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Veronica Valdes Jan 2021
Ok. Im admitting it. I’m barreling toward the ground and spitting out smoke. That’s good tho. Not the tailspin, but that I admitted it. It’s happened before. 3 years ago That’s just how I moved. In a mess of steel and wings and fire. Today I’m a passenger in the mess of steel wings and fire. ****, does that mean I die? Sounds nice right about now. Come on, I don’t mean that it’s just the tailspin, when you’re rotating 100 times per minute and engulfed in flame you just want the next thing, by any means. That’s how you become the tailspin; by thinking of the ground and the bright dazzling blue and how loud everything is and how the fire and free airplane peanuts are dancing around your head and how lush the green looks even though it will screech and contort until the tailspin is no more and the sun sets over fields of grass one last time.

Yeah, when you’re barreling toward the earth you crave that kind of ****. And it makes sense to me. It make sense why someone would want that. In the vertigo induced chaos the ground is not just irresistible, it’s happening. So how do I survive the tailspin? Well, there is no tailspin. Ask your friends: do they see a large aircraft erupting in flames on its course to sweet silence? Of course not. But that’s just it, this is your tailspin and sometimes it’s all you have and you don’t want to share it. Your best friends aren’t around or they just dont see you and time passes like hot acid through your veins until you ARE the tailspin. Am I alone? Sometimes, so when you are, remember this: you’re in the tailspin but you won’t crash. You’re reaching out. Or even calling that ******* 1800 number. Because now you’re a miracle. You survived the tailspin.
CW: self harm/suicide
Diversity of motivation among self-harming individuals

An estimated one in twelve teenagers has committed self-harm. Of those many will continue self-injuring into young adult hood. Yet older adults are not immune to committing this act. In 2003-2004 adults age 25-44 were responsible for nearly fifty percent of reported/discovered self-harm cases.  There are many reasons that people self-harm. These reasons may include self-harming as a survival mechanism, self-harm as an outer expression of inner emotional turmoil, and self-harm as a means to exercise control over one’s environment.
Contrary to popular thought, only one in ten people who make the decision to self-harm are suicidal. The majority of people who cause injury to themselves willfully have a wish to avoid killing themselves. The act of self-harm is developed as a “technique” to cope and survive the afflictions of life. How can we know that this is the reasoning or thought behind the action of self-harm? “Cutters” typically reason out the least amount of damage that will “remedy” the stress intensive situation that they find themselves in, and exercise an enormous amount of restraint in inflicting only a measured amount of damage. Cutters’ common logic is that through this expression of injury, further damage to their selves may be headed off. --------, a former cutter, attests to the reality of this when he says, “Every time that I touched a blade to my skin, I would resist making a larger cut, a deeper wound. Every time that I hurt myself, I did so only in response to what drove me over the edge; Each time the amount of physical damage that I did was the very least that I could muster. I fought to do the least damage I could, no matter how intense the pain that I felt became.” He sums it up rather nicely.
Secondly, self-harm is used as an outward expression of deeper, more complex emotional and psychological phenomena. It is not a diagnosis; it is a symptom. It is a symptom of a struggle that is inherited by victims of abuse, those who lose a loved one, or experience other traumatic events during their childhood. These groups are far more likely to indulge in self-harm. One study conducted by Boudewyn and Liem found that of those college students that reported a history of self-harm, fifty two percent had been sexually abused as a child. Those that self-harm do not simply cut to cut, burn to burn, or mutilate to mutilate. There is a deeper motivation. This motivation is commonly emotional. These motivational emotions are often the results of tragic or traumatic life experiences. It is seldom that a cutter’s motivation is a want for attention.  In fact, most cutters are chameleons.
Self- harm is used as a tool to exercise control in a chaotic environment over which one would not otherwise have any means to control. Among chaos and turmoil such as the loss of a parent or close friend, relational betrayal, divorce of one’s parents, or consistent, one time, or sporadic physical, emotional, or ****** abuse an individual is radically more likely to engage in self-harm. Outside reasoning on this is only speculative. For this reason it is valuable to look at the action from the perspective of those who commit it. Cody, the same individual mentioned earlier says something else that lines up with this common scholarly opinion. He says “I remember the very first time I cut myself intentionally. I was in the ninth grade, in the school bathroom. I had just experienced what I saw as betrayal by my best friend of about ten years. I felt like I lost him. I felt like things were spinning out of control, and I couldn’t control the way I felt about it all. The only way I could feel that control was with something sharp in my hand.” This is characteristic not only of ----- but also of many other cutters.
Cutters are not (necessarily) crazy. On the surface it may appear that cutting goes against the ingrained survival and self-preservation instincts in human beings. This is actually the opposite of the truth. Many who cut feel that if they don’t inflict smaller harm to themselves that they may indeed fall to suicide. They feel that by letting out their pain in increments, and escaping in fragments, that they can slay the thoughts of suicide and urges to escape that they carry. When at the edges of rational, some instincts may take different forms. What may seem counter intuitive – an act of self-harm – becomes the definition of an instinct that it seems to defy. The desire to survive becomes so strong that it is necessary to inflict pain. This is not uncommon to survival situations. For example, the movie 127 Hours reenacts the experience of a man trapped under a boulder in a beautiful and secluded gorge. He cut off his own arm with a dull multi-tool in order to escape death. That act is the epitome of self-harm as a survival instinct.
Cutting could lead to a series of events that tailspin out of control. Loss of control could take the form of the spiral of therapies and prescriptions that would follow if it were discovered that one were cutting , or it could be the accidental slip of a blade gone too far. It could end in hospitalization. It could even end in death. However, those individuals who choose to cut, as long as sober, take precautions to avoid discovery or more injury than is intended. They are meticulous, careful even. They reason out how, where, and when they can cut “safely”. They are very much in control over the act, when they feel they cannot be in control of anything else.
It may rationally appear that pain is pain. That it would make no difference whether out or inward, because whatever its state, the pain is still owned by the individual. However, emotions are often harder to process than physical events. A burning rage, hate or guilt may well be harder to cope with than a burn to one’s arm, leg, or hand. An emotional cut to the bone may be less painful than a physical one. It may be said that the act does not transform the pain, but multiplies it. This in essence may be true, but one form of pain allows a man to ignore another. A pinch may allow a man to ignore the emotional pain of a nightmare. A small cut may allow ignorance of the bigger cut on one’s spirit or psyche.
There are widely varying and increasingly complex variations of motivation and cause of self-harm. They may include, but are absolutely and in no way limited to: self-harm as a coping or survival mechanism, self-harm as a tool to exercise control over one’s increasingly chaotic environment, and self-harm as an outer expression of inner emotional turmoil. To believe that cutting is simple is to nearly deny it altogether. Its essence is complicated. Stereotyping self-harm or self-harmers may well lead to opinions that will ostracize or further encourage the occurrence of self-harm.  Since the motivation and causes of self-harm are undeniably complex, to attempt to brush this under a rock would be to diminish its importance, and to deny healing to those who need to understand it.
Classy J Nov 2016
**** had me torn, **** had me scorned; I'm one of the few people who knows how it feels to have on a crown of thorns. Scars on my hands, scars on my feet, had so many plans but they all are now obsolete. Beaten outwardly and inwardly, never had the liberty to be anything more, just a lamb in a world full of carnivores. I am not a God; I am just a man that constantly gets beaten by a rod. The rod of guilt, the rod of shame, I'm starting to wilt, and I got no one left to blame. Faking smiles while dealing with depression, dead on the inside, and barren outside by all the oppression. Just a frame for the bigger picture, maybe instead of focusing on fame, I should've focused on the scriptures. No I don't want to hear your lecture, not here to be a fisher of men, my structure is fine enough dear sir.

