The Ditraction, S
To make you a word,
UN repulsive, soft alive,
sharp to cut, blush to rush, is experiment's,
half of life.
To holds you still, pinned as emo, boy, girl
cutting around up down, while the mirror,
calls your name.
You, ..your rose it's softness unconfined
in silks plush, cupped breath of hand,
you are it's name, it is what..tell me?
You Sir: chained to the wall, gagged muffled,
it's she, hears you SOB uncontrollably, as she in black
leather lays it on again, it's more again, than not.
It's OJ that you run our town, after all we golf together.
Disruptions, pour mad T.V..unremitances, eruptions
controlled guided, on preachers court, our time rushes
in on one last glorious,
round of applause, you know,
your show must go on, without pause.
Remember to smile at the usher, crushed verve's is back..
poem by Is It Poetry
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The Hand That Rocks The Craddle Pink
Pink used to be the preferred color for boys.
Clouds of white for girls.
The cradle... optimistically oufitted in pink,
is the color for boys, that for a girl being true blue.
Blue) a Virgin’s color (
used once for girls and pink for boys tossed out.
Pink, is as a shade of red
was considered masculine it is a “fierce color”
while blue is frilly and decidedly delicate.
Reason goes is that pink being more a decided
and stronger color is more suitable for the boy,
while blue,
which is more delicate and dainty, is a prettier fop
than poor the toiling girl.
Boys in pink.
Blue girls and is quite tamed in us famous,
but she also has a less known work called,
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poem by Is It Poetry
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Robert the Bruce
Meditation you and to it barges are pulled out parades
and mediate your purple reigned will
shrouded too you comes the effervescent rain
and glands alive deep inside
the brain one half or to your it's other
live and let live but to die
far a slice of English pie, curried in favor
the sun when it rises the hill covered top
full with, 'Robert the Bruce she keeps full with snow
when it melts whom but the keeper must know
and i will but a will made of old yellow paper
and roads well known when I changed
and lines drawn out not in sand but in minds
are they kept as the tide moving out can come in
is more land made thus simple with machines
and sea walls of dark stone where none there were
mixed with shell and cypress for color
and purple thick cedar is Caesars a barge
where it rests it is marked, marked naught the sea.
as Sara, her gown how it glows................
poem by Is It Poetry
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Sexual Attraction
At the hospital where he works.
Speaking he can convey,
with the ninety two year old corpse.
Mirrors every where warm trees cold bushes.
92 leaves speaking she shakes it only for him.
Bony old woman no ham.
After finding the light corpse
he checks the cotton on the rigid smile if it was.
Ninety two years old where you are detained.
You can hear the limbs cracking as the corpse gives.
Turned over on it's belly I seem like observer.
There is no sound commonly appreciated with sucking noises.
It was the very first time,
I had ever seen a shoe horn used on the moon.
Except for the golf swing by Shepard.
Brutal crimes on the dead better I think than on the living, still.
The family has a long history of patients and of those.
Emphatic and it has resonated a cord completely.
Watching him talk as if and it is somber fearfully.
You read to late it written before he came a dying declaration.
poem by Is It Poetry
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Treatment-Resistant Depression
I have been treated for depression
but my symptoms have as yet to improve me.
I think,
I may have have treatment-resistant depression.
Taking an antidepressant or going through
all of that psychological counseling.
What (psychotherapy) puts me through,
I am ill at ease
then comes some latter I date your depression.
Unlike most people
whom for not most if not all are such people.
This treatment for treatment-resistant depression.
When standard treatment was never enough.
Flakes of snow leave white claws and dark marks.
Before I was born
and the world knew dark matter,
I was left such like you to ponder it all in depression.
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poem by Is It Poetry
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Piles Of Half-shells
while watching and we all have
and all will
why do most deny it.
weather it is this or that.
climbing trees untill the
very tops
even if the vines
around it
take you out of your way
you feel it in the tree
right before.
even if the first few climbs
result in
and or catch you off guard.
tree or vine symbiotic
host or hostess
one or the other as the
fingers clutch
at each nook and cranny.
some times forcing an early
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poem by Is It Poetry
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Death Married Death In Death
Death looks at a flower, screaming I am beautiful
look here I am, come eat me, alone.
Death hovers, smiling, never waiting, walking always
by, knowing that,
any thing that touches it will also soon, never die.
Death is love, love is death, why are you both, death
is your pet pink pig, and two flying pearls.
Death is a dry cracked nipple, sleeping, holding on
to the flesh untill it falls off.
Death is a bullet fixed, never moving, why does the
world move you through it.
Death is a voice always quite, sounding alarms to
walk across the street knowing you look while you
come running.
Death is a woman, who is crazy, thinking the world is
spinning into her coffee.
Death to all men who think they can save the woman
by marring death and eating her sandwich.
Death fingered you, you loved it, now you finger me,
leaving my bee exposed on the flower, you buzzed.
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poem by Is It Poetry
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Full Lips That Kiss
it is cold tonight
and it was only our good fortune
that let me find this place for us to sleep
and blankets and i have your warm breasts
and you brought other friends that you say
need to be made full as well
knowing i have a special fondness for soft ever growing
bellies filled thus with mine and free milk
though it works i know both ways and you have told them
that it takes much, much more for me to give out to they
and while i sleep it flows how like rivers it all flows
and such are the lips in need that one never feels them
as they move with such firm purpose and while one
holds the stones and the other squeezes one then
the other untill it is made freely thus
and already i have many soft bellies filled thus and some
few their milk is sweeter but i say nothing as preferably
and i sleep now with my belly full of rich milk as they forage
furring the day..and life is as it once was and as it should be
and hard ship all around us
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poem by Is It Poetry
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Death 'married' Death To Death
Death looks at a flower and you screaming,
I am beautiful, look, look..
look here I am, come and eat me, alive.
Death hovers, smiling, never waiting, walking always
walking by, walking in side, you knowing that,
any thing that touches, it will soon also, come to *sigh*.
Death is love, love is death, what are you both, death
is your pet pink pig and deaths two flying bagged pearls.
Slapping you for ever and ever about your red face.
Death is a dry cracked nipple, sleeping, holding on
to the flesh untill it falls off, still dripping.
Death is a bullet fixed, never moving, why does the
world move you through it.
Death is a voice always quite, sounding alarms to
walk across the street knowing you look both ways,
while you come running very quickly out across,
just to stop in the middle and wait.
Death is a woman, who is crazy, thinking the world is
spinning into her coffee.
Death to all men who think they can save each woman
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poem by Is It Poetry
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Death' is when 'You' milk 'It
'Death' is when 'You' milk 'It' and milk it, milked
and you drive it, forever and ever,
upward and upward and never down ward, insane.
Death is two silky hands covered in hot burning oil,
that start at the base and death loves to covers each lamp.
While the flame burns inside the brown paper bag exposed.
Pushing death deep without compassion through the pale
full moon, as death walks around, ignoring your cries.
Heaven for death and coming so close to death you find.
Death makes you come over to your friends house once
again, in your mind while those pearls in the bag,
are laid up on the shelf that you share, with deaths pink pig.
Death moves both horns closer, driven unforgiving together,
one here and one there, ever closer, untiring you are laid out as art.
Death knows when the sky is on fire, say it again and again.
Death and truth, death is like an epileptic seizure,
when more than those silky soft hands,
never moved all the way down,
and a river of hot molten 'death' sprays,
in your hair each black day.
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poem by Is It Poetry
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