I broke...

      In the shadows

      Like a ghost you hide

      In the single most foreign

      Corners of my mind

      Therapy and pills still

      Can’t subside the angelic choir

      Of your pretty lies

      Promises you made,

      The bones I broke

      You once took my breath

      And now I choke

      Jesus let me breathe

      Is there hope for me?

      .

      Now I desire

      The obscure

      All that reminds

      Of being yours

      Your oils, poison

      My waters, pure

      Your love is cancer

      There is no cure.

      .

      I watched my grandfather take his final breaths as he kissed my head and you held my hand. Not two months later you foresaw our end, and decided not to keep me, even as a friend.

      And now you’re off, marriage in the plans. I pray your time falls like the sand and hits the bottom of every glass as fast as it can.

      I have no home. I’m lost and cold. You promised me a home would grow. We got a dog, and had planned for more. Mouth of this world, a fish at shore you took my breath and killed me slow.

      I’m suicidal, I have no hope. I’ve not a gun, don’t have a rope. The only reason I’ve not a note, I’d end it all, I’d end it all.


      I just want to feel pretty.

      Pretty loved and pretty free

      But for now I keep to getting

      Pretty drunk, it isn’t cheap

      But I can afford it/‘s kinda sweet

      Too bad you’re not round

      To drink with me.

      I’d fill the bottle

      We’d watch the office

      Instead I scar

      Until I am solid

      An ugly rock

      A useless object

      I’ll break my stones

      And build a coffin

      And die in your name

      Die in your name.

      11 votes
    14. tw: self-harm; suicide; lost love. i hit my cigarette like an abuser hits her wife because i'm a fucking coward to afraid to take his life i've felt love before i beg it through the strife but i...

      tw: self-harm; suicide; lost love.

      i hit my cigarette

      like an abuser hits her wife

      because i'm a fucking coward

      to afraid to take his life

      i've felt love before

      i beg it through the strife

      but i only find a heart

      at the wrong side of a blunt and useless knife

      .

      and it's only mine

      at least there's proof

      that i can feel

      when blood protrudes.

      but that's not "work appropriate"

      so i get tattoos

      what a shame i can't get paid to die.

      12 votes
    15. i got a job i got on meds i got a car still wanting death. still here at night alone in my bed still hear her voice ring in my head “why do you look like i abused you?” . i bought a bottle i...

      i got a job

      i got on meds

      i got a car

      still wanting death.

      still here at night

      alone in my bed

      still hear her voice

      ring in my head

      “why do you look like i abused you?”

      .

      i bought a bottle

      i bought some cards

      can’t kill my thoughts

      my god it’s hard

      just make it stop

      “i don’t think i love you anymore.”

      .

      anxiety’s

      taken over me

      every interaction

      i worry

      did i act weird?

      what do they think?

      i guarantee

      they laugh at me

      can’t beat it all

      can’t bear it all.

      .

      .

      .

      .

      .

      .

      .
      .

      .

      don’t want to live

      don’t want to die

      i fantasize

      (that) it’ll be alright

      she’ll cuddle close

      and hold me night

      and pet my head

      and kill the fright

      i can’t escape

      don’t want to fight

      god let me die

      god let me die

      8 votes
    16. Pretty. Pretty good. Pretty cool. Pretty smart. Pretty cute. Pretty kind. Pretty eyes. Pretty warm. Pretty witty. Pretty artistic. Pretty talented. Pretty cultured. Pretty traveled. Pretty-faced....
      Pretty.

      Pretty good.

      Pretty cool.

      Pretty smart.

      Pretty cute.

      Pretty kind.

      Pretty eyes.

      Pretty warm.

      Pretty witty.

      Pretty artistic.

      Pretty talented.

      Pretty cultured.

      Pretty traveled.

      Pretty-faced.

      Pretty loved.

      But fuck me,

      Life’s pretty hard.

      12 votes
    17. I used to work at Amazon, and one of their internal "chatter" mailing lists had a tradition that every Friday people would write haiku, often about how their week went, or something in the news,...

      I used to work at Amazon, and one of their internal "chatter" mailing lists had a tradition that every Friday people would write haiku, often about how their week went, or something in the news, or just something random. Going to try to resurrect that here.

      If you want lines to color within, the "normal" requirements for a haiku are:

      The essence of haiku is "cutting" (kiru). This is often represented by the juxtaposition of two images or ideas and a kireji ("cutting word") between them, a kind of verbal punctuation mark which signals the moment of separation and colours the manner in which the juxtaposed elements are related.

