The Corrosion by Christopher Hivner
No Simple Night by wiredwriter
The sound of waves
water in the bed drowningout my cries a dream
of you something dreamtare you here no answer
I pretend you are I feelyour hand it grips me
silent
This Is The Poem by Sarah E. Alderman
This is the poem that goes nowhere that has no point or meaning
But you’ll keep reading either a glutton
For punishment or far too curious to stop
Hoping I will write something worth reading
Or something that will change your life
I won’t
This won’t
These words are cheap and don’t you forget
That I am the neurotic mess others have nightmares of becoming
I am the girl who falls in heels and drops red sauce on white dresses
The one who disappoints her father and forgets to say her prayers
And can’t remember a time when she’s took a chance on anything
Didn’t procrastinate on a project or had the guts to stand up for herself
These are not confessions only facts
And this is not the poem
That absolves my neuroses, sins, and mistakes
And tells other girls what to do if they were in my place
Because I am the girl who doesn’t mingle at a party
Or wait until the third date for sex
And this is not the girl and these are not the words
And this is not the time nor place to explore
Flaws, weaknesses, or emotions
Because this is not the poem
SAVIORS by Emily Smith-Miller
duct tape on my mouth
the lace curtain is drawn
and we might lose everything we ever had
today the plaster will keep me from crying
did they get lost while you were away
when you couldn’t find your way
couldn’t be around
tell them why you like the taste of poison better
than love in a saucer
puddle blue eyes keep brimming over
wrinkled skin reaching out
to hold the little girl
she’s gone
in dark eye shadow arms
heels with teeth
cards written in crayon for a birthday
that will never come
white walls will sing you to sleep
and she used to keep you safe
grown up doesn’t mean
grown strong
losing us all
woman who guarded
so weak frail lovely her strength was your soul
and she’s drowning with the icebergs
the death of a glacier in her irises
you never know love in another’s arms
like the person who would lay down
train track rumble
i never forgot
forgive me
selfish things
selfish ink
brutal moments of absence
I look in you now and see me
the way i should be
is there still time to take that dream
run to the edge of the earth with it
hold it protect it
create it
love me still
sing for me while I’m sick
bringing me back from the brink
mending my wounds
and she’s still crying
what is love if it can’t save us both
save us right now
in this vast ocean of misgiving and madness
hold tight
float together
be who you were always supposed to be
each other’s savior
More of Emily Smith Miller can be found on her website, Dead End Emily.
Going On by wiredwriter
She walked into the room and in
Ten minutes we were talking
About ghosts that stand at the
Feet of beds like lonely wives
Who stand in corners crying
Or like fathers who lost their
Mothers or like someone who…
She stopped
Our mouths by ordering a drink
Then walked back out
Never giving me anything to go on.
Checking in. by Misti Rainwater-Lites
"Maude" is on the suspended television.
There are cracks in the leather chairs.
This house is made of bricks.
I've got candy bars in my purse,
farewell get well soon gifts from my husband.
He sits beside me reading one of his Mars books.
I keep apologizing.
He has to work in the morning.
"It isn't right. You've done all the work," I tell him.
He has done most of the work
these six long years.
I have slept painted written writhed
played the role of broken bitch
well beyond the fix of steadfast love.
"Three's Company."
A dead audience laughs at Chrissy Snow.
I tell the counselor I keep thinking of the oven.
He looks like my first husband, bland and pretty.
He's of no use.
There's a commercial for a new kitchen time saver.
The skinny teenager on the couch mutters his disgust.
"Peeling eggs is the best part of Thanksgiving!"
At some point, probably during "The Ropers,"
I start sobbing.
I want to leave.
I'm sorry for my husband.
Sorry for the hours.
Sorry for everything I am and will continue to be.
I want sex, fresh sex, the easy fix
as substantive as cotton candy
on the tongue.
Only in the throes of orgasm
am I less me more it.
Meat. Plant. Divine.
I cannot even kiss my husband.
I do not miss his snuggle.
He pats my back, tells me I'll feel better soon.
Then "Sanford and Son" comes on
and I laugh out loud against my wishes.
This used to be our show.
Octopus by Mark Waldrop
Sometimes I think there's an octopus in my stomach.
In the mornings it stretches and droops its lazy head to one side —
It suctions its tentacles to the walls of my belly and pulls them together forcing me
To gag, and vomit what we didn't digest of the chicken from
Last night.
Sometimes I think the octopus has a roommate.
I wonder if they will fight, like roommates do;
Or like warriors for territory.
Maybe they will kill each other, or maybe
The octopus will destroy the other and then I
Won't need to have this abortion.
by wiredwriter
If she could rip his guts out she would. But he just stood there, that dumbfuck look on his face, his hands in his pockets. He didn’t know what to do with himself. She had to do everything. When she sucked his cock he remained quiet, as if she was sucking off a mannequin. What was wrong with him? They finished with their bags, those plastic things that supposedly are good for the environment, then left the store with food for the night. Food my ass, she thought, walking alongside him. He said nothing all the way back. They ate, watched their television then went to bed, where all that happened was what she expected. They were fed but she was still hungry. His cock was never enough for anything. Food my ass.