Now in conjunction let’s us say amen, let’s us stop with the pretend, this is our time to amend our past mayhem. Bruises on my skin, bruises on my bones, trying not to tailspin, trying to control my hormones. You don't need Sherlock Holmes to figure this **** out, there is no need to doubt, that it is not fun being treated like an expired trout. Can't you see these scars? Oh yeah that's right you to busy looking at the stars! Scars opened up by unlocking the wrong doors, scars piling up from all the years of being treated like a *****. Scars won by wars, scars from running through the fire, scars from peer pressure, and scars from all the held back tears.

So many scars, feels like I’m not even human, yeah I swear I'm an alien from mars. 'Hey, people have it worse than you', well that may be true, it's all relative until it happens to you! Do you know what I've been through? Do you know what it's like being in an environment of lions, when you're a caribou? That's right you have no clue, the worst thing some of yawl ever faced has been the flu. Where-as there is me, who no one takes the time of day to hear or see. Where-as there is me, the one everyone tried to treat because they thought I was a disease. Where-as there is me, and only me, nothing more than one of those 'natives' or in this case 'Cree'. Can't you see my scars? Were you not listening to these bars? Do I have to drop down on all fours for some exposure? Cause when you need help I am one of the first ones to be your boulder.

They say pain won't last, they say that I can get over it in other ways other than constantly getting smashed. Some say that the forecast will clear, that there is nothing to truly fear except for fear. Some scars don't heal, some leave you with Ptsd and if something sets you off you can relive that pain wheel. I wear my scars like they a badge, not prepared to throw it in the trash. My scars make me who I am, it's just another thing in my program. My scars help me relate with others with the same scars, it helps me realize that I'm not the only one dealing with these scars.
My head's spinning
with the flaws of the earth.

Commit to the tailspin
and let the truth wash over us.

What I want is a mystery
yet I ruminate over our prospects.

I'm so afraid I won't ever be strong enough
to be in a relationship.
Tyler Durden Sep 2014
Maybe I should be content
Perhaps life was being kind to me
It took everyone away gradually
Instead of in a handful.
Egeria Litha May 2019
I miss you in a whirlwind
trails of wind whip my skin
left high and dry
volume in my hair
dust in my eyes
sand in the grit
I  miss you in a tailspin
you were just here
tread marks where you been
I miss you in a time capsule
I swallow each mourning

And you loved us into a soapy, bubble
I trusted would never pop
Travis Dixon Feb 2014
right to the core of a problem
that refuses to be solved,
defying absolution like
time against our wishes
sending the whole **** plane
into a tailspin—
around and around and around
like the whirlwinds of history’s echo
channeled through muffled ears—
nowhere to go, no way to
think your way out of a past
that clings to your back, claws
digging and steadfast, digging
for answers, for resolution—
some kind of ablution,
so the everyday gnawing
may cease to be—might, perhaps
let us be present without
past tense.
Kewayne Wadley Feb 2017
I boarded a flight without intention on leaving.
Awaiting to see the sights I only dreamt about with someone I truly cared about.
I didn't care about the condition of the plane.
The tape stretched across the seat.
That odd rattling sound each time the wind picked up.
The experience of going somewhere new was all I cared about.
Taking the time to plan a voyage across the sea.
Maybe I should have taken more precaution.
Proofreading the Manual once more before taking flight.
Just once more to make sure I knew what each control did under any circumstance.
Boarding the plane.
Caught in deep thought.
Smiling behind the captains seat.
Just before taking off good
All my hopes, all my dreams came crashing down.
Being caught in a swirling gust of wind.
The lights across the dashboard lighting up.
I fought every instinct.
Ignoring that feeling in my gut that kept telling me to turn back.
Still.
I boarded the plane thinking that the only reason I feared not wanting to leave was for that of another.
Constantly grounded most of my life.
It came natural. A sudden fear arousing the very same gut feeling.
Lost in complete panic.
My world now spinning fast.
Tumbling down to the ground
James M Vines Jan 2017
The unwashed masses huddle in the street. They stomp their feet and rage against the perceived injustices that they feel they must right. When one group is in power then the other side is livid with outcry. When they who protest too much have power, the others are too busy working to take notice. Until a moment of enlightenment when one side grew weary of being derided and pushed aside, then in an outrageous act, they spoke up and demanded their version of change. Now the nation is in mass hysteria, America is in a tail spin and where we will land is anyone's guess?
Nik Bland Jul 2013
Paint each tempered vein
Time for us to begin
Love is dreamt within the pain
Passion in the tailspin
Each word that cuts like knives
Etches in the soul
Never good at holding on
Even worse at letting go

