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The Writing Room
Written by: circular.parade

I got into the house
and wandered from room to room.
her father's an author, he said
"I don't care what you do or
where you go, just don't set the house on fire,
don't get yourself hurt or killed but mostly,
don't come into the Writing Room.
you've got no excuses."

he closed the door
and she cried silently,
like the women in his stories.
There were
books all around, in fact,
you couldn't see a single wall,
not the
slightest hint of enclosure,
no fence of the mind.
it seemed like every time you took a book
there was another one behind it,
maybe a little torn apart,
maybe just a little worn out
but it was there nonetheless,
pushing you further, like a sin,
like a sin.

she said he designed the finest verses
and crafted polygraph paragraphs
out of mirror glass,
as the only witness, the only gauge
of his impassable mind.

next to the writing room we sat
in the living room, there were
comfortable cushy chairs,
sky-like marble stones, handwritten
manuscripts, the fireplace--
oh, that fireplace...

the only place without transcripts,
the only place that's letter-free
the one and only dead end
to infinity
she said that it always burned,
that for as long as she could remember,
she sat crossed-legged and watched,
the tiny men dancing in the flames,
the artists of the blaze.

I took her hand and we got high
a soft and creamy high
like iced cream in black coffee
and we tried to stay quiet
to not disturb the host
so kind in his absence.

when i asked, she said
that he wrote about nothing,
nothing and everything,
the pains in life and tragedies,
foreign countries, his family,
about how she looked like her mother...
i knew,
the blaze in her pupils.
she said
that he was well informed,
as I could guess by the books,
some he wrote and some he read,
most he knew as if he wrote them,
anyway, a great artist.

This is the point I'm having
a hard time to describe.
You'd need to ask her but for a moment
she poured a little bit of her soul
out in the room
to mix with the creamy smoke and
to fill the cloudy space.

she spoke of many things,
as if reading my mind.
answering all the questions
I would have never dared to ask,
if you don't mind
I'll keep them for myself,
but mostly why so much misery
in such a family--
she pulled my arm,
brought us to the writing room
without pretending that the house
was on fire or that
we were getting ourselves killed
she reached for the doorknob
of the writing room.

--and so he stood
pressed her against the wall and
collected himself in her matching eyes
the eyes of his daughter

I observed for a little while,
couldn't see anything in the room but them,
it seems
he could have died in those eyes
i understood, and realized
that there are some places a man can never
ever leave

Mrs. Pipe
Written by: Something_Vague

in the corner of my basement there is a pipe that just sits there
and in this pipe that's in my basement there is some mold that has grown.
In the corner of my basment there is a pipe with some mold and it is
dark and awfully smelly
and i tried to suck it out.
i do not know as to why, but i wrapped my mouth around it, and i
tried to inhale whatever in it grew. in my lungs i had it pictured, as to
what was really happening. And as the tiny spores over took me
the waiting was quite maddening, just to lay down and die.
but i didn't i just waited and i coughed up an awful thing
a black phlegm that had grown deep inside my throat,
not from the pipe it was there, or from any other mold
it seemed that it just grew there since before i was old.
now in this moment i knew that i would never die alone here,
i would never rot away in a basement built for two.

across the street there is a man and he's pulling a shopping cart,
he's got all his things and all his food and he's pulling a shopping cart,
and i witnessed this with my mold still deep inside my chest and
i saw what he face said and i knew
i'd never die.

and in the same vein there is a girl out there willing, to sit down
and talk to me when i need someone, she is lovely and she's dark haired
and she is Croatian. There is something about her voice or the way that
her body looks, the way that her eyes look when I think of her, she doesn't
give me pity or the smallest sign of laughter at my awful jokes, and so it
is in this, i regret to have sucked the mold out of a dirty pipe below my kitchen floor.
and it is now that i realize that everything is wonderful,
that everything is beautiful and that i will die alone,
this mold that has been growing and the mold that i suck
it will be stuck inside me until it drops me dead.

i'm sorry mrs. pipe for putting my mouth around you and sucking
all the bad out of you, and putting it in myself, and i hope you have
a great life being a pipe and all. Will you be doing things that you love to do, like
draining water and pushing exhaust and letting spiders into my home, will you
be doing all of these things when I am all gone? I really hope that you are being a pipe
so often, and being a pipe so well because that is what you're best at, you wonderful little pipe.

