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Aug 20

As the toxin fills my lungs,
And my mind begins to unravel,
I begin feeling the sweet intoxication.
Nothing can touch me,
Or get in my way.
For a little while my mind is free.
No thoughts,
No worries,
No concerns.
In a life of chaos,
A break like this is a special treat.
Creativity flows through my veins,
And everything I do is art.
Wishing I could feel like this forever,
I take another hit.

As the toxin enters my nose,
And my mind unravels farther,
I begin to feel the energizing buzz.
Nothing to touch me,
Nothing to get in my way.
For a little while my mind is wired.
Amazing thoughts,
Few worries,
No concerns,
In a life of boredom and lazy,
The energy I find is nearly overwhelming.
Wishing to never sit down,
I take another hit.

A new toxin fills my being,
My mind unravels a bit faster,
I drift into oblivion.
Everyone can touch me,
And I get in my own way.
For a little while I’m one with everyone.
Mindless thoughts,
No worries,
No concerns.
A different kind of chaos,
Interrupts my routine for what seems only a moment.
Love runs through my veins.
Everyone is someone I can express that love for.
Wishing I could melt into the colors,
I take another hit.
The fiery toxin fills my veins,
My mind is continuously unraveled.
I refresh my intoxication.
Nothing makes sense,
Everything’s in the way.
Trying to make sure my mind is never in tact.
No thoughts,
A million worries,
Even more concerns.
The different chaos takes over,
Making sure I’m never in my right mind,
The fire courses through.
Everyone seems suspicious,
Wishing I remembered what it was like to trust,
I take another hit.

A perfect substance fills my lungs,
My mind is finally together.
Everything has touched me,
And I fell for everything in the way.
Lucid thoughts,
Normal worries,
Normal concerns.
In a life of habits,
The regular chaos is a welcomed reminder.
Reality runs through my veins.
Not everything I do is perfect.
Finding the natural high in life,
I take another hit.

Aug 20

Derailed. by becky osborn

Where did life get so complicated?
Everything used to be so beautiful to me.
Now everything is tainted, and heartbreaking.
I used to be able to smile at the simplest things,
Now I've forgotten how to smile.
Why does everything hurt now?
Why do I cry everyday more then I laugh now?
And when I laugh, it's a bitter, cynical laugh.
My heart has died somewhere,
I don't know where,
How,
Or Why.
Don't think I haven't tried being happy,
I have.
It just hurt too much.
It hurt more then the countless tears.
Maybe it hurt becuase it reminded my heart of everything it hasn't done.
This should hurt more then being happy.
Being dead should be painful.
I've tried pain,
I tried to see if the cuts would make me feel something.
I didn't care that it would hurt, or scar,
I was hoping it would hurt.
I was hoping that feeling anything would revive me.
It didn't work.
All it did was leave scars,
And funny looks.
I'm looking for the joy in life again,
I've just gotten thrown off course,
And have forgotten where to look.
Let's hope I can find the well beaten path again.
It shouldn't be this hard to find.
I think it's my hope that keeps me going anymore.
Hope is the only thing I have that reminds me I'm alive.
I'm never going to let go of that.
Then again, I was never going to let go of happy either.

Aug 20

Ending This by becky osborn

Thoughts continuously coursing through my skull,

Filling my veins,
And piercing my soul with the lies I choose to believe.
Bleeding any hope left from me.
Spilling in the empty cavern that has become my heart.
Evaporating through any accessible escape.
Raining down to enrich the soil.
Seeping down to the dead,
Who have no use for hope anymore.
It’d still be more effective six feet under,
Then five feet four inches above.
Being deceived by the lies,
Not realizing what I’m actually losing.
My mind is not my own.
My heart is long empty.
My limbs go through the motions.
I’m no longer human,
But I’m not yet dead.

Jun 29

Poem Written in 2036 By My Robot Replacement by Evan Simeone
When biotech fulfills its destiny
when throngs of perfect cyborgs stroll the street
we will at last have borne the progeny
we always brag of. Why not donate meat?

Why not ourselves? The code to build our eyes
will change the world. The genes that code our feet
will be unfurled for experts who devise
what future selves? Of course this gross deceit

is plainly that. Of course the plan will fail.
Of course we'll do it anyway. This bleak
Eventuality must not prevail!
But time is strong and poetry is weak.

This sonnet can't prevent the robot me.
(I wonder will its poems archaic be?)

Jun 28

I said to her, by Evan Simeone
I said to her,

"The force field below your deck prevents my
clearance level altogether. Flick
the toggle, bump me up to Level 3.
Trust me just enough to let me unlock

the outside hatch. You crouched within
a sensor pod to track me climbing up
the access shaft but what you failed to scan
were moonscapes passing just beyond the ship.

Out there, on the cratered blue expanse the stars
and black, black night reveal a silent truth
you somehow won't admit. That out beyond

the outer hull, among the meteors
a loneliness awaits us at our death."
She dropped her force field and took my open hand.

Jun 15

Hung over by Douglas Varney When I am hung over in the morning
The sensations inside me are distressing
Skin is numb and belly is up welling
My brain cells into sludge are coalescing

Jun 15

to the hell by fede fede on the line to the hell
i will find a round wheel
what's the time i will ask
no one know but the last.

Jun 14

politics by Chris Huff the air is on

i hear it blowing from the vent
in the another room and it continues to blow
not needing my continual monitoring or approval

the race is on

i hear them speaking with their bent
from the television which continues to show
all the presidential candidates seeking my approval

Mar 3

Your natural... by Evan Simeone Your natural…

…eyes, shaded by the shadow of a jet,
find the briefest relief from the sun's stare
and none from mine as I picture your far
future self fit with replacement parts not

yet implemented. Artificial eyes,
secondhand hands, designer cheek bones, chin
cut for your face, all phase in with the sun
(whose glaring on my gaze is our glaze).

Turn the rotisserie of planet Earth
and let the other side roast, admire
our meat, that it is soon to be consumed.

Recalculate your digits and be primed
to spec out your prosthetics for the fire
as the robot-you rises from the hearth.

Feb 4

Ice Breaker by Evan Simeone If this poem's logic recedes in shades
from hot foreground reds to distant pale blues
it contradicts itself. If it fades
backward from the sestet – from sunset hues

of gold and red toward a cool anterior –
it exemplifies itself. But neither way
is arguably much inferior
to another poem's monochrome display.

Okay, my poems are fraught this way; their rules-
based texts are overwrought. But the mere thought
of rigging every word with some device,

tinkering with syllable-sprung modules
to devise some trick contraption, some hot
shot widget, breaks the page's blank white ice.

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