Blank stares grasp onto me
Chilling my very bones
A seashell called love in an endless sea
Senses dulled, skills unhoned
Making up words, wanting something in turn
Promises worth ****
Choices made and choices lost
Perfectly off pitch

Time a constant except in death
A warden to my jail
Looking for a key inside of me
Tired, tried, failed
Peel back this skin, searching in depth
For a reason, crazy or sane
Time to look within myself
Search each tempered vein
Cassie Mae Apr 2012
Would my words flatter you
or start a tailspin
that ends with you running
in a direction away from my arms?

I hope you would run into them,
my arms.

If my words did flatter you
would you have words
that would turn my cheeks red
as you press your lips against mine?

I imagina they are soft and gentle,
you lips.

If my words didn't flatter you
I would burn them
before you could truly understand
that I want to love you.

I imagine they wouldn't flatter you,
my words.
© Cassie Mae Writings 2012
"FOLLOW ME INTO DARKNESS" HER EYES SAID.
AND IT FELT AS THOUGH MY ANCHORS HAD LIFTED.
"COME AWAY WITH ME" SHE SILENTLY PLEADED.
SO I CAST OFF AND BRAVED THE STORM WITH QUICKENING PACE.
REACHING INTO DARKNESS TRYING TO SMOTHER MY OWN INNER LIGHT, I FEEL THE MONOLITH SWAY.
"THIS COULD BE THE END OF ME" I WHISPER LOOKING UP INTO THE NIGHT SKY.
MY COMPASS NO LONGER POINTS NORTH AS I LOSE MYSELF IN THIS MOMENT.
NOTHING LEFT ASHORE CROSSES MY MIND.
AND I'M LIKE A BLOOD SICKENED BEAST RAVAGING IT'S PREY.
I AM OUTSIDE MYSELF LOOKING DOWN ON THE SCENE UNABLE TO STOP WHAT'S COMING, THE MESSY END AND ALL THE BROKEN PIECES THAT GO WITH IT.
BUILDING MOMENTUM AND FALLING INTO A TAILSPIN I CHOKE BACK MEMORIES OF THE MAN I ONCE WAS, AND STARE.
I STARE INTO THE REELING FACE OF OBLIVION.
I TASTE BLOOD ON THE LIPS OF DEATH.
CLOSE AS I AM TO HER I CANNOT JOIN HER.
I FEEL THE GROWING URGE CREEP IN ON ME AS I HEAR THE GNASHING JAWS OF THE SWEET END POUNDING IN MY EARS.
"WHERE IS MY COMFORT?" I SCREAM WITHIN MY OWN MIND.
HOW WILL I GET BACK ASHORE?
LOST AT SEA I DRIFT BETWEEN WORLDS.
"I CAN'T SAVE YOU NOW." BUT SHE ALREADY KNOWS.
MY TALE FINALLY REACHES ITS ****** AND I AM PULLED BACK FROM THE TOSSING WAKE OF ETERNITY.
AS THE TIDE COMES IN AND LIGHT SHOWS AGAIN I SIT BESIDE THE MONOLITH AND PONDER...
"WHAT HAVE I BECOME?"
Alexis Cook Oct 2013
It is so fitting that its raining today.
These clouds came in on the coattails
of a full moon that I swear
lasted three days too many.
That moon threw my life into some sort of tailspin.

What was up was all of a sudden not where I remembered it to be.
Like the full moon had strung me up by the ankles
and hung me there until I began to believe
the sky had become the ground.
It was like a rogue wave sent from Poseidon himself
to capsize my ship,
to face my world toward the ocean floor.
I honestly don't know where I want to be anymore.

Now today, the sky falls on my face,
like the clouds themselves weep for my indecision.
My ground crashed down around me.
I think I will just lay here on my ocean floor,
for once in my life
I think I just don't care anymore.
Christina Jan 2022
Dear Elizabeth (Part III.)