      Traditional haiku often consist of 17 on (also known as morae though often loosely translated as "syllables"), in three phrases of 5, 7, and 5 on, respectively.

      A kigo (seasonal reference), usually drawn from a saijiki, an extensive but defined list of such terms.

      But of course often the 5-7-5 syllable structure is the only part used in Westernized haiku. Feel free to follow the guidelines above as narrowly or as loosely as you want.

      14 votes
    18. @cadadr's 4 word poetry challenge is one of my favorite Tildes threads to read through on account of the many clever and thoughtful responses, so I figured I'd try to kick off another one. This...

      @cadadr's 4 word poetry challenge is one of my favorite Tildes threads to read through on account of the many clever and thoughtful responses, so I figured I'd try to kick off another one. This one is a little more conceptually involved, but I think it still has the potential to be a good time like the last one.

      Rather than going with a strict word or line count, instead I am creating a restriction based around personification:

      Challenge:
      Your poem must:

      • Be written from the point of view of an inanimate object
      • Give the object personality/emotion
      • NOT name the object, so that people have to infer it from what you've written

      An example might be an automatic door that is bored to tears from opening and closing ad nauseum. Or maybe a watering can that is excited to tend to its garden.

      In trying to come up with a model I decided to channel a resentful milk carton:

      It's fine
      I get it
      You don't have to justify yourself
      Lots of better things have come around
      Since you first chose me

      Just know that I'm still here
      If you need me
      Waiting for that blissful moment
      Where you light up my world
      And take me in your hand
      And make me feel like I'm flying
      Before you lower me down
      In a lover's embrace

      It's fine
      I get it
      Until then I'll sit here
      In the cold, cold dark
      Trying not to go sour
      Next to the slowly molding cheese
      And forgotten grapes

      It's far from perfect but hopefully it gives you an idea of what the assignment can look like. While I saved my "reveal" to the end, don't feel obligated to use that tactic unless you want to. You don't have to hide the identity of your object, just don't name the object outright in the poem.

      Feel free to make your poem as long or short as you wish. Feel free to make it as meaningful or silly as you want. Above all else, have fun!


      If you need help with ideas or just want the challenge of writing to a randomly selected specification, you can use this noun generator for objects and this adjective generator for sentiments.

      9 votes
    19. [untitled]

      In Feudal Japan Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi Tea Party Ninja Assassin of Joy Bringer of His Mighty Wind Most Fetid of Stench For a Tidy Fee Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi Would Disturb Your Foes Piercing Defenses...

      In Feudal Japan
      Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
      Tea Party Ninja


      Assassin of Joy
      Bringer of His Mighty Wind
      Most Fetid of Stench


      For a Tidy Fee
      Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
      Would Disturb Your Foes


      Piercing Defenses
      Buddha Alone Knew His Tread
      In and Out, Unseen


      But Never Un-Smelt
      Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
      Bearing Bowels Most Foul

      7 votes
    20. there have been quite a few discussions on poetry on here and more than a few people post it from time to time, but i don't think anybody's asked this question recently if at all on this site, so...

      there have been quite a few discussions on poetry on here and more than a few people post it from time to time, but i don't think anybody's asked this question recently if at all on this site, so let me be the first to do that.

      alternative/bonus question for those of you who can't pick a singular poem: who is your favorite poet in general?

      (also just to be clear, non-anglophone poetry/poets are of course welcome for the answer here. don't feel limited or obligated to confine yourself just to english poetry because most of the people here are anglophones)

      20 votes
    21. Sisyphus.

      This isn’t what I want it to be. I’ve just had too many to care. Most days I don’t need any to not care. Yet I smile at them; servers and baristas. Try hard, smile, look happy. Maybe they’ll think...

      This isn’t what I want it to be. I’ve just had too many to care.

      Most days I don’t need any to not care.

      Yet I smile at them; servers and baristas.

      Try hard, smile, look happy.

      Maybe they’ll think you’re cute.

      You arrogant shit.

      “Sisyphus!

      Arrogant twat,

      How shall you pay

      For the sins you’ve wrought?

      I’ll hang your dreams

      In delicate swathe

      And leave you to work

      Forever for naught.

      .

      Sisyphus!

      You “god” among men

      I’ll number your days

      Count them by hand

      While you work, serve

      Slave to my end

      Your bones will strain

      And bend.

      .

      Sisyphus!