and then i died.

wool hat
Written by: rushmore

a wool hat in summertime, you wore it everywhere,
hair always wet from sweat dripping down your forehead past your
tanned neck. you'd never take it off though,
i remember even once we went swimming in a pond on your parents land
and you took off everything besides that wool hat.
you get attached to things too easily,
you're young,
but not too young to remember last winter
when you would never wear a jacket and
always ask to borrow mine, i spent those few months shivering until i
started wearing two jackets so i could keep at least one.
i don't know where your wool hat was then,
but you'd ask for my gloves and scarves and socks and boots until i finally gave up,
spent prom night freezing naked on a bench outside the gymnasium while you were
off with friends warm and occupied with things more temperate than the temperature.
olivia, its not about that prom night though,
the way you shrugged it off and put your comfort ahead of mine,
its that you never dress for the weather and it pisses me off.

to live and die in verona
Written by: NGD1313
to live and die in verona
the lacquer of the spit shined smiles we gave to the handsome,
will soon cover our own intentions until the shine distracts
from all we'd prayed to save. you can't always love what you choose
and when the dots don't connect you self-destruct in sunday shoes,
head on your knees, crying in the pews, "god help me please,
i'm too porous to hold all this blood. won't you take it out?
won't you take me now? "

pale, pale, pale man.
what a plan, what plan.
you bleed on god's floor
and you spit in his kitchen?
put your feet on his couch
and hit on his women?
you fool. you coward.

home. for the first time in 2 years, 8 months, and 11 days,
my mother turns the corners of my bed. my brother puts
his hand upon my head, my father turns his bottles out,
sends the sweetness spiraling down to the bottom of the city,
and i dream and i dream, my body found a blank expression
and old depression on the blistered blankets of a
cheap motel and my words will reverberate off dirt-deafened
walls for the rest of eternity, mocking the ears that arrive but aren't listening,
"**** god and grandnoise. my gestures reflect my dignity and poise,
show me heaven or the purity in dirt. i care not."
and my mother holds my arms, dresses my wounds,
though the subdued pulsation of my heart assures
that i will bleed and bleed, til i've filled up a lonesome motel bed.

Gasoline Fumes and Tea Parties aka 18 Reasons to Just Keep Driving
Written by: Jimmy388
I'm well versed in
buildingSinking ships
fostering dependence
and falling in love with closet hypocrites.
Mesmerized by ink stained skin and crippling habits.
This is my midnight hour,
shallow bathtub blackout.
I can't keep this up,
this wasted... factory
and its old machines.
I've reached my renaissance!
I'm finished with obsolescence
and the adolescent-esque.
No machine made parts!
just the finest hand made art!

I just need a minute
Written by: Ebshabutiee

opened up the door to this little bazaar
walked out with a t-shirt and bangles, for you.
thinking about moving towards the side streets
to get away from all the busy feet.

on the corner there is a man, sign in hand
says the president has no mind for anyone
its like he's eating through our time,
mainly mine.

kept snippets of the news paper you appeared in,
snippets of memories from when we first met.
open the closed hope chest and started pulling out songs,
rewriting them to your silhouette.

broke down every little line,
made sure each of them rhymed.
held your hand as we cross the streets,
getting lost like pulling teeth.

so anxious to go back to our bed, crept up on you tonight.
waking up from bad dreams
falling back asleep to blue eye gleam.

so anxious about everything, i am scared to cross your streets.
waking up from bad dreams
falling back into the same damn things.

hypochondriac, self diagnosed
these are what i believe
keep me from seeing me
as anything but ugly.

i think i could use a minute
or two
or three.

This is not a pipe
Written by: hippieboy444

I was told that
Venus would sparkle
with polka-dots
and milky scarves
Wrapping its slender body
in moonlight
when I was eight
and that night
I was so
when The Big Dipper
was all my eyes Could catch;

[I wonder if
the Philippines’ witnessed
the murder of my excitement
in the Big Dipper’s handle]