I know he did you wrong all those years
As you shed over thirty million tears
All he did was wanting to ****
Taking  when and whatever he wanted for the chaotic thrill
His mind living in a fantasy violent filled dreamworld
Killing over thirty-eight plus girls
As he beguiled, with a stealthy smile
The jury should’ve decided to send him to exile

Hurting so many women, children and others on the head
With his velvet crowbar, when police were searching for a unknown man named ‘Ted’
The girls he hurt, never got a chance to be mothers
With Molly never wanting to leave your side
Your perpetual love for Ted had eventually died
Lying, constantly stealing and cheating you never once deserved that
Dealing with the perpetual negative crap

You were his Miss Americana
As he was your Heartbreak Prince
Theodore unknowingly beat and broke a lot of limbs
Right under your nose
Going back and fourth with bodies to Taylor Mountain to dispose
He could be quiet but at times act arrogant
Wishing he could be a governor, senator or president
Unexpectedly turning into a brutal madman
He always had a secret love for Diane
In the back of his mind
With other women on the side
Never once broke his ego or pride

You accurately decided to turn him in
Then regretfully went straight for the gin
Turning your life into a three-sixty tailspin
Theodore got what he deserved
With death row he served
It’s been thirty-two years since he’s vanished
Finally feeling loved and cherished
You’re no longer alone and withdrawn
There are no other men like him, thank God
That Theodore finally deserved what he got, getting caught

Over forty years those events are apart of American history
Your life with him is no longer in misery, but a victory
Theodore’s atrocious actions, taught us women to watch out for our loved ones and surroundings
As we go out on fun outings
With new people we just meet
Out in the city street

I’m so sorry went through all of this
He’s now gone into a dark abyss
But you did what you had to do
If I were you, I’d do the exact same thing too
Enjoy life’s greatest pleasures
Getting all the happiness that life gives you,adventures
Nikki Paulin Jun 2013
This is the point of no return
The point where the roads no longer converge
The point where endings don’t meet
And the last tear of sacrifice has dripped.

All the path is ablaze
All spin of memories wrought
Photographs and visions burnt
And the birds of darkness have flown across the coast

Swirl and hurl into a tailspin of sins
Flesh is intact but scars won’t heal
It leaves a mark so indelible it cannot be healed
Pains of the past keep repeating
Soul in solitude, now in misery

We walked along this dreaded path
Scathed, restless like streams
By the river, we promised the moon we shall move on
Time said I did, and still I am
Yet alone, yet in vain

For life is but fair
Fair to child’s fragile heart hoping
Fair to every dream candid
Fair to every life not spared

The destiny weeps for my daunting decisions.
I feel sorry for my life.
The sea slides indifferently.
Waves crash, roll and skiff on,
My heart between the blue crests
That break down in the watered wind.

Lonely is my shy overlook,
The whole sky falls in tailspin,
My love was such a simple thing,
Precious as golden water on the moon.

On the banks I leave my soul
And drift away into balmy voids,
Seagulls circle and the tides return,
My mind is lost atop the sandy shores.
Kush Jun 2016
I would crush the guilty like ants under my boot
I would build monuments of their sins and watch evil legacies tailspin
I have had enough of their moral muddling and murderous marauding
No more innocent blood will be shed, not on my world
War will be a fable told to children before bedtime
Those with hate in their hearts would have them forcefully removed
Those that have worked and toiled in pain will be given rest and reparation
Empathy will be the currency most desired and dispensed

I would seat the deserving upon crystal thrones and indulge their hope
I would slit the throats of those that speak violence and scatter their flesh
I have no desire for solace until all have received their karmic doses
Fear is an instrument of weakness, a **** fit for vermin, not my society
I'll make a great scale within my mind and weigh deeds done
Good people deserve more than the flimsy vestiges of past charity
They will see my face and recognize that swift justice is the only solution
They will see an acceptance of death if corruption overtakes my spirit

