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Melanie Cruz Feb 2017
This country was founded on the idea of being who you are in liberty, yet there are people trapped in closets because the monsters are on the other side and the darkness has become too comforting at this point; the face of death has become too beautiful to want to turn away. We are hidden, dancing around the idea of being hung as perfectly as that shirt that was “too gay”; planning our proposal to the Grim Reaper because, at this point, he is the only man who can “turn us straight”. We’re rolling out our blueprints and studying the structure of surviving instead of accepting that we’re different and actually living. The pride that used to live in us died a long time ago, maybe around the same time we were in the closet writing our suicide notes; for others, it was the day they were calling their loved ones for final words before their pulse was devoured by the hurricane.

This country was founded on the idea of being who you are in liberty, yet it was built off blacks and Native Americans forced into captivity; sold and sent off into slavery. The basis of this country is “freedom”, but… I’m still trying to find the point in time when we practiced what we preached, um - have you heard the joke about the Annoying Orange? He was elected president. No, wait, I think it was actually part of a horror movie. I’m sorry, was that racist? Because there are people on twitter who rant about how “REVERSE RACISM DOES EXIST” and “WHITE OPPRESSION”, now please don’t get offended, but it’s 2017 and the true founders of these divided, yet technically united, states are being held at gunpoint simply for being born that way. Just when we thought the crackling of our spines was enough to run the white boys away, they had to send their dads in to drop charges labeled “thief”, “****”, and “felon” on our shoulders until they crushed our will to live. Now don’t have hope on justice for that is nothing but a fairy tale. If you haven’t already realized, the dragon of their arrogance grows the more they see us fail.

This country was founded on the idea of being who you are in liberty, ...but we forgot to include women in the subtext. Did I say “we”? I’m sorry. I meant HE, and not HE as in God who created you and me, but HE as in the Annoying Orange and every Arrogant Coconut elected to run this country. Apparently, we must conform to their manly mentality, their barbaric way of living because

“Women are too emotional”

“She’s probably PMSing”

But tell a guy he throws like a girl and watch his estrogen crawl from the deepest corners of his eye sockets as he runs away; their faces flushed with shame… because being feminine is something to be ashamed about. Throwing like a girl is offensive. Losing to your girlfriend in 2k is not Ok.
“You must obey me” they say.

“You belong in the kitchen”

And all we knew to say was “ok”.

You see, I’m tired of being tamed by men and am regurgitating all these false allegations.

I will not stop eating chocolate cake to please you. I love chocolate cake. It pleases me.

I will not watch my weight to protect your pride. Loving my weight is my pride.

I will not do squats because you want to post a picture of me on Instagram under hashtag thicc. I hate exercising. It’s exhausting.

I will only stop eating chocolate cake when I start to break out in places I shouldn’t.

I will only watch my weight when my doctor tells me I will die otherwise.

I will only do squats when I want to check myself out in my new bikini in the summertime.

This country was founded on the idea of being who you are in liberty, but it’s difficult to get the message across without learning the word “respect”.

You. Heterosexual judging me. Respect our various identities.
You. Caucasian individual. Acknowledge and respect our black history.
You. Cisgender male oppressing my womanhood. Respect your own mother.
You. Liberal teen defending your right to believe. Respect the worn out Cheeto puff.

And you will see…

Maybe one day we will know a free America.
Amanda Shelton Oct 2022
I will give Trump an award. He gets the most ******* MAGA head alive award. The trophy is Trump’s ego blown up head bobbing, you can hear the whistling wind breezing through his ears and his gapping mouth oozes toxic waste. Cheeto dust is his devilish glow. The number of crimes he committed is on his forehead in big bold dark orange letters as well his lies.

For the Trumpians I’ll toot your horn Toot Toot! Go back to hell. Donald J Trump is a recipe for Cheeto dust. The devil is calling for his son Donald J Trump, it’s time for his firey bath. He’s all Cheeto dust no sense. Even his ashes have a devilish orange glow. I wonder if his mother was aware she gave birth to a Cheeto. She will when he goes to hell on judgement day. **** to the Cheeto Messiah and his minion Cheeto worshipers. I'm pretty sure they will test the bath fire first, than Trump follows because they lied it's not Cheeto dust for his tan.
I was inspired by resent events surrounding Donald Trump. I have to make fun of it or get depressed.
Bhill  Oct 2020
Cheeto - Rant
Bhill Oct 2020
the image of Cheeto Face can’t be unseen
glaring at us through the tube
spewing forth random worthlessness
infringing on all who watched
how do you undo such nonsense

