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Kamblamian Apr 2015
I Hate you so.
Passion I feel.
I'll unwind you like bent steal.
I'll complain the whole time...

I'M no superwoman but I will be fine.

Unless you morph.  
Comorbidity would make you worse.
So, I'll focus on a hearse...
Anxiety, you could take me there if I let you.  
Your no depression- I'd never let you...
Many roots tangled so-
Still a solid foundation...(...)
Vacation?
I am only human anxiety is what I feel. Anxiety about who in this world is "real"
ahmo Feb 2015
Understand that where there is the tenebrific,
there is the lambent.
Their comorbidity is rampant.
But if you think luminosity is dead and gone,
we'll show you the love to go on.
Satsih Verma Sep 2021
The sword hangs. You
will not scream. There was stigma.
No style. I think. Let it go.

What magic. There
was huge money in asylum. Golden
eagle. Comorbidity. Black fungus.

Is it possible to find
human, who lives beyond himself?
Where is the truth? The poem says in me.
Onoma Aug 2024
an occulted mass kicking at light gone
a moment ago, as if in a sooty stomach,
maleficent enough to deliver the unborn.
cries that vent down a lengthening
hallway--abandoned to what forces open
an original wakefulness.
the way knowing you becomes a cryptic
comorbidity, a walk of shame every morning--
a slathered nausea, too smooth for sickness.
tons of traumatized flesh recanting vulnerability,
(mostly yours) long after a bed became a
one-sided argument.
seasons regard you with braindead gossip: 'is that
her again, she still exists--she always thinks
something's off, it's the landfill of personal stuff she
compulsively goes through. '
a nonstop pause for Jane, her yoyoing edge--a highly
inconspicuous center of attention, captured in photos
superficially waving off the fuss.
a hyperalert shutdown, Cinderella's carriage to pumpkin
developing acne vulgaris, sloppily tripping with eyes
caked on her.
angsty & unrestorable disconnects--daring selectees to
root out a fantastic despiser.
tender years designating the world as an apologist.
a chronic sense of entitlement winks out, already 
elsewhere--as if nothing ever happens.
then happens all at once, a fluorescently lit bathroom
unsparing an in-your-face ugliness.
galatella Oct 2024
***
Blood. Red revolution
hero her narrator
invented the derailer
for the train spinning in spirals
driving in loops.
I can still see the looping point.

World-ending catastrophes, world wars,
crises,
had become cliche.
there were only personal tragedies
shovelled onto rows and rows of dingies.
I ******* love statistics, I'll throw myself in too.

Dear.
Hug your plushies.

she's too **** kind.
who am I to speak,
a passive dead partisan
who never even was with the front
against an empire of evil ready to **** us both
with comorbidity of another ******* spiral
a victim in a roomfull of monsters
unfortunately too weak to die
with icons of a hero.

I hugged her plush. It was ergonomic.
2024-05-20

— The End —