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Boy do I have a Grumpy Gift for you…

Not only do I love writing but I also enjoy reading. So many of the amazing things I read are enjoyed by so few, as not every literary marvel is also a marketing mogul. It’s this, i care to share most.

Imagination is the reality of the dreamer.

— Scott Ringenbach.

Stay tuned, and keep on orbiting those moons.

Poem that Refuses to Shoot Itself in the Head —MP Powers

Here I am. Beergut, oyster
sauce on my t-shirt, pantlegs
twisted
into corkscrews.

I am the poem
no one wants.

I have been rejected
from 17 blogzines,
5 of them fledgling,
and not once with anything
but
a lousy-arse
form letter.

All I have been treated
with is apathy, all those smug
& coddled
editor
lemmings
turning their noses up at me
while they sit all day
on social media
exchanging hamburger
GIFS
and jerking each other off.

What do they know about Oliver
Wendell Holmes?
What do they know about anything?

Nothing,
I tell ya.

And yet it never gets easier
reading
those first words: Unfortunately,
this just
isn’t the right fit…

Yeah, yeah.

Why don’t
you
eat
shit?

I don’t give a donkey’s
dick
about your pantywaist
aesthetic.

I am my own aesthetic.
I am the poem that refuses to quit.

Standing in the howling
winds,
my fly unzipped
the wart on my chin
with
3 goodsized
black hairs sprouting
from it.

Try me.

Don’t give up. Ever. MP Powers

Hair Tied Up in Madness —Marysa Writes

My hair is a prelude to my mental illness,
an introduction to the dissatisfaction with stability within me;

The first time I ever dyed my hair, I was sixteen,
a peak in the development, rather lack thereof;
my brain once a high-functioning factory,
now a run-down fun house,
cracked mirrors replacing every assembly line
that used to cycle through its daily quota.

The last time I dyed my hair,
it was just a month after cutting away a weathered ceiling,
dipping and bowing against the weight
of years drowned in this disorderly environment.
The sight of the goldengrass speckled chunks falling
to an unkept, unswept floor, sent shockwaves
down my spine, leaving behind a buzzing sensation
of power that having control over change contains.

But now, I plan to let my hair grow natural;
I’ve lived in the looney bin for as long as I can remember,
and despite the wallpaper being molded,
and the ground not being made of marbled granite,
it is a place I’ve found comfort in, a home with hope;
There are renovations to be had, new memories to be made,
and aspirations to attain.

Without revealing too much —Marysa Writes

The Weather Inside My Mind —Intellectual Shaman

the weather inside my mind

changes

like fair Easterlies

until islands of bad energy

consume my soul

and soul-sucking tasks get done

effortlessly

my creativity loves chaos

and so, cleaning closes my mind

forcing a new direction

with artificial power

unwilling to allow a mess.

I’m making the waves

as my universe shuts down

until the big bang

Where did this energy come from?

the point of no return

wasn’t there a second ago

and this chaos must be ridden

hopefully, it rolls for thousands of miles

sprinkling sand

like ideas

under a noble sunset

that smiles

until the darkness

goes down.

intellectualshaman.wordpress.com

Where the White Wolves Dance —Scott Andrew Bailey

By Scott Bailey © 2014

A ring of solid light
Hovers just above the ground
Spinning with infinity
Casts glamour all around
This is
Where the white wolves dance

It is said the be the child
Of the seed of forbidden fruit
Born from secret knowledge
Found on a hidden a hidden route
Around it
The white wolves still dance

The colour pulses wild
Blue, silver and pure white
Dragging hearts round and round
Beneath the starlit night
And so
On the white wolves dance

In a time-worn trench, they dance
Circling below the light
So deep the light they cannot see
The circle is out of sight
Yet still
On the white wolves dance

The circle has been burnt
Into their very eyes
So while the dark wolf dreams
And while the dear time flies
Onwards
The white wolves dance.

So high upon their mountain
On an island on a lake
Isolated and secure from
The world they do forsake
This is
Where the white wolves dance

scottandrewbailey.com

Branches —Emotional Notions

We sit and talk 
as you begin to explain, 
all of your brokenness
from whence it began.

I silently listen
and don’t interrupt.
I feel of it’s essence
your beauty of now.

For it all has formed you
the way you should be,
for no one escapes 
the brokenness tree.

©EN, All Rights Reserved

emotionalnotions.wordpress.com

Silhouette — Shubhangi Rawat

To my confidant,

Ever since I’m in abyss with my thoughts, I’ve conceded this fact that I’m anonymous to many and familiar to none.

I’ve been on hiatus for a while. Sometimes, I’m not able to retrieve the exact impression of you but I’m quite tenacious to your distant apparition, and these memories that I’m left with.

The entanglement of my beliefs are transcending over the analytical ability of my mind. There are times, when my sentiments makes my words wander and push me in an obnoxious state.

You once told me that adaptation is a skill of the survivor, who has a foresight of speculating the surface and moulding himself accordingly. I believe, we’re all survivors of our own doom and some of us are still scratching walls of hell just to crawl out of that void.

In the depths of this contrasting segment, I’m still researching about the variations in your words again.

I’ve always admired your intellect. Maybe that’s why I’m acquainted with my past. Your guidance is bestowed upon me, which now, I’ll carry forward, as a legacy through my words.

Your disciple,

Shubhangi Rawat

The Quiet Spirit —Ancient Skies

The quiet spirit carries a sense of oceans running within,

unlimited beauty

yet peaceful and confident,

expecting even stronger poems

hidden within,

the restoration

and rest.

Ancient Skies

Poem, and Image, Copyright © 2020 ancient skies

NaPoWriMo 12 April 2019 —Poetry TAT

most bridges don’t naturally burn
usually they just collapse
under the weight of
their own situation
or some human
pressing

The Poetry Teaching Artist Training Project is quite confusing to follow. And I have not found poetry posted since April 2019. Or even how to navigate the sight to find poetry. 😣