Rotten Poem

In the dumpster of my mind,
I felt your sight on me.
I neglected to take out the trash today
Maybe I'll try to do it tomorrow.

Rotten Poetry

Thanks for coming out to our first LHSP workshop!

Here's my "rotten poem":

In the incandescence of my mind,

I tasted the cacophonous sounds of spring.

I blew my nose on a soggy tissue

Everything happens for a reason. 

Rotten Poetry

In the hospital of her mind,

his ears saw smells that made his touch taste...salty.

Tears turned their faces red and puffy.

Eventually the embarrassment will fade.

~-~

In the chalkboard of my mind,

the smell of tears is black and white.

This function is isomorphic!

Someday this proof will be right.

Rotten Poetry

In honor of human trafficking. Price of Life Week. . .


In the trafficking of my mind
I hear the smell of her cries
I'm angry that I've been so blind
Change will come in tomorrow's skies.

-A.W.

Cut Up Poems!

Hello poets, 

Here are all of the awesome cut up poems you all created last week. 

Happy Writing! 

"These Patchwork Organs" (Hannah Rhodenhiser)

As requested, here is the poem I read last week in club.
Feedback welcomed.

These Patchwork Organs

If you offered me new parts,
I might say yes.
But please do not,
I don’t want them.

I am scientist and therefore must admit
that my body is broken,
malformed,
inefficient.

I cannot depend on vital acts,
intended to be subconscious,
manifested as war.

My lungs don’t move air
to my brain for the
hardcore mathematics
by which I define myself.

My lungs reach down and ensnare each leg
crushing my chest,
stop kicking the ball into the goal
stop swimming butterfly,
stop being such a hipster.

Please lie on your back,
please let me take over.
Let me change you.

But I do not want to be proof-read,
my typos and grammatical errors are how I express
the fashion of my existence.

I do not claim perfection, but
my problematic bit have stolen my affection,
and by fixing me you will alter
the self that got me here.

I want to be here.
I just want to breathe.

My body is a gift I never asked for,
that hideous but oh so very soft
sweater. Made by someone who loves me.

My organs are odd and frustrating,
but they are mine,
No Take-Backs.

Constant pain a constant companion.
And the line between “okay” hurts
and End Times blurs.
disappears
and is gone.

I would never cut myself.
But that doesn't stop me from
keeping accidental injuries from
scabbing,
disappearing.

I bleed.

I must cover every hole
with a spaceship band-aid
from IKEA.
Every paper-cut,
every damaged piece of tissue,
inside my lungs the adhesive traps mucus,
opens the constricted airways
declaring None Shall Pass.

I thrive on the constant sting of ignoreable pain
blocking out the real threat
of mortality
of exhaustion
of defeat.

There are cartoon stars
inside my chest cavity.
And an unrealistic moon.
I can see them
when my fingers and toes go
to a weird place in flux
not entirely my own.

I will defy your assumptions
even if they are correct.
Hurting myself to prove
that I am not hurt.

I am not done yet.

I may decline these patchwork organs.
Save my life please,
but let me cling to the inefficiencies that make me human.

Not that you are actually offering,
but no thank you.