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Ciara Ryan Apr 2015
Watching the stars
It’s like looking into your eyes
A tear starts to fall
You left and gave us scars

The memory of you lingers on in my mind
I don’t understand why you would hide
You were the king
Your name repeating in my head like a song

I always knew there would come a time
A time that we would have to say goodbye
But I never expected it to be this way
You were caught up in a lie

Even if you made mistakes
We all still loved you
The biggest mistake was when you left
No word, no noise, it was silent

If you were to have just asked for a helping hand
It was just one simple step to make
Instead you kept it - that’s when it went bad
That’s when you made your biggest mistake

Now there is nothing left of you
And it’s now the time we have to accept
Because there is nothing we can undo
I know you wouldn’t want us to be upset

You were surrounded by love
Even if they didn’t share your blood
You were family to them
To us

Everyone says I’ll get over it
But I know I’m not
How can someone forget?
About someone so amazing as you

People think it's just one other person's death
But it was yours
raen Sep 2011
lokt dikshuneri
kipin eet, kees laustt
diss iys hardd

lokt mynd
kent tingk
wer diyd mye
spelink en mynd gaw?

awt da weendoe

nid napp baad
Kirsten Martin Mar 2011
Foreword: I wish the notes were at the beginning. This poem is very long and tiring. I wrote it 'in an altered state' and posted it in case I wanted to read it while 'altered' again to see if I could follow it. Have fun if you do wish to read it, though. It makes zero to no sense.

I thought about writing this out,
Or seeing it on a film.
I did,  I did wonder about you,
And screens and things to look out of,
Then suddenly, ****!
I always wanted to exclaim in a poem.
Rhymes stop me at the kees, though.
Cut off I go back to writing about you...
Or why the connection is so off.
How I only have an hour to fix it,
But not an hour to tell her that I meant to get in touch.
I'm sorry to sail on hypocrisy.
With no wind, I can only watch the flow.
Streaming her words as she flies,
With her silhouette somewhat like a bird's.
Pause, and reconnect?
Under the bed of my nails... A cave.
Where my punctuation looses the track in my mind.
Or path.
Down, I'm less taken when you're gone
I'm less far gone.
I come back.
Your collar itches and I need to scratch.
Though, it rings my neck.
Another disconnect, rooted words,
Trunk of thought,
Branches grow from letters that spell.
Pull the words and gone my thoughts.
Now long are the days of a good segway.
Do you get it?.. or hit.
A drift that blows or spreads,
And burns our throats,
Like a rug, a ring, an indian.
This is crap,
I see it, I follow, and I say crap.
Taking the road less taken wouldn't work.
Everyone has done everything in the suburbs...
In my mind.
A disconnect.
Did I mention the disconnect?
A cancer generating until I run out,
Of the cells, pumping,
My mind, throbbbing.
And my fingers click,
Click, click, click, click.
I could right that all day.
For whom the bells toll!
Us!
No, a food fight won't work.
Yet, naked we came on horses.
I bought your album. It fried my hair.
I need a cream.
Smooth down my throat,
Wet like a slide...
Slip into the smoke,
And dance with me in the headlights,
Our shadows fall in line.
We've been to that party,
With tea and 3D.
Whoo, but back to class,
Where the tank is full.
And how many times must I say...
The tank is full.
Twice isn't enough.
Though it is round, but we exist in corners.
I'll never remember the sparks that lit each line.
Or why, which is,
Like that and this.
Or why can't ladies dance for me...
Why can't I yelp from rooftops?
I am woman.
Make me moan.
Any man that can and will,
Let him ***.
A mirror? No, I don't need that.
You'll judge me as I am, and I'll go from there.
It's never a ten, but I'm not a two,
And I don't stop at twice.
The speakers won't stop either, no matter how many lights we run out of for our porch.
My phone screamed again and I know that their food is important...
But so is this connection,
To me.
And paper, but we don't really need that anymore.
We don't really need me.
A green glow in your pocket.
But as long as you think you do, it'll be there. I'm always here.
Until I love you, but not in that kind of way.
Because I don't want to sound like an alarm or have the desk be written on anymore.
No, these are not metaphors or nuances,
And this couldn't be found in a mold, because no one would eat it.
...
Up until then, it was reflections.
That keep losing or failing like the kids,
Who look at the stairs to 100, but only climb til 60, because **** it.
Why should you care?
'It all comes full circle...' she said looking orange,
and like a new born millennium...
'But not like death.'
Or maybe like death,
If we're here and not there.
So build a bridge, because it's always about connections.
Or math, and numbers...
Or sweat, and long legs, or black bangs...
Or just bangs.
Or loud bangs,
That produce a black milk.
Bleed it deep, stir it seaside.
We serve with cream and call it economy,
or the hair that shines and makes us a star.
Right there.
Where I'm coming back to, always.
Because of type.
The type.
The smoke.
The grades.
The eyelid cartoons,
Or mental notes taken about them.
I almost lost it there.
But boom!
A scale tips.
Feeling worse than 9.0 points on a bulleted list,
print on my chest.
Connections may have fell down,
Where I'm putting down my head now.
Like I said... I wrote this during a deep, deep trip into my psyche. Reading it sober really makes me question why I 'alter my state' in the first place. haha
Johan Nel Sep 2019
Bo op 'n berg
Met my bobbejaan gedagtes wat terg
Die eggo van my mania skree terug
Wat soek jy hier?