I would raise the slaves and groom them into kings
I would turn their ancestors’ sweat into red wine and diamond rings
I would lift their chins up to the limitless sky
To infinite empires waiting to be built
This world?
This galaxy?
Ha!
The entire universe will be a reflection of my design
RyanMJenkins May 2016
New details have arisen, so much to process.
Right turn at Words, haven't been this lost yet
With anger comes regret, a downhill ***** tailspin
Feelings have changed, eyes have been opened.
Madre, I just want you to know your worth.  
Your kids cherish you, and we thank you for raising us since birth.  Let go of those that engulf you in hurt.  It's the worst at first, but the sun stays persistent.   You have a light inside you that I'll fight to not see diminshed.
You will rise to heights we've only seen in dreams.  I am there with a big hug the next time you close your eyes and breathe.
Despite being separated by a slew of states;
Our bond is beyond worldly,  depths reminding me to appreciate.
Pain is temporary, love is eternal
I'll be coming to Virginia through the next wormhole.  I'm still learning about taking risks and how to be, but just remember your smiling face is one I love to see.
Julian Aug 2020
Septuagint prince scriding on scrivello detail
Emerges from the frogmarch grave of revenants sheepish about ghoulish masquerade
The tribes whittle puckered shibboleths and charismatic vengeance evades
The henpeck of roosters harmonizing sand into grassy knolls of carapace cathedral light
Walks beyond the whimsical despair the conniving conservatories of manufactured fright
Spurned by smokestack confusion above a plastered reconnaissance of abundant life flocking between small awakenings curtailed by fulgurant swelters of blistering white
The spectral dance assumes primordial shades to dampen the windowed elegance of betrayal complicit in the haze
Mojo’s rise and fall with moonshot decades flashing intimacy lived twice barking like a squelched gyrovague relishing the kantikoys of burlesque night
And yet among the bemused stars unbuttoned by the prolixity of the Russia ruse the smear indelible flaunts with decadence in the pleonasm of sluggish articles of flight
How long must the messianic age shelter the nebbich halls of crambazzled piety in science to an upbringing of oligochrome
How many dastardly wernaggles of the rusticated elitism flomp with desultory banquets reminiscent of boiling Rome
Incinerated in an ageless day revived only after a historic lapse of barbarity in the ferule exacted such immeasurable despair
That the prejudice of pride is forever shelved as redundant because the filigrees of geometry only permit curvature in flatness
Convex movements captured in still-framed pillories refract nothing but Blazing Saddles of a caricature full-bloom sun
Yet we marvel at storybook ghosts and the isangelous carapace of marauding instincts forever brave and encaged
Erratic by delivery but sciamachy knows no identifiable age
Scrawny fossarians dig entrenched charnels voraginous with skeletons of brackish regelation enthused by immemorial decay
Must we abridge a hearty ocean in a month’s sublime regaled design of trespasses of unsung heyday spaying its weakest defrocked knight
Armed to the Teeth we seek the terminus of apocalyptic capsules destined for gluttons braving annihilation in the vacuum of orbital planes plain only to the ken of the keenest sight
No we make no petitions in prayer for this Soft Parade of vigor verging on flair
We ransack littoral virtues in nexility bronzed with Stayin’ Alive shoes in remission of staircase blight
Beamish in beatitudes of milquetoast pregnancies of salted Matzah brimming in the yeasts of cesspool emergent from scarecrow metaphors flagrant hauteur gliding on air
Witness the spearhead of revolution in the metagnomy of oracular aubades to future brimstone caverns
Lurking like counterstrokes in revision blackguarded by the feisty prowl of outpaced labtebricole whipsaws of timber readied into foisted brown-brick comestion of elegant emerald errors
Dancing with galactic improvidence concealed by the rigor of lurched liars enthroned with prerogatives of stain-glass adumbration
We parcel up parsecs because clairvoyance among titans is a swank in need of 20/08 visions spectral in the clouds of all prominent registries of memory
Lost to faint delicacies of swift serpents outlasting gnats in the tabernacles of ribald ecbolic promontories on the verge of futile tomorrow pastimes spinsters flummox with slimmerback rigmarole flanged by whinks and escorted by the maskirovka of positive bears in absolute value alone
Yet Enola Gay found its destruction profitable to hominist lore enough to attenuate its evaporation of suffrage in the glint of pervasive remedies to stranded gore
Embanked on the sidelines of conquistador flaunts that a Titanic missive of classy regard found the damsel at the steerage slipping on zalkengur irony the anticlimax of lore
Traipsing fellowship of many a ring is a phony artifice for an ostentation that bellows so loudly when isolated perjury must not whimper but sing
The loudest plaudits afforded to a parallax incumbent white horse in the shadow of Dark Horse occultism a barbed flying wing of the West becoming the king of behest
Scurrilous are many jeers because their similes are baseline just as much as the storged conglomerate behind ensnared rapture looming with less ecstasy and blunt fear remains the kilmarge of simple foresight wrinkled behind the sum of many tears
We await our Creator’s Throne insuperable even with the blandishment of piecemeal craters that are superlative bolides of the weirdest attenuated into the spectrum of eldritch weird
Yet the riches of hobohemia found in “invisible lockets” worn by the travesty of jerseys measuring up to Roadhouse beer
The cartels of citadel cascades built on mountebank fortunes reaped from venal psephology collectively embody the unconscious gamut of javelin cloaks of sardonic sneer
Threnodies written long ago in the Hidden Tracks of sophistry welcome the intermissions of antiquity abridging the donnybrooks of charlatans bossed around by facetious gibes of manicured belletrist humid enough that evaporation itself of rarefied tabacosis has few if any peers
Yet the peerless sketch thrombosis in the oxygeusia of deceptive schadenfreude only to topple jengadangles that glabrous gravity muscles to barely if it all steer
In a vacant reality eager for surrealist bounty the sidereal question of moribund placards supplanted by vibrant living semaphores fixates upon figments of acatalepsy rather than ruddy enumerations of partition despite beloved chalky rudiments filibustering with courtesy rather than jeer
Amicable are ravenous betrayals for chieftains cloffined by warm sapwood integral to equated tantamount mountains festooning firmaments in quaffed delights rigid and keen
The most welcomed blasphemy fragrant with jejune originality celluloid enamors splenetic with sprees of perishable profanity lurking ever more obscene