      You represent

      The whole that is wrong

      With the common man

      I’ll make you sweat,

      And I’ll make you beg

      (That) one day you’ll be free

      Again!”

      .

      Dear Sisyphus,

      I know your soul.

      Your struggle is mine

      And we share the goal

      That work, work, will come

      To an end

      And we’ll live again

      As free men.

      .

      Sisyphus,

      I hear your cries –

      Your yelps of pain

      In the dead of night

      When your muscles strain

      And your mind ain’t right

      My brother

      Your pain is mine!

      .

      Gods above –!

      Rescue me!

      .

      Sisyphus!

      I’m you, incarnate.

      I do my work and

      Sing my songs in

      Hope the gods will

      Hear my plea

      And one day

      set me free.

      .

      I am he!

      I aloud decree,

      assuming Sisyphus’

      identity.

      I live his plight,

      beg myself free

      that I’ll find a

      love for me.

      .

      SISYPHUS.

      THIS IS YOUR WROUGHT.

      YOUR MERIT THE PAIN,

      THIS DAY YOU’VE SOUGHT.

      YOU KNOW YOUR SINS

      AND NOW YOU BEG

      THAT YOU MAY FRESH BEGIN

      .

      THE GODS WILL REMEMBER

      SINS IN DECEMBER;

      DRAG YOUR SOUL DOWN

      DEEP TO THE EMBER.

      YOU AS THE KINDLE

      YOU AND YOUR KINFOLK

      FOREVER LIGHT OUR WAY.

      .

      SISYPHUS.

      “IMMACULATE.”

      WHAT A SHAME YOU’LL FIND

      COME END YOUR FATE

      WHEN THE TRUTH REVEALS

      YOUR LOVE IS FAKE.

      5 votes
    22. Boulder.

      are you so thirsty you would drink your own blood? do you feel so dirty that you bathe in wet mud? are you so alone that you make talk with yourself? are you so afraid that you, your own friends,...

      are you so thirsty

      you would drink your own blood?

      do you feel so dirty

      that you bathe in wet mud?

      are you so alone

      that you make talk with yourself?

      are you so afraid

      that you, your own friends, repel?

      .

      would you clean your skin with acid

      just to feel pure within your casket?

      would you feed on rot and mold

      in attempt to feed your soul?

      are you so cold, your blankets worn,

      you'd set your home ablaze for warmth?

      do you so fear the words you'll hear

      you'll drive metal spears into your ears?

      .

      are you so broken

      and without any help

      you would crack your own skull

      and find some gold to smelt

      in hopes you leave your corpse

      a void kintsugi shell?

      if not; then why, dear brain,

      do you want to burn yourself

      7 votes
    23. Lot's Job

      Oh god My God dost forsake me now? will you leave me to the perils of the world: the jaws that bite the claws that catch the frumious bandersnatch If, ever, in my suffering You notice somewhat of...

      Oh god
      My God

      dost forsake me now?
      will you leave me to the perils of the world:
      the jaws that bite
      the claws that catch
      the frumious bandersnatch

      If, ever, in my suffering
      You notice somewhat of that Grace:
      that Heavenly grace that lines the hearts of Holy men
      then
      grant me respite from my sins

      But
      if you do not
      worry not;
      I will obey.
      I will submit.
      I will endure.

      After all, that was
      Job's Lot.

      5 votes
    24. Mountaintops.

      Apologies for the spam. This may be the last one today; worst-case there's only one more coming. I see you, pretty home, with your couch, your floor, and kitchen. I see your sign there, hoping...

      Apologies for the spam. This may be the last one today; worst-case there's only one more coming.

      I see you, pretty home,

      with your couch, your floor, and kitchen.

      I see your sign there, hoping

      that I might call and visit.

      I want to tour your space

      and dream of how I'd fill it.

      What chair, what bed, what rug,

      and if it could home a kitten.

      .

      I can see a career

      that let's me furnish you to 9.

      I faintly feel a hope

      that one day you might be mine.

      I teeter on a plan

      that I could start, if energized

      that would lead me to you

      if I could try, and all went right.

      .

      A fireplace in cold,

      you'd stay lit, always, in orange.

      the warmest of colors

      keeps my mind free of contortion.

      Your firm, solid structure

      Keeps me confident, supported.

      What a beautiful dream;

      I hope, one day, to afford it.

      5 votes
    25. Is it self-inflating to label one's own work as graphic? (It is kinda graphic, clickbait title aside.) This doesn't even really capture the right imagery I was trying to go for. Might just have to...

