Mangled Truth. (Weekly Challenge July 5)

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Weekly Challenge:
July 5 Alliteration (Assonance)
Write a poem in which all the words in each line begin with the same letter.

Ageless anxiety, angered and antagonised
by bullying bastards, bent backwards by
sensibility. Sly, self serving shallow servants slipping.
Lies, long lost. Left lacking. Lingering leads.
Truth’s traces tease. Tirelessly toxic together – they
wonder why whispering worriedly while
preaching paradoxical perfection! Pish Posh! Pass!

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Don’t Fall

Mocking Bird Down

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Look at me, in a way
that makes me feel
like you have ripped
out my secrets and stored
the bloody
pieces in your
pockets, proudly
and with the intention
of making them yours too.
Touch me, in a way that
makes me lean in,
with out thinking.
That makes me inhale
you, like a dry mouthed
junkie. In withdrawal
after one hit. One drag.
One line. One time.
Kiss me, like your lips
belong to me. A sticky
dragging of skin,
and tongues that
tell a story of want.
Bury your
hands in my hair and
arch my neck back,
baring it,
for your hot breathed
inspection.
Smile at me, like you
understand every dark
corner of my soul, like
you want to go there with me.
Hold my hand,
and then let it go.
Show me.
You don’t need me.
You see me,
and you want me.
But…

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May 18th Poetry Challenge: Bite Me.

Mocking Bird Down

May 18th: Write a piece with the first word of each stanza beginning with a letter of the alphabet. 26 Lines.

woman-at-bar-painting-by-fabian-perez

Absorbed. Filled. Soaked in the smell of my morning coffee.
Body aching from the night shared with the awkward and equally
charismatic gentleman who made his way over to me only to
deliberately fumble. Stumble. Bumble. All to make me laugh.
Executed with perfection on his part. My reaction not quite what the
flirt wanted. My humour has a darkness to it that most find
ghoulish. Ghastly. Ungainly. Grizzly, even.
He gestured for me to join him for a dance. I don’t dance.
Imprudent of him, I thought. He appeared to read my mind and
joined me, sitting on the bar stool beside me, and smiled in a most
knavish manner. One I recognised and reciprocated with equal ill intention.
Lapping up every word I spoke, or at…

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The Art, in Breaking Hearts

Mocking Bird Down

Corazone 2

I bled, bright red
today.
I gripped the wound,
and the warmth
of the blood that pulsed
past my fingers and
ran across my breasts
onto the floor,
was a vivid
reminder.
I never was in control.
I was merely caught
off guard, and propelled
into a motion, not unlike
a speeding train.
Or falling plane.
No emergency brakes, when
it is actually an emergency.
No warning signs, seat belts.
helmets or knee pads.
No fucking parachutes.
Just the stomach churning slam,
and the knowledge that when you
open your eyes again,
nothing will be the same.
Not ever again.

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