Regaled in the modest jostle is the forsifamiliation of heterodyne dins of honest applause from the blackguarded periphery among which there are no visible beacons no visible stars
Scarred by diacope enumerated in prescient revelry the trollops of tune and attunement magnetize a riveting weld of seamless geometry that is permeable to ineffable lychgates both porous with prowess and ajar against a golfer’s remediable par
Wizened ghosts flirt with tucked bushes in the forlorn deserts jolted by oasis and flagrant with confection torn asunder by wide-eyed gallantry skipping stones on ataraxia from a distraught afar
That lake of goldmines is scattershot with limey limelight squandered on profligate wrikponds of propinquity but not prolixity in scores and bounties of exoticism in glaikery’s fugitive charm
In proximity there is usucaption but the usufruct of sustainable obelisks to liberty must have the forbearance to bear many witnessed eyes to the Right to Bear Arms
Skirmishes of benighted fracking obsolescence ragged with vitriol and poison-ivy nostalgia flaunt the bromides of algedonic flash over consequences that many disregard
Spiraling with vertiginous pain the scowl of obligation is both seamstress of emblazoned effronteries and the proper reflection of seasoned but not seasonable garb
This barbed quandary riddled with rapacious tendency mixed with myopic bonhomie devours a rickety cacophony of diminutive scopes of ******’s glare to prove each atomic indivisible atrocity a carbonated fulmination heavily barbed
This is all why the killjoys monopolize their gangster vices behind tinted windows and chockablock morality are uxorious bridewells for the bridgewater of garbology sketched by vanity in the outrecuidance of gallionic chasms of an absolute value of firebrand regard
No difference does it make if the recoil is whimpered by hordes of sheep in pretenses of authenticity or whether decapitated delopes emerge from visagist dacoitage snuffed like flavors orbiting self-injury by clockwork towers apace to outlast tertiary bribes for secondary bards
The atocia of freckles in recognition of frail pinnacles summited by daily alpine dilettantist dualisms of polarity are a gullywasher to cleanse and launder indelible regrets carved by aboriginal pottery to memorialize primordial penury
As the slick oleaginous tilts of wicked smart Northeasters swarm the hindsight of Southern Weather afflicted by tempests beleaguered first on recapitulations of Calvary and then deposited evidence upon bourgeoisie
Fumes of the modest flambeaus torching sunken apostasies of hungry spasms of the wind meeting the brusque celerity of the ribald waves rarely etch sublime hint in etch-a-sketch lapses of untimely mobility
Instead that perspicacity of conservatory silence bludgeons Lisbon in the fright before the fall of so many a Phoenix in a foreign land can bear the assaults of the heaved seas
Lambent upon a craggy regularity extinguished by sentinels of the tattered womb for a grimace of prestige by primipara seduction we find no justice of known and knowable terminal disease
Figurative in spoken wisps that predate evaporated concepts of precipitous time the triumph of exalted adoration belongs to hubris but vacant of the prideful decline of crime
To each outspoken verve witnessed on sublunary turf the absolution is nearer to fertility than the craggy soil is to dirt as blemished prowess is a furlough to the sensitive pink tucked manifold beneath each authentic skirt
Liberated by ophelimity but flexed by vicarious pomp in serenade only of hauteur for the hottest we slice and dice a cavern of temptations regardless of enumerated patterns of clearly lopsided dice
We think we live and die but You Only Live Twice in ******* to the oriental bolides of meteoric meteorology preeminent in governing plantations of rice
In jubilant proclamation, I graft from venereal skin a renewed girth of purpose that all enchanted fantasia is a birthright of pleasure more than a vapid drawl of purpose
Glitter bores the scintillation of a denuded naked glory of gore because intimacy is antecedent and consequent to immovable revolutionary procreation of service
To conclude this homily the apothecary in persiflage renounces the role of kilns in both poverty and pottery because his shaken dreams are yelps of a disgusted ornery camaraderie
Listless by oracular dreams of titanic parvenus immune to the sway of tentative croons of Suburban Muse because the grisly subversion of vetust honor that honors not verdict but version of ghastly spools of flimsy epitaphs and not the paragon surgeon is the downfall of a diatribe of petty men
Littering their taradiddles on owleries in overclocked jaundice drowning for purpose among hatcheries of the privvy roosters that own the consequence of audacious pens
Dodgy in interrogation, flummoxed with deracination, isolated by time for time’s recapitulation of surrender in katzenjammer vibes it is time for gossamer servant surfers to borrow nine and hang ten
But the noose of the wednongue nun specializes in puritanical Model Ts for DeLoreans trendsetting years ago because listless lethargy benights the glory that cineastes already won
Teeming on the brink of tomorrow is the progeny of hopeless yesteryear engraved on the iconoclasm of the weak after the next debacle because the Earth after Christ has already borne a Ton
Liturgies revised to reflect corsair trigonometry aimed forever at zephyrs of plight bathe in July 3rd infamy doctored by Generators and Generations before and beyond Walter White menacing the saber with imperious might
Flowered in the nuisance of death is the womb of the arena participant to infinite relapses of contention gladiatorial only when the shunamitism of shanachies sheds serpentine grit for the blench of ligonies of redoubled sight
Towering from the knave inferno of a tramontane elusive cordial imitation of captive citizens of attentive sites the illusion is the vanguard of centuries guarded gingerly by Canada Dry sprites
Rollicking in vehement magpiety attuned to machismo if marginally the sultry philander of naked ruse medicates the charmed Apache Indian on his brief encounters with limousine cruise
Stark in sunken destination glimpsing coal-fire recursive ironies the cloned subversion is a golden calf so effete because it never moos about instinctual muse relegated by twin terrors riddled with sparkplug truce
Limited by scopes enlarged by scales mired in funereal pyres to rigmarole sensationalism worthy of nativist coercion and pivoted lyres the riddle of terminus remains an acquiescent scoff, cough and quaff that never expires
It reaches planetary dread of vast distances regaled against gambits of the spread so the richest sourdough appeases the riper vipers of the nested bed
Recalcitrant with frugal uxorious creed the leader of esquivalience is the headless horseman of innumerable tractions but no mouth to feed
He digests the gallop of the gallant interregnum specious in caitiff ploys and the recessive allele of commiserations against the piety of apolaustic joy because rambunctious speed always attracts a resignation professed from the tailspin of a crass voyage of ludic greed