And even
Six years later
I can still only ever see
An impressionistic portrait-
Sometimes peeking,
Sometimes gazing
Down on my little
Fish bowl of existence-
Unless someone
Points Venus out of
The pointillism
Written by: NGD1313

man of convictions
cracks a case of pabst blue ribbon
rolls his armchair looking to put his feet where
the veiled spine of the collective life hangs her hat,
because he's had enough of that tired bitch
and her tired this and that.
hands blistered and bleeding,
arms folded and heartrate declining,
lets the sun and sisters go,
lets the blood and body flow,
lets his heavy breathing slow,
and now he's gone. now he's perfect,
and when he wakes in the morning,
he hangs his head, his pavement warming,
and walks out a door to a slow and trying death,
and in the closet, i clutch my sister to my chest,
and i tell her, "don't worry little girl,
i've got a pile of warbonds
underneath my bed, and when this one's over,
we'll collect on our debts.
we'll get the **** out of here and never come back."
Cigarettequette Lessons at the Adair County Mansion
Written by: stellar_legs

From mounds of chin to pick food from scruff
To birdlike men and psychedelic drugs.
Traded the girth to wrap your arms and hug
For sharper necks and collarbones to suck.
I chase dinner with a mug of Listerine
To chemically plunge out all my rotten teeth.
It's a little more than just a lucid dream
Because these days I can shit through metallic screen.

Hold your medals tight as you master a liquid with no advantage
to ever fuel the artistic mind.
Hold your rusty relics tight as you're buried thin, distant
And still very much alive.

There were two years where I got soused and rose high all the roof beams.
Cut the plywood, dug the well and washed my filth down by the creek.
There were two years where I ate cereal out of butter bowls, whiskey out of jam jars.
Let's smoke crack out of a soda can and watch our eyes swell up like neutron stars.
I want my kiss on your neck to be your every reason to stay -
I want to see you log your orgasms in a day planner and update it every day.
I would love nothing more than to storm your castle on horseback
and take your far away from gut rot and decay.
Written by: Bleed Away

We arranged our visit,
a graceful pursuance
at times a journey.
We grew old in the darkness
as we journeyed without a second glance
into the dark heart of Africa.
But my misfortunes were clear,
my skin too weak;
it is the hardship that leads me here.
Can you skip
to the flogger's song
of watchfulness?
Because those days are dead
and the gesture remained solemn.

The voice of the sheppard
possessed the land
and the plans remained unageing.
For the deeds were never fulfilled
and the endeavour, never settled.
A fallible god once ruled there
with an iron rod and a tolling bell
rattled by the wind,
things that I could never change
but rather forget.

The farmer said onto the sheppard
"I don't know what you should do with yourself,
you have opened the gate; the future
and the incantation in which it contained.
I feel like killing time;
the ignorant period of restoration
once was the incentive
to be alive. And mention in your prayers:
you do not know what you have gotten yourself to...”

The civilians never wished to breed
and the rain poured towards
a recessed state. They seemed ready,
for what was next
was proceeded by oblivion.
Human existence;
a recurring vice.
I remember, the tourist said
to never be happy in a dream,
but I didn't understand-
I never understood,
but this wasn’t quite the truth.

The priest was wailing
and was buried alive-
beside the rugged river of Cavally
and awaits eternal life.
We couldn’t hear
the voice of the mother;
the morning cry she couldn't renounce.
Songs of the voice and the fullness thereof,
she had come to whisper a verse:
"No more rivers at the door,
at last it has found its rightful place.
You wouldn’t understand
what it is I’m after.
Suffer not
the witch to live
of the inner felicity
upon the crest of vanity.
A trackless land into the steady morning
that was guided only by the moaning of doves;
this was the way to hell.
You are the saviour they speak of
at the barren coven.
You once called this the last hour,
the hour of our death.
The sound of the wind,
the crest of waves;
a clarification of thought.
It is not what you want,
to wait in the fire
in which you so badly despise.
These are the last days,
and I have at last come to terms
until the end of the world."

We fared forward
through many green pastures;
a graceful pursuance;
a perpetual journey.
We rested, and the rain lapsed-
I didn’t feel like sleeping
so I receded to the Juniper tree,
there, I found solace.
The strange fruits brought no relief;
the road was filled with desolation,
a much updated ruin
within the jars of tribulation,
the siege of Africa.
The resolution of a dying animal,
I presume and cry out twice,
for what this image could resemble
and resemble much.