Brian Hill - 2020 # 269
I wasn't going to post this but my mind wouldn't let me not post it. Who saw that **** show?
Lover of Words Jun 2013
Would you still love me if my sea blue green eyes were puddles of icky brown like gas station toilet water,
Would you still love me if my locks of autumn sun kissed hair follicles fell off my head like they do seasonally,
Would you love me if my skin was orange like bright cheeto puffed style, and would you still love me if I had no nose,
Would you still love me when I'm sad and unconsolable,
With tears running down my eyes like the waters off niagra,
Would you still love me if I died,
Like not existed anymore,
Would you even cry,
And would you love me if I had no value to this world,
If everyone hated me and ran from me like a squirrel, Would you still love this pathetic girl, If she was all that she set out to be but couldn't. Would you still love her like you do,
Would you love me for all my ugly faults I cannot change.
Lina Banzaca Jul 2017
Why am I not good enough for you?
You don't know my life story.
My upbringings.
My parents.
You don't know the Mother that raised me.
The mother who taught me how to be a decent human being.
The same Mother who's making 81 cents to your dollar.
Why?
Because of what's between her legs.
Why am I not good enough for you?
Maybe its the way I dress.
I'm modest.
I was taught the difference between lingerie and clothing.
I know what is appropriate.
I'm comfortable with myself.
Why do you have to degrade me?
For something as stupid as the genitalia between my thighs.
You discriminate and degrade people.
You don't see us saying, 'We're so sorry, but we regret to inform you, America, simply won't allow a Cheeto to be our PRESIDENT.'
You say that just because of someone's sexuality or gender, they CANNOT join the military.
Well, I don't know about the rest of America, but if someone is willing to fight for our country, that's more honor than anything.
Not like you're volunteering your life to fight for our once, accepting and loving country.
America the free.
Home of the brave.
A dream to most people.
It isn't as great as it seems.
If anything, it shouldn't be a dream to people.
It should be a nightmare.
A nightmare.
Why am I not good enough for you?
Is it because my parents taught me to love whoever I want?
Do you want to judge me for being an open person?
Are you going to degrade me for saying I love both girls and boys equally?
Do you know why?
Because a person...
Is a person.
Maybe my mind isn't as contorted as yours.
Maybe some therapy or medication can help alleviate my sins.
Maybe instead of judging majority of the country, you should judge yourself.
Maybe you should realize, you aren't as good as you think you are.
I'm not a nobel peace prize winner, but I can tell you how to resolve some of our country's problems.
Put a little love in your heart.
Love for all the people.
Love for those who's skin isn't as white as yours.
Love for those who believe love is love.
Love for the people who want to fight for our country.
Love for all those people who aren't good enough.
So I ask of you one more time.
If I am good enough for everyone around me...
Why am I not good enough for you?
#ProtectallLGBT
ConnectHook Oct 2018
capitalize it
punctuate it

       then . . .         //  s p  a   c    e     it
                                      s a y  it /

                                        to their gray faces

this is REVOLUTION baby

fall down prostrate in adoration
plead for mercy before the throne
of your orange Cheeto lord
worship 45
you owe your soul to him

(your owner/father-figure)
your president
mix-master D.J.
is wiser than you
that's why he is
president of your nation-state

so sorry about the will of 55%
of the amurican people

now dance

to your D.J.
like good NPCs

god bless amurica 45
I am sorry that God's will is done
please don't swear or be upset
mike  Nov 2015
Untitled
mike Nov 2015
a spicy cheeto
fell on my *****
but i still ate it.

i shouldve eaten
the cheeto instead.
My Duma was a cat, just an ordinary cat to others but to me he was my best friend, and my heart.
My Duma had a soft orange coat like the cheeto's mascot on the chip bag.
My Duma had blue/green eyes and a loving face always there when you needed him around.
My Duma was friendly and loving but one day he had a leg infection.
When My Duma had a leg infection, the vet's couldn't do anything to help him with it unless i had thousands of dollars, even though i said i'd pay bits by bits in time just to help save this little creatures life.
I tried everything for My Duma, to save him and keep his little leg protected.
But these vet's didn't care, they don't care about animals they just care about money.
I had to put my Duma down, give him away, i don't know if he's still alive but i will always love My Duma.
Even though it has been abot 10 years since My Duma is gone, i still feel pain inside and saddened.
He only lived for 2 years but left a spot in my heart where he will always stay.
Funny and naive My Duma was, always wanted to play and cuddle.
I love you My Duma, i wish you could come back.
Even certain songs remind me of you when you left i had them playing.
I'll never forget my baby Duma.
Thank you, thank you to the vet's who killed a living creature who was happy and bright.
In Maga heaven
There is no scripture here,
only rubber-stamped, pre-approved lobbyists
with tanning bed fangs
******* on a choir of flesh-hungry frat boy ****** interns
chanting “U! S! A!”
with each pharma ****** your medical bills explode..

