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Angela Rose Feb 2018
A young girl stands in front of the mirror
Her hands gripping on to her hip bones
And she still believes that she is too fat
She is holding her breath and ******* it all in
Her lips are pouting
Her eyes are wandering
Her face is flushed

She asks herself :
"Do they like me?"

                                                                                             Do you like you?
Ceyhun Mahi Sep 2017
Stay whoever you are I plead,
Those charms, that is what I do need.
But if you have to grow for life,
Just don't forget your fragile seed.
Lawrence Hall Jul 2017
Court Day

So sullenly he sneers and slouches there
Behind a menu that he will not read
His mother smiles apologetically
And orders milk and cereal for him

He sulks beneath his franchise baseball cap
And grunts into a little plastic box
Then shoves it back into his pressed knee-pants
His mother smiles apologetically
                                                  ­           tips apologetically
                                                  ­           pays apologetically

The waitress with her chalice takes communion ‘round
Refills the cups at each creaky table
Newspaper stories, what is this world coming to,
Bacon and eggs, toast, orange juice, refills, life

Beyond the misted glass the old court house
Begins to take the early morning light
Like an old man taking his first cup of the day
Having another go at civilization

A rural Thomas More parks his old truck
This Chaucerian sergeant of the law
Will plead the usual catalogue of not-his-faults
The lad will smirk and feign apologies

The creaky tables of the ancient laws
To be served with irrelevant custom
The lad demands change for the Coke machine
His mother yields
                                 Apologetically.
Janica Katricia Sep 2016
i've always dreamed of sleeping in your arms
from the day i was conscious enough.
i dreamed of smelling the breakfast you made
and the scent of the detergent you used to wash my clothes.
also dreamed of going home to warm hugs and

"how's your day?"

sometimes, i wished you saw me singing on stage
with the friends you told me to stay away from.

however, they became my family instead.

i wish i get the love i expected as a child.

but it never happened as far as i can remember.

never happened to get great hugs from you when i feel sad
never happened to get enough appreciation on things i sacrifice for you.

i never got the simple things a daughter like me
could ever ask for.

never did. *maybe
this is just a short note of things i want to say to my mom. i may appear as a bad daughter but all i wanted was to be treated like a good daughter too.
Brent Kincaid Dec 2015
“Boys will be boys,”
The bully’s parents said.
All that talk of discipline
Went over their heads.

The older boys at school
Gathered around the kid
With the glasses on his face;
Knocked them off his head.
Their words questioning
His manhood and his folks
And nobody paid attention
To the nature of the jokes.

“Boys will be boys,”
The principal said.
He washed his hands
Now one boy is dead.

They waited in an alley
Until the boy walked by
A place they knew for sure
No one would hear him cry.
They each one ***** him
Then one guy had a knife
After he killed the boy
He called him a lousy wife.

“Boys will be boys,”
The police officer said
Then used his baton
On the black kid’s head.

A black kid found the body
Of the white kid in the mud.
He brought the local cop, who
Thought him from the hood.
He beat up on the black kid
And took him to the jail.
Nobody knew about him, so
Nobody made his bail.


“Boys will be boys,”
The juvenile judge said
He closed the case
Went golfing instead.

There were no forensics,
No witnesses were sought.
No evidence of quality
Was asked for or brought.
The system had its criminal
And quickly put him away
And that’s where he is living
Until this very day.

“Boys will be boys,”
Never really worked
It only ever pointed out
That the speaker was a ****.
Vamika Sinha Aug 2015
I commit myself to the homicide
of my thought-flowers.
I indulge in the **** -
Killing my darlings
for the sake of art and sanity.
What a paradox.
I have bloodied my hands
with it even so.

No more love-lite poetry!
No more adolescent chinks of the
pseudo-heart!
No more infantile fork-stabs
at the plate of kid-intellectualism!
No more Wikipedia pages
on thoughts
that can swallow computers
whole!

I'm killing my darlings
for the sake of art,
for the sake of sanity -
what a paradox.
Blood is flowing.

I'm a murderer of ideas tonight -
today I will write
about many of life's very few truths.
Like trees.
Like soil.
These are the only constants in mathematics.
These are the identities.

In my garden, I reach out
to crush an
almost-crimson hibiscus.
Petals squelching with skin and nectar -
no perfume.
The hibiscus roils, unliving.

Red pulpy mess;
heart out of chest.
'**** your darlings. Your crushes, your juvenile metaphysics - none of them belong on the page.'
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