Time and madness
wine and lilacs;
the harvest of the mystic brew
the women couldn't bring themselves to drink.
They kept it discreet
from the sowing circle
upon the bleakest hills,
a place to be.
The idea of being cursed resounded me.
Naked old ladies gathered around me,
with leaves in their mouths,
enthroned in limbo.
And with a convoluted smile
they decreed:
“There’s no hope for you here,
like blind men
who grope in the dark,
who were escorted
by the immemorial horn;
you cannot escape.”
And it was so.
Time has told me to never fear;
it was all a distraction
and at once it became a distraction.


I watched Pharaoh’s dance at a distance,
where the demons could no longer sleep
and the poets couldn't bring themselves to sing.
My time is coming
and I’m no longer afraid
for the spirits I no longer embrace.
The problem and the annunciation.
The breakage and the destination;
in convergence,
they no longer discourage me.
By the throne of grace,
my visit remains sincere.
And now I leave.
This is not a pipe
Written by: ottoavist

like genre disposition and
hobo smiles,
the veiling mists of the divide seem to
purge its ghosts at me, relentlessly
but hey
restless hearts were never
a stone's throw, i suppose.

walked outside and knew
how the world worked

but not you;

into the bar
with wisdom
of the birth of life

but my divining rod
could never pause grace
in your wishing well.

i love you so much.

but alas,
i am a man: solitary and elusive.
please -
turn around and count to ten
while i bury my
insecurities, frustrations, and weaknesses
somewhere safe.

...ok, ready? go.
Watching Clocks
Written by: Jammydude44

I'd had enough of the limit
of the edge of the rough,
the rub of the green, the
lust and the love -

and then this -----

and then finite grew
(it wasn't with you)
and then I looked
close -

and I was sat on the meaning
for a day, a week, a month,
a line or two.
the pains of being pure at heart
Written by: jiminizzle

one time back in high school
i picked up your homework when you stayed home sick
because i wanted a reason to come over,
but his car's there so i gave it to your parents
and left without saying anything,
and i hope it bothers you.
This is not a pipe

god bless the outlaws
Written by: SilenceEvolves

that old grove ain't sweet no more
the oranges lay tossed along the floor
withered and dry, like fruit jerky
feeding the worms beneath my feet.

stumbled barefoot amongst the trees,
followed pawprints to an old cemetary,
and sat atop an unmarked grave -
when I looked up, there in the dark,
couldn't tell if I saw stars
or headlights on the interstate.

gave a bareback man a needle and thread
and he threw the damned old needle at my head;
tossed a goldfish into a wishing well,
but no matter what I do, it don't seem to help.

but there's this road I know, Old Dixie Highway,
drift by everyday on my way home from work -
I swear one day I'm gonna make that turn,
follow that road til my wheels can't rotate no more.

This is not a pipe

Out of State License Plates
Written by: D&DLover

Headlights glint off the reflective white
And pressed tourist sites on an out of state license plate
My words color paths for the driver in my head:
The snow covered brake lights make halos of warming red

The radio recites its soliloquies low
While I tune it out, your voice swallows my evening view
Streetlights pirouette, elucidating brown eyes
Fingers intertwined as we follow the traffic lines

I taste shadows of distant stars
Echoed across windshields of the parking lot-lined cars
I taste the language on your lips
And memories of last week’s departing wooden ships

Your arms wrapped around your legs in front of the blaze
While the movie screen spills faint flickering light on your face
The gentle string soundtrack scoring our scene
As we sit together by a film that I’m hardly watching

We open our minds and pour ink on each page
Of a history textbook simply titled both our names
Quiet exchanges, longing timid hush
Conversations march circles like lost hikers as our hands brush

I taste shadows of possible lives
Echoed across the clear lenses of auburn eyes
I taste the language on your lips
And fading memories of yesterday's casual quips


Winter In Me
Written by: BramdyCross

theres nothing soft about the leaves that fall
and winters chill it takes them all
another night all alone
i guess thats why its broken

and i could almost feel
the softness of your skin
and wonder what it would be like
to hold you close and then.

the frost that sets in
as the day turns into night
wake up in the morning
and nothing makes it right
because its become apart of you
nothing left that you can do

and i could almost feel
the softness of your skin
and wonder what it would be like
to hold you close and then

this house is not my home
it merely holds me in
and love its not that close to me
to far away to ever be

sit and watch the leaves that fell a long time ago
autumn rain has turned into the cold of winter snow
a little shiver at the sight of ice on the tree
ill cover up and try to hide the winter here in me