Ek drink uit die rivier
Ek sink my oë in die rooi son
Ek **** alweer
Die donker wolke
Die reën wat kom

Ek laat my gedagtes so dans
Plek tot plek
Gras van Kees
En mens en vlees

Sny deur my
Woede en naaktheid
Die lag van 'n sekere malheid
En die sagtheid van jou moeder ken
En dan meer bring ek twee
Van my na die tafel in 'n oop gesprek
Met my leemtes en my onbeheerbare
Soeke na wat ek herken binne my donker gate
Ek dwaal verlate
In riviere van die samelewing
Die masjien wat liggies trap op ligte wat skyn en verdwyn
In die strate van spoed en bloed
Die woorde uit die bek van die dier
Die ongetemde kwaad van primate
Wat stoei met homself en sy produk en sy bestaan en sy wêreld en sy alles
Tot hy verval en wegkwyn
Verdwyn agter 'n swart gordyn bedoel vir die son en sterre
Waarheid en verlossing
Waar vind ek die antwoord vir alles?
© Johan Nel 2019.09.18 23:38
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2017
i hardly think workers matter by now, given the overt desire for self-employment... not so much a party of workers, but a party of investors... and did you know that when, self-employed, companies transcend working rights, by not explaining the reasons behind cutting wages? by comparison **** germany seems like Eden; oops.

please, tell me, how the ****, did i mention
to live with my parents, drank
a litre of whiskey every night for the past year,
treat poland as a quasi-rehab....
  and still continue writing?
      **** me, then it dawned on me...
i can't be such a bad person, after all!
             rehab was:
        sleeping in the same bed my great
grandfather died in, overlooking
a cemetery...
                    the greatest irony is death...
i only mentioned i was a "****",
simply because, if i were alive in poland
in the current political climate,
i'd probably be in those freedom marches
attracting 60+ thousand flag weaving patriots...
shame that it's called
patriotism in north america
and nationalism in europe,
immigrantion in england,
expatriation in england...
                       due to the elsewhere...
flares, hello?! flares! not tiki torches...
i really feel though, that it's nice to have
an outlet of nationalism outside the football
stadium...
               but i did manage to attach
a counter to the term ****...
     *nationalkapitalistisch
-
or what i'd like to call the: kamikaze.
         america is a national capitalistic
society...
      beside the fact that it's labelled
MADE IN CHINA...
                        cut the ******* Matt
give them the acronym feeding...
      nakies!
                            you're dealing
with N'AH-KEYS!
                                   nakies!
two fat ladies naked, cooking up a storm...
  not yankees, n'ah-kees...
               however you spell it...
        that's nákee without the H...
        what did you expect?
  i'm laughing!
                   point being...
or the joke being:
             there's actually no party to identify
this movement with...
the love of democracy begins with
the love: passing on, rather than identifying
with the blame...
  so we'll never know...
democracy was conjured up by
cowards...
                       democracy is nothing
short of Chinese whispers...
               at least in an autocracy you
don't have to listen to ditto-heads,
given the one, and only, gottkopf...
                          1 gottkopf is worth more than
100 ditto-heads...
  which end up turning into a Hydra of
1000 heads...
           we only go to school to learn
structure... but then some people
ask us to rebel and brake from norms...
notably in the realm of language...
and so we do, and cannot find the adhesive
to be "reunited" with society...
       i don't why people didn't pick up
the remains of nationalised socialism and
merged to the answer that is, what remains
of socialism, in that what remains
  is the lost nation, but the existing economic
model of capitalism,
ergo? nationalkapitalistisch...
   national capitalism...
                    but heavy the head
that dons the crown,
   given this nationalistic capitalism is so
heavily reliant on Chinese socialism.
DESIGNED IN CALIFORNIA
means jack ****, when the end credits
read: MADE IN CHINA.
           the same sort of **** that's
equivalent of social media...
which is only accounted for by content
creation...
     the repeated "revision" of what is a blank
slate,
    that is merely a context canvas...
how original... to be celebrated
for creating a blank piece of pixel "paper".
Jonas Dec 2019
I know it's hard sometimes
when things haven't lined up

or they have
but you feel hungry,
exhausted:
your vision's blurry --
kees wabbly.

Remember this then:

You chose this path,
you had those dreams,
surely (surely!)
it's not as bad as it seems.

You're worth it all,
you'll get support --
just ask for it,
just let them walk
beside you.

Don't drive yourself crazy

but
stand up strait,
smile a little,
be gentle-hearted,
and
hard-working.

Things
will
in time
fall
into place

piece
by
piece.
NOYM NDMJ Jun 2022
The concept of the Bell Jar is fascinating. To anyone who has been through depression and read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, you know just how accurate her metaphor is. You know that the bell jar is palpable. It’s like a hot, sticky air that floats around you wherever you go. It is your own exhalation that you inhale. Your own stench that you live in. The air in the bell jar that you hate is in reality, you. 

Plath claims that when the depression has gone, one will find the bell jar has been “lifted”. I agree with this sentiment, but I believe there are multiple ball jars. Forces that limit and harm us. Some are collectively shared ones that we all live in, such as the bell jar of the patriarchy. Some are more individual. I also believe that bell jars can transform. Mine lifted after depression, just as Plath said it would, but it left a residue. A bubble that I can easily come in and out of. It is not as inherently harmful, but it is innately isolationist. Unless I make conscious effort, my bubble Kees me in my own thoughts, separated from others. Sometimes I like my bubble. I don’t find it stifling in any way and the colorful glow of the soap under light is rather beautiful. When I make human connection, however, I stick my head out of the bubble, albeit temporarily. I get to breathe some fresh air and experience life more clearly. It is a gift to me when I am able to take part in meaningful human connection, even ones as simple as a “good morning” (meaningful is not synonymous with complex).

— The End —