Free Verse
Mission GO!
A recession…nah. Can only bask in the appreciation that you recognize the term in this dark…this context. I’m not laughing; the joke of it is being pulled out of the stone one silver cloth at a time that no one notices. Guess how can you not? They’ll think the knots are Celtic Runes. The heart bleeds out either way. Better than this exists. Been there, through the burned-off fingertips, fine wine sips. The M. Night Twist is that they are no longer missed. Not regretted; who has the time in the trenches, but not some ham-fisted blame game reason the former operative’s flowing in perpetuity with the monsters and mine fields. You’d never know your forever was temporary… Back from that, sir.
By Willem Indigo3 months ago in Poets
The Girl in Question. Runner-Up in Static Challenge. Content Warning.
Identical same/same/same signal denier days She’s an abject construct of apathetic context "All the boys love Kaylee-Anne” Yet in this slipshod town, love is lost on trust Perhaps they love hard a little too much¿?¿ Androgyny only shields her at surface level Because flesh-deep beauty and so-so-supple skin Are the rarest, restless commodities, and silence SPEAKS: take a keen cut from her, she’s so easy! An evergreen, always-virginal breeze, it’s like The ultimate palette cleanser for budding Been-there-done-her-she’ll-sate-until-college Static subtypes, every midwestern shithole Claims the same consent-phobic jocks lining Up for licks of innermost, intimate, innocent Double-digit fingers nailing her peony prize Why does she smell so fucking sweet¿?¿? Blame it on booze or "PeEr PrEsSuRe"... but She’ll always remember, while this traduced Town churns copycat scenarios sans a care
By Edward Swafford3 months ago in Poets
You Will Never Wake Up
Amber fields rustled through her fingers. It was not where she fell asleep. The last thing she saw was the moping face of a black cat before she devoured white pills. She didn't want to wake up. Yet, there she was face to face with immortality and parasites Brought back to the squalor She once called home Neighbours still screamed Behind the thunderstorms Beneath layers of dust A piano waiting to be played Coffee and cigarettes Were the only luxury She loses an arm but gets it back Refused to be a psychiatric doll Bleached by pest control Slashed by a silent killer Gassed by an eye Think of a vegetable when she's gone. She'll guess tomato, but it's really onions Making people cry
By Chloe Gilholy3 months ago in Poets
“Tit for Tat. Splat. Fuck That.” “No More Explaining”
Some pieces aren’t written from anger, they’re written from understanding. This is one of those pieces. After a lifetime of being nudged, shaped, or boxed in by people who misunderstood empathy for weakness, I finally chose to speak with clarity instead of silence.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 3 months ago in Poets
