This is life. What can we do?

Everyone says life is short, but that's absolutely not true, because living this life is the longest thing that you will ever do.

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Years ago my mother used to say to me, she’d say, “In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.” Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.
Elwood P. Dowd (Harvey)

Filed under harvey elwood p. dowd james stewart

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She said.

She said she prayed for me,

That once the sun went down,

She got on her knees and pleaded with the sky for me,

She said she worried for me, like a sword swallower’s mother,

She said she cried for me, like the best friend of a criminal,

She said she couldn’t sleep because of me,

She said she stayed up all night calling hospitals because she missed me,

But she said she never waited for me,

She never set a place at the table for someone who was never coming home,

She said it was because she knew me.

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They fill their hollow chests with hundred dollar bills.

  • Macklemore rips off Le1f:



  • Miley rips off Lil Deb:

(even paid Lil Debs’ dancers to dance for her instead)


Lil Deb:

  • Shia rips off Daniel Clowes.

Yea, lets keep on paying the liars and crooks to be our kings and queens.

Don’t worship false talent, even more so stop turning cheeks to false humanity.

Celebrity is disgusting.

Filed under macklemore thrift shop le1f lil deb miley miley cyrus twerk wut ratchet liars ryan lewis

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Phantom Limb Pains: Rectification

I listened to stories from empty men about tingling stubs that used to be limbs, about nightmares of having arms and legs, about the pain that appears when a piece of you is ripped away, when so much goes missing you can’t recognize your reflection anymore, someone else’s hands and feet nailed to you bedroom floor, empty spaces replacing shaky knees, straps and braces replacing bones and veins, phantom whispers where hardened palms used to be,

I listened to ghosts talk about men and I wondered if all along I was just your missing limb, if I was just a piece of you that was torn away, just a part of you someone else had already claimed,  just an arm or leg, something without a face, without a heart or a head, I wondered if all along you would have been better off dead, better off never having met me at all, better off without me rattling your closet door,

I never wanted to be your ghost, especially one that found a home in your bones, I didn’t want to be the foot on your chest, I never set out to be your phantom limb pains, I had full intentions of a clean break, but you opened your arms and I built four walls and a roof, and when the storms rolled in, I brought in a wrecking crew,

You built a monument there in that space, you built a tombstone for me, a standing grave in time for your first missing leg, you light candles for your hollow chest and I stay awake all night giving away everything I took with me,

You can’t walk away from a missing limb, you can’t fill a hollow chests with paper mache organs, there’s no refilling a broken glass, and now I have no intentions of coming back, I left you glue on the bedside table, and I drew a map on your bedroom floor, I hope you figure out how to put your self back together, I put all the pieces I took in bottles and dropped them in the nearest ocean, I don’t know if they’ll get to you, but there’s no point in both of us being broken.


Your missing leg

Filed under ghost men bones paper mache organs team no sleep slam poem slam poetry writing phantom limb nightmare closet wrecking crew wrecking

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No remnants of the young, wild girl in your head,

because she will be alive and well, and then she’ll be dead.

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Hearts Capable of Tidal waves.

Chasing time like a dog off the leash, carrying my mistakes in a house sat on my shoulders, four walls I built from the ground up in my head, carving the word home into every doorway, leaning planks of splintering wood against each other, a house of cards built with water stained jokers, a million dominoes on Californian fault lines, a glass house carved out of clay hills, balancing pretty plates on bamboo sticks, bending and swaying under the weight, it’s organized chaos, liquid tornadoes in plastic bottles, child’s play in the most dangerous of ways, stumbling through life like a drunk girl in heels, looking like Bambi learning how to walk, slipping on the ice, skidding in the rain, it’s sharp corners, and dead ends and brick walls all the way, as far as the eye can see, it’s dirt roads, and tree’s down, and map’s with cigarette holes in them, it’s car crashes and skinned knees, it’s atoms bouncing off of one another, it’s fingers tying knots, and de-ja-voo, it’s bodies folding into themselves, it’s buildings following suit, it’s sunsets, and spring showers, and flowers that bloom in the dead of winter, it’s Detroit Michigan and the Salton Sea, it’s the way the waves always catch up to the beach, it’s stones dancing on water, and daytime breaking through glass, it’s stealing hotel ashtrays, and flat tires, it’s walking three miles to get gas on New Years Eve, its breaking into florist shops, it’s sleepless morning sunrises through a car window, it’s city views from rooftops under a sleepy sun, first kiss kind of stuff, dancing under streetlights, stumbling into the fire, eyes meeting like magnets, and hearts capable of tidal waves, it’s pins and needles, and the sounds of bones breaking, it’s backs used as bridges, and tongues whittled down to knives, it’s you and me and the miles of flatland in between (To Be Continued…)

Filed under slam poetry writing slam poem new years eve hearts eyes magnets detroit the salton sea dogs home california bambi beach

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Seeking validation between lips and thighs,
Drawing praise out with your tongue,

You never could shut your mouth.

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What a beautiful end.

Atlantic to the Caribbean, carrying bodies in my hand,
He said being a rolling stone will only turn you into sand,
That sounded perfect to me, insignificant and everywhere,
Boulders whittled down by time slipping through young fingers,
What a beautiful end,
Grenades into ash, dirt into dust,

I was to be sand,

Being stone took too much.

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The heartless ones.

The heartless ones are the ones who cared too much,
They’re the ones who handed there insides away long ago,
So yes, they are cold, yes, they are hollow,
But they spent years filled to the brim, handing out there insides to whoever said they would keep them,
They spent years stumbling and falling into paper people, years building homes in the space between other peoples arms,
These are the ones who have nothing left to give, these are the ones who did it all wrong,

The first time, the second time, the third time,

These are broken bodies and hollow chests, they can’t do it again,
They decided that instead of giving their insides away they would bury them in the ground,

That instead of ever risking being hollow again, they would just master the craft of playing dead,

These are your defeated, they’re your roadkill, your forgotten,

They’re oceans nothing can float on, they’re once great monuments mother nature unleashed her wrath on,

They’re the wounded, the beaten,

They’re the ones that need a warm body more than anybody else, but they’re the first to be abandoned, given up on,

They’re too much work, they’re too far gone, they’re already cold,

No one sticks around for the broken ones,

Everyone likes the allure at first, it feels like catching fire, holding it between your hands, but there’s no man I have ever met that can withstand the flames,

They get bored or they get burnt and then they run off into oblivion,

Leaving us there to dissipate in empty rooms, to question our own bones, they leave us there to die, with nothing left but ashes,

But they forgot the way we rise, the way we always end up standing, because the only way to be a phoenix is to first be something broken, the only way to be reborn is first to die at someones hands,

Let them have your head, just remember to get back up again.

Filed under heartless broken flames pheonix bones ashes poetry writing spoken word slam poetry slam poem