Matt Gaetz Botox eyebrows
his floating hideous cartoon villain face,
3-D printed and impaled perma- smile
as ubiquitous as underage prostitutes on Epstein's island,
now with more ICE-sanctioned “kids in cages.”

In the smoke-choked outer gates,
a pearly mezzanine,
Rush Limbaugh gurgling and affixed  like a  scuzzy dump
dabbing his crusty *** hanky,
sweating,    teetering,     a  corpulent blob,
leaking Snapple like a stuck pig.

He chortles on an endless A.M. talk radio loop,
his triple chins wobbling like pork rinds in a fat fryer.
4-dollar cigar, 10 inches of colonial sadism,
like his abandoned family burns
wet and slow.

Smoke curls upward,
thick as ***** generational trauma and just as sweet.
It drapes the room like a  gay funeral veil
made of Newt’s christo-fascist scam money
and powdered supplement bile.
"Family  values  "  he insist . preaching,
while serving his dying cancer wife their divorce paper in her hospital bed.

**** Cheney prays to Karl Rove, born on Christmas day,
both as ****** as the driven snow.
skin waxed like Lenin, but on hydraulic exoskeletons.
They fumble trying to hoist their cross-shaped catheters
to spoon-feed one another,
whimpering ineffectually
and muttering into a  minority fetus-shaped walkie-talkie
about more  planes , more planes  needed  in buildings
over Guantanamo freedom.

Sad excuse for  moldered ******
litter the  streets like the intended  death of  tax payer missiles ,       the gods of fear mongering with  their  half      melted war gavels
juddering with every heartbeat stolen from Halliburton pensioners.
Each  prayer  reminds the weak  
"abort   THIS,   *****"
  sunday school  molestations taught
through  bedazzled maga megaphone
mounted where a human heart
is supposed to be.

Mitch McConnell just another waddle flappin  on the  old turkey farm  , in divine chin contempt and  righteous ecstasy from
cancelling  the  last of the schools free breakfast and lunch programs  he smiles from ear to ear. His chins begin shaking.
He falls
on schedule
and is resurrected even more lobotomized each time. (somehow)

Beneath the bankrupt,  cracked Trump Casino marble, the house is still  winning  8 out of 10 times .
but  he can't  make a profit.
The gold rolls its way, to
a small, out-of-the-way obscure footnote of a Ronnie rotunda:
“the  Corpo Tax cut  Apotheosis  of " Star Wars "  Dreams.”

Dan Quayle moans through a diamond-encrusted **** grill,
his libido injected with Reagan Era tax cuts
and oil futures coated in powdered Whitehouse Adderall
from summer camp spelling BEE   , 1987.

His ******* tattooed with 'Tipper Gore,' twitch  Morse code
for “trickle-down,
tickle down,
trickle down.”
Each of Bush's Voodoo economic spasms sends a ripple through the latex Fallwell hymnals
glued to his shriveled, underdeveloped thighs.

Oh, but make way   ye  assured fools!
For  thou  has  no say over your body, Trans or Female,
as
Clarence Thomas
drives his big-block bribery  Winnebago
like he's  riding  a tricycle the size of the Lincoln Memorial.

His scabby, ashen elbows jut out
wobbly  battering rams.

Forgotten...  used and discarded  like Eric
Jared Kushner ,
stole  uncle Clarence's  custom
Golden Supreme Court Rascal scooter,
denting time and space with every vow
and slow ritual bow.

Clarence drools thick black sludge over his Anita Hill poster,
legal ink congealed into constitutional back alley abortion cancer.
His gums gnash "textualisms"
******* ... "textualisms "
( that's a word...  right?)
Johnny Cochran level   "textualisms" !
his  hymn,  a   mantra
turned lullaby,

Corpses of past rulings slough off behind him
like the bribery-bloated garbage snake he is.

Kristi Noem breaks the black reverie with a yelping ******
on all fours... again
beneath a dripping
taxidermied buffalo chandelier,
a pulsating greasy ******* protruding with
corporate logos blinking in
synchronized gun-show glory.
Fur
bloodied, mangled—coyote,
dog,
child? No one asks
as she is paraded past Sandyhook again.