      Is it self-inflating to label one's own work as graphic? (It is kinda graphic, clickbait title aside.)

      This doesn't even really capture the right imagery I was trying to go for.

      Might just have to re-write this idea into a completely different piece, I'm not sure. (mfw literally "felt creative idk might delete later")

      The "ball" was supposed to really be a watermelon, because we've all seen that YouTube video where they explode a watermelon with rubber bands, but I didn't leave myself enough space to develop that transition from ball to melon properly. (Brand new sentence?)

      Why am I even posting this if I feel its unfinished?

      Who knows.

      Anyway let's get to the thing here it is vvvvvvvvv

      slip.

      twist.

      smack.

      10 rubber bands on a ball

      all hold each other taut

      the inception of a toy

      that will quick be left for naught

      but brings a momentary joy - its only cause.

      .

      work.

      stoa.

      sweat.

      hustle on, man, that's your call

      you gotta love your boss.

      it's the struggle of a boy.

      that you never would be caught

      while feeling tears or overwhelm - lest you be mocked.

      .

      smack.

      stretch.

      strain.

      100 rubber bands slap

      starting slightly straining

      its appearances are coy,

      the ball slowly rolls to stop.

      picked up and bounced against the floor - it doesn't pop.

      .

      work.

      stare.

      grind.

      expectations are my all.

      you dream of taking off -

      escape makes you overjoyed

      daily grind just puts your off.

      your brain it strains against the skull - stressing nonstop.

      .

      pop

      waste

      spill

      500 rubber bands smack

      crushing and constraining

      such a carnage to enjoy

      they start rolling out the mops.

      the ball explodes onto the floor - as if a prop

      .

      rip

      slice

      tear.

      my fists crash into the walls.

      my skin, just rip it off

      rip out the bone, leave me void

      naked muscle growing moss.

      wrap rubber bands around my head until it pops.

      6 votes
    26. What a beautiful night the stars are out like tiny pinprick holes in the sky illuminating our soft gray subtle shadows as we chat about life and random fluff and the moon shines through your dress...

      What a beautiful night
      the stars are out
      like tiny pinprick holes in the sky
      illuminating our soft gray subtle shadows
      as we chat about life and random fluff
      and the moon shines through your dress
          making it
                  transparent

      Back to my car
      a night full of passion.
      Come the morning: I stop and reflect.
      What could my life have been?
      If I had missed all this,
                  this artifice and sin?
      For you are only silicone,
      your dress a splotchy sheet
      The stars are a cheap plastic disco ball
      I bought it from goodwill for 97¢.
      My car's no more than a fluorescent-stained couch.

      Alas, alas for me
      I must do better—yes, I will!
      (I steel my resolve)
      (I know what I must do)
      (my heart, it pains me so!
      For you have been so good to me, and thus I will repay you?)

       

       

       

       

       

      I did it, threw you in the trash;
      I'll hire a human whore tomorrow

      9 votes
    27. June.

      You know they’ve got poetry on Spotify? That’s some cool shit. Ended up following John Cooper Clarke into a rabbit hole of other British poets. Decided to bite and try writing a bit of poetry for...

      You know they’ve got poetry on Spotify? That’s some cool shit. Ended up following John Cooper Clarke into a rabbit hole of other British poets.

      Decided to bite and try writing a bit of poetry for poetry’s sake.

      Anyway. ‘Ere go. “June.”

      I thought your voice was music

      And your beauty - work of art.

      I found your jokes amusing,

      Ponygirl, a golden heart.

      Your company, a journey

      Which I never could depart

      I really felt I loved you,

      Well, I did once, at the start.

      .

      See, music can be different

      Some songs good, and others crap.

      Some begin melodically,

      Then get crashing in a snap.

      Starting subtle violins,

      Then it blares with metal scrap

      They lure you malevolent

      Some music is a trap.

      .

      Some artists Donatello,

      Others Jackson Pollock.

      Some art goes well with wine,

      Some turns you alcoholic.

      Some is deep and intricate,

      Some is purely bollocks

      Can’t call this a masterpiece

      I’m not sure what to call it.

      .

      Thought your lips were pure cuisine

      And your beauty - work of art.

      I never thought the kitchen

      Would have mold and rot at heart.

      The oven sent asunder

      All the counters ripped apart

      You’re a diner with one dish,

      And it’s a dry and sour tart.

