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My Fat Thread of Poetry

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BridgetteH

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Just going to add my poetry in here from time to time. It's not everybody's cup of tea, of course. I won't get pissed if you squat over it and shit on it (verbally), both are merely outlets.






Virginity.





A Blue Death


(
From my perspective as a 5 year old, retelling the event of my 2 year old cousin's drowning and it's effect on my family)
 
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-=iNsANe=-ADJ

I once ate broccoli
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Credit to you of course, and it won't get published on any record. I'm writing an instrumental song for an one-shot show in May, I guess, and those words could add something to the music.
Anyway it doesn't matter, you don't want so I'm not going to.
 

BridgetteH

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Eet Me Before You Go




This is about the person's loved one moving on. "Eet", from what I've read, was a button on old typewriters, essentially the "Enter" key: creating a new line. Here I use it to represent moving on. And perhaps pushing someone to move on and regretting that.
 

BridgetteH

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do you ever get writers block ... if so what has given you muse ... i'm stuck please help
Looks like @BRiT mistook your question as you asking him his dream job. No one told him they can't stitch a banana hammock that small. :speechless: Don't you guys dare break his little dreamer heart with the truth.
And poor @Out2Lunch with all his shitting troubles. Jamie Lee Curtis is that you?



Op, I'm not sure. I go on breaks where I don't write a damn thing then out of nowhere I have creativity diarrhea. Also, good music doesn't hurt and reading authors that you really admire.
 
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BridgetteH

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Fossilization

his essence is crystallized in my amber till the end of days,
and if he ever wears thin unto an apparition I'll ration out his taste




Ruby Bruise
I can't accept being bruised by him and him only for he is aware of precisely my newness, and this instills in him a sort of power. Though he dons the honesty of a powerless man, I know what he safeguards. I prod at his aged wounds and while he winces, and informs me of how it came to be, I know there are crumbs that fall in the cracks that he's overlooked or perhaps whole slices he is too greedy to share. And in my immaturity I linger here longer. And I can't bring into words my loneliness of being so unopened and new for his spreading, but more so in his knowledge of this. He need not linger on my old wounds. I am not to be looked over. He's had me, he's familiarized himself with the very wound he's created.
 
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BridgetteH

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I like that I can see the change in my poetry from this thread. It's neat, like a literary scrap book. I hope I'm not necroposting here; merely wanted all my crap in the same place.
 

BridgetteH

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What if I said I couldn't anymore? If my stalky reeds, that swore a kind of forever, snapped in some terrible tragedy and you're the two of us standing, oblivious to my fall? At what point does the throbbing of the wound overwhelm the heart until a collapse and shut down?

I've required you as water, food and air and you couldn't be seen, no matter how you willed it. And what if resentment grew as dandelions in those cracks of abandon, and they're much too vital to the entirety of the system to remove; like a brain tumor too entwined in the important bits to touch?

You know of mercy. You condemn purposeful suffering. I'm suffering. I'm suffering for the years I haven't been able to live inside of you and you inside of me -- not merely beneath the stucco ceilings of man-made matter and within the confines of the gravity from our own 4-walled world.​
 
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53V3N

The slow blade penetrates the shield.
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What if I held you, tight in my arms. Protecting against the world. Shielding from all that means to harm.

Providing solace, if only for a moment. Not to solve but rather to shelter, long enough to catch a breath. To then go forward and slay.
 
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BridgetteH

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"This is so very rare", we reassure each other, and we believe it with the blind allegiance of a religion. Even upon a final departure, it's a doctrine so tightly tangled with my tendons and spine, and every day factual assertions, that I'd carry it to the beginnings of forever. But what if we had begun with a stubborn disposition of brevity? Do we suffer together and apart or would true suffering only surface in a total absence?

Does the starving man that smells an apple pie bubbling in the stove before death suffer more than the starving man that smells nothing?





The other half to that poem. I think both this section and the other two also work as stand alone poems.
 
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