The plug buzzes the Pledge of Allegiance
in MAGA Morse
with a URL for granny donations pls.
Her eyes say thank you to Truth Social.
Rights vanish like the separation of church and state
in this bloated degenerate unqualified puppet show.
Mega churches handing out loaded AR-10s.

Daily   the fresh piles of
dead kids
with NRA stickers on their lunch boxes
blocking the busses only lanes in front of their boarded up schools while the new Mega arena p­lays bikini ****** on the ultra Jumbotron in between penalty flags while brain dead 3 channel havin trailer park daddy gets drunk again, and cries about the liberals turnin all the frogs gay !­

Taco  Manatees cavort
in orange Cheeto dust
bedazzled glue guns threats.
Stormy Daniels *** dolls hang from scaffolds
meant for Mike Pence,
and everyone wipes their *** on stolen nuclear secrets.

The bolt clicks forward
in  to   place.  
The Leopold
calibrated....

The sound bites lacquered and pre- prepared

Amen, Karen. Amen…
This  in my opinion is better than   my   "Slaves enslaving fellow  slaves ...." which has  over 700 reads already
Vashawn Jackson Aug 2015
Got to get my Gogeta on
Time to go the cheetah runs
Beast mode I ain't cheeto
I'm cheetor
Turn the booth into Hogwarts I'm Dumbledore
My flow deep you rappers seas shore
I'm great in my own greatness what I need to compete for
Leroy kno I shonuff
I'm like Bruce Leroy with the Mic an dey Nunchucks
**** Ghostwriters ima Ghostbuster
My ghostwriter ain't even been discovered
Ha my spirit even more structured
So now you know who write these
See my spirit my Siamese
But I ain't Chinese
I wipe off blood on the Mic with a handkerchief
See I'm an endangered species
I'm rare only a few breeds of mine that ain't extinct
A TRIBE of mine an us them don't synch
It ain't a jinx
Never will I try to create a hybrid with these creatures
We could never have the same features
Being rare is much more easier
To be in this wildlife
I'm like how an lion would write
I hate the darkness cause I'm the son of the light
Jane Doe  May 2014
Haircuts
Jane Doe May 2014
I hate haircuts
calling and asking if they can take a walk in
trying to decipher the woman's thick accent
going into the store
empty desolate
a man behind the counter
looking up lazily from his magazine
his monotone voice
asking if I have an appointment
he tells me to sit in the chair
asks what I "plan to do"
"with life?"
"no, with your hair"
because right now my hair is more important than my existence
I hate having him touch my hair
and the faces he makes at the split ends
I hate his fingers brushing against my cheek
and seeing the Hot Cheeto evidence
on his thumb and forefinger
Ellen is on one TV
Arthur is on the other
a little Chinese girl
running around the store
asking for her phone
phone?!
she can't be older than 4
and she is asking for HER phone
the man doing my hair
gives it to her
I look at his paper license at his station
memorize the spelling of his name
look at the party streamers on the walls
the broken baseboards
the edges of the wall
that the paint couldn't reach
I hate as he tries to make conversation
asking where I go to school
what my plans are for the weekend
monotone
monotone
monotone
looking at my reflection in the mirror
not looking at him cutting my hair
I notice the grease on my nose
how poorly I filled in my eyebrows
I get sick of my reflection and look back at the baseboards
finally he is done
he blows the hot air of the dryer in my face
I cringe
he shakes out the apron and I look at the floor
I am on the floor
my DNA
everywhere
I pay and he spends 15 minutes looking for change
touching my hair as I leave
touching it in the car
touching it at dinner
I hate haircuts
Serendipity  Jan 2019
Cheeto dust
Serendipity Jan 2019
I reminisce in the days my knuckles
weren't covered in blood,
but Cheeto dust.

On the run from myself,
disguises a face I no longer recognize
staring back at me
in the
mirror.

Black clothes were gothic
rather than mandatory.

Moonshine was the way the sky looked,
not a drink.

Innocence is held most dearly by those who no longer own it.

Children do not know what they have lost
until it is gone.
Object permanence fun,
not a problem.


Cheeto dust,
finger licking,
orange not red.

orange not red.

orange

not




R                            E                            D.


An unsettling sort of ending, childhood,
you can't pinpoint an end nor a beginning.










Hey, at least it was fun while it lasted.

— The End —