Tricksters boast of passionate lubrications of finessed bread recocted from useless toasts glowering with insipid pallor as heat and humidity reckon billows of hype congregated more in cisterns of apostasy for remark than a marksman headshot of a Head Hunter wed tightly to a pregnable visions of proactive Ghost
Recidivism and time have a vendetta against verdant drolleries coated by waxen plenilune accordions rampant with polyacoustic rhymes
The tridents of mercurial weather bent on the ineffable vacillations of whether are the brazen opponent of Sterling fatherhood of life’s only father the clockwork animation of a living patronage of eternal existence cobbled from immutable time
To the glory of the Father the sun shades its whimpers and the moon alights as the frontispiece of nocturnal revisions to the New York Times but the hues of rocketed ingenuity coax the ingratiated few to the laureates of genius reckoned with both designation and superlative artifacts of pristine design
Haunted by Green-Light Politics for Greener-Eyed Ladies masquerading in star-crossed tomes of existential dread of lollygagged playful mischief tucked in the coach as he leads his team with sophrosyne feel-good invictive treacle we witness the fumiducts of fortune blitzing Hail Mary contrition with earnest specialty in defense of offensive precision
Games won by the squirrel are outnumbered by the stars in the heavens flagrantly devoid of specialized electricity enough to encapsulate the ommateum of collectivized insights found only in the most evolved sequence of cell division
Incarcerated by the scrappy schlep of bad beats and bronzed chariots roiled by the momentum of angular spears we seek oracular transcendence that cements decades into the span of days that portend the deliverance of future years from past and present fears
Presiding as proctor in the redacted exoneration of crash-course pilots glowering with the effluvium of recensed perdition the heyday of one becomes the mayday of anarchy tested only by the alacrity of the summation of its beloved yet maligned cheers
Against a prosperity hard-won by earnest husbandry commandeered by gammerstang notoriety spawning the recrimination of star power into centupled peers negligent of zero-sum opinionation wagered by Country Club fraternities embedded in the taxonomy of wilted hackumber for hegiras minimized by outcry but cemented by Dear Johns’ twinged with sultry pleonexia in taxed tears
So with the whipsaw of the individual between the collective funnel and the idiosyncratic insubordination that amplifies outcry galvanized throes of insemination built on cross-pollination is melliferous to a pretense of alchemy outstretched to sidereal wonder
Hardest to guess is intimacy clothed in Platonic virtues crumbling because puritanical pilgrimage is appraised as a joyous thunder for a abnegation from all potential blunders
To wager such a life is a depredation of the abundance that John breathes as a ceremonial birthright cast aside by latent regrets stampeding the realm of nosocomial reflections of the pallor of a lurid squander
So we are left to bemuse the decrepit bodewash of realism taken to such a virulent extreme it leaves few artifacts of nostalgia to croon about and ponder and fewer abstractions to yield to manicures of elegant troponder
Diminutive sinews in the intertesselations of heft profess a fidelity of notoriety carving life before and after death
Unsung by the beadledom of the usucaption of exotic tailored musician brutes upon my landlocked assault of chryselephantine usufruct I lampoon nescience as it lurks in murky graveyards of anoegenetic zombies covered in thick pigments of piggish soot
Yet this fuliginous bronteum of warped clarity transfixed by the ulterior wednongues of atrocious spans of provenance jilting providence makes betting interests of rivalry outcomes harder to win earnest roots
The trees of the gamboled skittish resignation of checkered blinks obscuring the curtailed discernment of bedizened slogans of future campaigns yet distasteful in ornery churning the bootstrapped tie their tethered laces to their acquired boots
Barnstorming through afflicted spandrels of abeyance shepherded by notions of public dereliction by imperium of centrobaric centripetal philters of concubine rhymes I surge beneath cordial flonky redhibition because of redshorts in estimable traction cemented by supernal design
Weak in luster my potent pollination for synergistic aplomb evades the fringe of corrugated affections mounted upon quixotic escapades of jockeyed statistics flourishing by reticence rather than frazzling the prolix emulation filibustering the mundane ignorance but garnering the harvest of the plevisable sequence from prime to prime indivisible by liberty alone or complicit with cadence sublime
Finishing the sermons of modern apostasy to a gallant cause my laments outnumber the muzzles belonging to the quorum of begrudged applause in the rawest spectacle of unheralded genius clawing insistently at the heart of electric gravity
The nuances of plausible nuisance bicker in emerald harlots of the tantamount nature of derelict frikmag to calculated prosodemic solidarity around insanity because the vein of the golden ore should see ivoride as nullification and inanity
We all stoop on counterfeit stencils of pretense hearkening a clairvoyant sun to droop for closer inspection but detective remonstrance is outmoded by dreary witless defections
Thus the drawl scrawled by the genius flonky in gadzookerie but gilded in rhapsodies of ineffable cadence fighting orthodoxy to a relegated draw sketches the outline of the special talents of lying claws
Because stipulated in the vast oversight that predicates reprisals of retches glazing in obtuse effronteries with eccedentesiast odontoloxia we witness the corrosion of race and gender into pontificating audits of nomadic treason in a fortress militarized by niche applause
Trickling from repcrevel faucets implicit degradation is a casual casualty of an abbreviated motive gestured in ponderous stupidity to distract abiding legislation into the giggled gaggle of tinsellated glitter
Fatuous by vacuums of gaudy prizes worthy only of token motions rather than locomotive strains of virulent and compassionate respect lapsed on vigors of vehement regret is a sing-song ridicule of a still-framed pillory erected as the obstacle that gouges the riddles of impediment and deprives the luxury of preferential emolument siphoned off to lurid jeers of mockery propaganda sizzling in the cauldrons of tilted marginalization
So we witness the faded declension of the hubris of fair-weather camaraderie as a flux dispersal of invidious buoyant bloviated streaks of temporal grit into inverted revelry never shared by the proper ubiquity of streams of personal recompense for plodding fragments of invasion
If I veer away from bickering cackles of denounced preeminence swiveled to face the shadows upon the great cavern of insuperable bounds of fickle human ignorance I deplore the vaunted toadies that shrink my shadow and diminish my viable conceptual and vibrant footprints
