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Steele Dec 2015
Let these creaking bodies play
the melodies of lust and test
my mettle upon the metal grey
and cold upon this weary chest.
I knew those lips would tear away
that skin, and those eyes my heart infest.
I knew my mind had gone astray
when I realized I knew who knew me best.
And her lips tasted like metal
And she boiled my emotions in a kettle
And she played lines on my chest like treble
and bass notes rose from my throat
and those lips sung slashes for the rest.
Banana Nov 2015
For me to be alive I must eat.
For me to eat, things have to die,
And for what?--
An existence I can't even justify.
Cat Fiske Oct 2015
I ate a whole thing of oreos in front of you,
and then,
*I ate another.
i am thinking he does hate me or is repulsed.
ICN Oct 2015
Some days
It's as if I can't process emotion.
My heart is dying of starvation

Other days**
It's as if I can't stop feeling everything.
It's as if I'm full but can't stop eating.

And I have no idea what I'll do if this carries on
//probably just ride it out\\
Yume Blade Sep 2015
A finger in my mouth
A nail between my teeth

Am I worried ?
or
Am I stressed ?


A sound came to my ear
A sound of something breakin'

Am I breaking my nail ?
or
Am I eating it ?


No , I'm not
I'm just anxious
I'm just worried
I'm just stress

Anxious about him
Worried about what he's doin'
Stressed about what he thinks about.
about what he's doing without me
.
.
.
he needs me & he knew it.
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Yogurt.
"I begin the day buying yogurt in a small favorite grocery store."
Not pizza, nor gatorade.

Bananas
although they are imported from afar and grown in monocultures.
Attract fruit flies in August.

Peaches
locally grown with rainwater. I ate all the farmer's peaches alone
stacking them by the railroad tracks.

Water --
rainwater, tap water, distilled water, carbonated water, spring water –--
deep gulps, infinite sips.

Nuts
in moderation, or not, unsalted, raw, replacing chips. His bowl
of filberts, almonds, walnuts quiet weekday mornings.

Edible plant parts --
roots, leaves, stems, flowers, fruit, buds. In olive oil
or butter.

Potatoes --
look online how best to prepare. Baked or fried. With a little
fish or meat.

Tea and honey,
play and prayer. Swimming and running,
talking quietly.

Bread?
Bread's possible as the Bible. Each is liable
to bloat us.

Wine and dandelions.
Dandelion wine's Ray Bradbury's story. Cans in a pantry, books on a
      shelf
to the end of time.

Pasta
we used to call spaghetti, never noodles. I wonder if I can remember
      how to make
grandma's sauce.

Tomatoes --
cherry, grape. Grab God's eye
going by.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Amy H Jul 2015
The words are a playground,
no bell to call me in.
And wander I must
past fences, over grasses verdant
finding trees that take words
and split them like branches.
I eat the apples
leaving some of me behind along the way.
I am a constant poet.

If every morning that began with words in mind prompted a new poem, then I'd be a constant poet.  Like this morning, would have been a bit about gerunds and how you just shouldn't gerundize some nouns because it isn't right.  And then some are right but not because the connotation of the word or context remains the same.  Take pan and paning, for example.  One is breakfast and the other in film.  But anyway, if I'm allowed to not make sense often then perhaps I am a constant poet.  I asked the question, "Why is the expression take a ****?  Taking isn't what we do..." Perhaps the language affords us  many luxuries of interpretation that forgive literal correctness and rules.  Like writing a paragraph of prose for Hello Poetry.  But maybe we are here because we question the limits and take the license and more.  The words become a playground, not a chore.  Yes that's it!  My morning meandering leads to a single poetic thought.

The words are a playground,
no bell to call me in.
And wander I must
past fences, over grasses verdant
finding trees that take words
and split them like branches.
I eat the apples
leaving some of me behind along the way.
I am a constant poet.
Rambling.  Nothing but a rambling.  But I kinda like it.
Listen to Constant Poet, poem by Amy Hilton 4 #np on #SoundCloud
http://soundcloud.com/amy-hilton-4/constant-poet-poem
theblndskr Jul 2015
I'd slay that soul through poisoned words
But all I do is devour alone.
You left a hole in this bone
That I can write no more.
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