      7 votes
    28. Light it up hit the stage hit the dance floor. Fight enough start a riot there's a chance for love to grow for the hate to transform Feeling these knots in my head am I deformed? . Feel like my...

      Light it up

      hit the stage

      hit the dance floor.

      Fight enough

      start a riot

      there's a chance for

      love to grow

      for the hate

      to transform

      Feeling these

      knots in my head

      am I deformed?

      .

      Feel like my

      head, my heart,

      a rock show.

      Is this peace

      or pain, I

      do not know.

      I can't close

      my eyes and

      the clock's slow

      Pray I'll

      kill myself

      in Chicago

      .

      My head pounds

      bass drum

      memories of,

      days when you

      and I meshed

      and we made love.

      Wish that I

      went and bought you

      all your makeup.

      Maybe some money's

      all we needed

      to makeup

      .

      Feel like my

      head, my heart,

      a rock show.

      Is this peace

      or pain, I

      do not know.

      I can't close

      my eyes and

      the clock's slow

      Pray I'll

      kill myself

      in Chicago

      .

      With hate your

      voice went shrill

      you went cold.

      Who's this girl

      beside me

      don't know.

      Wake up in

      the morning pain

      or comfort?

      All your screaming

      I wanna go

      Van Gogh

      .

      Feel like my

      head, my heart,

      a rock show.

      Is this peace

      or pain, I

      do not know.

      I can't close

      my eyes and

      the clock's slow

      Pray I'll

      kill myself

      in Chicago

      9 votes
    29. Hand to God

      Father God I've got a favor to ask of you. . It is said you can justify the hell I knew. . So now I raise my tired eyes to the morning blue. . God above, I've got a favor to ask of you. . If I...

      Father God

      I've got a favor

      to ask of you.

      .

      It is said

      you can justify

      the hell I knew.

      .

      So now I raise

      my tired eyes

      to the morning blue.

      .

      God above,

      I've got a favor

      to ask of you.

      .

      If I don't wake up

      dead in the morning

      could you stand by me

      if just for a moment

      give pause to the pain

      put a break to the moaning

      while I'm stuck in this mind

      and I just can't control it.

      .

      If you're gonna drag me out

      of my bed in the morning

      then I ask I wake in

      a place I feel at home and

      I can pour a little brown, light

      a green, and get to hoping

      that I'll find good work,

      good love, and consoling.

      .

      Ya Allah

      Ana mish aerif

      Ana riyeh feyn.

      .

      My head

      is clouded, dark

      and the sky is grey.

      .

      I've found

      I hate the sun,

      and dance in the rain.

      .

      And at night,

      I close my eyes,

      dream of the grave.

      .

      If you're gonna drag me out

      of my bed in the morning

      then I ask I wake in

      a place I feel at home and

      I can pour a little brown, light

      a green, and get to hoping

      that I'll find good work,

      good love, and consoling.

      8 votes
    30. Life—what's life? half a second on the edge of happiness Life—what's life? half a second on the edge, in the shadow of Death Live life for death—what's the point? it's done before begun you can't...

      Life—what's life?
              half a second on the edge of happiness
      Life—what's life?
              half a second on the edge, in the shadow of Death
      Live life for death—what's the point?
              it's done before begun
              you can't outrun
                                                      forever
      Live life without death—what's the point?
              does it matter, does it matter?
              does it matter right now?
              if it matters right now, it can matter later; later matters more, 'cause there's a lot more later than now
      Live life with death—we get no choice
              but choose you carefully to stand:
                      on his shadowy side?
                      or his sunny side?
              both are fraught with peril
                or
                  do you dare to face him?

      12 votes
    31. Bishop The Musician

      <Insert intro explaining the lack of an intro.> raindrop on the tongue of the parched, de- flated beach ball in the hands of the young, lit cig 'tween the fingers of a nun, one sin's never gonna... <Insert intro explaining the lack of an intro.>
      raindrop

      on the tongue

      of the parched, de-

      flated beach ball

      in the hands of the young, lit

      cig 'tween the fingers

      of a nun,

      one sin's never gonna be enough

      fuck the prose

      words will never be enough.

      the writing's on the walls

      but you can't read it

      you aren't here

      i need a sign you

      can't ignore or a call

      you're bound to hear

      .

      the words just aren't enough

      on their own

      to pull my heart strings

      i can't find peace

      without my blood

      on guitar strings.

      .

      the words are going cold

      the poetry has not a heartbeat.

      i need to take the stage

      and pray to god that they can't see me.

      8 votes