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Sudzedrebel Apr 16
Meal's on you, ace.
Meals of you, ace.
As just but a deck of cards
Among tables of strung-out gamblers;
What's blackjack to a game of craps?
Suppose it's a matter
Of the rules of the sitting chaps,
Though I've never seen drunks wetter.
It's innumerable cards of the same face,
For each is but another portrait of indifference.
It's innumerable dealers of the same things,
For each is closer in similarity than farther in dissension.

To love to play
Is not the same as a play of love.

Yet, to make life a game
Is not the same as the "game" of life itself.
Jeremy Betts Dec 2023
I'm not in a good place, it's written all over my face with a permanence I can not erase
The ace up my sleeve turned out to be a joker with my super imposed face
Lost in the twisted maze that is my head space, I'd chase the cheese but it'd be a waste
Fear infused with a terror base so potent you swear it almost has a taste
The dark haze of my past short circuits any new interface
Filled with a technology way out of date but never had the means to replace
I watch the life I thought I'd be a part of race by at a dizzy pace
But it always made time to come back 'round and knock the taste out my mouth like 808 base
Then leaves post haste without a trace before catchin' a case
Just one more missing personality cold case, chalk it up to another looser fallen from grace
They say to pick yourself up by you boot straps, I'm always breakin' the shoe lace
Bet they didn't think I'd use the bootlace to replace the slipknot necklace I misplaced
The bright young man with aspersions worth the chase now incased in blue skin wearing deaths face

©2023
Mark Toney Sep 2021
Ace
rocket power serve
up the T on the deuce side
~ point of no return




Mark Toney © 2021
9/26/2021 - Poetry form: Haiku (for you) - Mark Toney © 2021
Juno Apr 2021
These poems I write, they’re my escape,
though from what I do not know.
My troubles seem to evaporate
the moment I let them show.

I write about love, which is ironic
because I’ve never had a lover.
I used to think maybe I was sick;
for I’ve never longed for one either.

I write about death when I’m feeling down
so I can cry to something new,
but thinking to when I lost real tears,
maybe they weren’t mine to lose.

Even now as I write this down
- my headphones on but paused -
I wonder where my motives are bound,
for I always feel like a fraud.
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