Few extinct creatures know the annihilation of petty fame quaffed on Whiskey Bars I never met because the insipid banal pleonasms of restructured irony grimace at my complexion as the scent of the game alerts the foibles of a champion begotten once before as a shark-tank prince
Livid is my grief in the aborning moral quandary of sunken priority overlapping with piebald skeumorphs of retches of blinkered allegiance faltering prior to the primary day of my true awakening because the completion of nesiote subterfuge  rusts on creaky hinges of noncommittal regressions of pointed but pointless deluge
I spar with the augury of irrelevance with a five-pointed star bequeathing rigid but plentiful provision to assist with more than a petty dime of tithe to a 20/20 flash of perfect prescience and hallowed vision
The eve of all destruction is the lollygag of subordinate squawks redacting convenient priorities on the slowpoke walks through teenage immaturity found in the infamous “talk” that the world is governed by evasion in supremacy rather than by the bywords of the perennial stocks in sublime stalks
This nation perishes with my visionary clarity because the bifocal constraints of delimited defenestration remands my custody beneath ****** upheaval documented by useless historians of deliberation in gaffe and ammunition for agitprop flickering away the aubades of praise for the stilted pretense of sclerotic values inflexible to authorship thus scuttled by crowdsourced dictatorship
How sad a spate that the welters of sciamachy hide behind the glaring shadow of immeasurable genius for an unwarranted earwig to steal the echoes of my thunder and poison the servitude of the minions to companionship to highlight aggrieved infamy over walloping feats of refrain found in an isolated rather than protracted celebrity
The guilt of the reproachable beams through the frikmag of tyrannical bouts of circular wernaggle as I carve spherical reckoning that outstretches in all viable directions so that “The Mailman” and the Male Man both succeed in historic insurrection
Flashy benumbed brutish ferules of ferocious dainty dances with an arbitrary cage highlighted among a voiceless heyday for an auditorium which perceives insanity more dangerous than inanity is a profane stipulation by wrinkled mediagenic hubris which scours planetary limitations for excuse to recourse and recourse to excuse
We find marvels in subtlety finicky on the apothegms of heterochrony divergent even further from syndication as the regimented nuances of abuse become plucky daredevils that cozen robust vital sapwood from anglers seizing by seizure the roundabout logic of the innumerable minority characterized forever obtuse
I writhe in delicate contortions of flexed directional bypass surmounting orthodromic velocities capering with the anenometers that spar against spangled enthusiasm only to become an anointed slave of the flagging moral resolve fulminating a huffed crusade with silentiums of false asylum for true achievement brusque against any resourceful tempest scurrying the hidebound illusion of pandemonium for scrappy shenanigans of vergers and emptied pews griping with the dearth of the day-to-day despite the known tomorrow
We cannot affix primary focus upon constellated wasms of puckered abstention borrowed from a maskirovka of secret hedonism wed to many vices among wives but deprived of sacrosanct remuneration for abiding expenses yet an atoll upon a continent decisive in its aborning revolution
Ribald wiseacres of a jovial dismay flanged on rectiserial exaggerations of sebastomania is a stranded frigate of a fugitive escapism wandering with nomadic insistence against cosseted blackguard of assertion without plenipotentiary verdicts against the suborned crater of overstated flimsy truculence in sardonic dissolution
In trespass of a reservation of recoiled tender of tutelage proctoring unseemly haggardly refuse to creak into noisome and noisy cacophony armed by centurions of merciless scorn that lackadaisical winter belies the meteoric riches of autumn mainour fungible with the retches of remorseful decay dangling retreat above entreaty for exasperated wednongues lacking curiosity or the backbite of counterfeit engastrimyths seeding an unknowing complicity to fallacy forked over by chiefs and chefs to an amounted dubiety reserves the armaments of glib sedition for inopportune blacklists by a whitewashed Listerine amenable to launder travestime into oversight rather than belabor banal graft upon the agelasts of a toilsome operose labor to trivialize Herculean monuments to creativity as backwater residence of restive plucky percurrent revivals of infamy as a primary thorn rather than a secondary abreaction
Sentinels swift to the expedited squalor intrepid in sclerotic simpers of renowned defalcation bludgeoned by the tridents of harmonized trauma healing the brayed complaint while regaining the quixotic statute of plevisable mobility belongs to the froward counterpunch to the flippant underminnow of savagery yet among noble personage a blip on furloughs rather than a singed diacope perishing in Wasting Light for denuded darkness to supplant the vacated stage of ironic upbringing bartered from a treasury of obsolete wasms of trivial shadows in the amounted lineage of time.
Elected by the purblind fudged cadge of intransigent solidarity behind unhinged proclamations of lewd lunacy the reset of wibble-wabble and conflagrations of trenchant visibility will cloud the cloudiest tempest with hurricane-force devastation by the healing stripes of the piebald idiosyncrasy of gerrymandered defamation failing where insular regeneration outlasts hamartia and blinkered foibles of girouettism to pillory the excess but not transmogrify the whittled progress of seminal generativity unbounded by harped lyres of discord for secret concords of select femicide
With outstretched hands I point to the tapestry of the Heavens as eternal folksy witness that to endear the temperance of time bullishly roaring on the laureates of prolific servitude to the malleable substance of capered argument the enigmatic punctuation outweighs the baragnosis of miscreant opportune glares at personal prospect for aggrieved sockdolagers of redstrall over the filigrees of innate geometry to cackle above the shouted gnash and the dissoluble squirms of blackened cremation of living memories into insipid fracking of sapwood caitiffs flowing on the motion of discredit rather than honor in valuable endeavor for future genuflection
Totems value me as much as they stalk grazed hinderbaggle of cosmetic devolution of ragged popcorn theatrics in the desuetude of normative ethics beneath the carcass of rotten dastardly cowardice brandishing an ulterior discretion beneath the level of the lowest stoop of any breed founded on loyalty verging into flagrant snipers of integrity for the integral unshakable paragon of broad illumination the guidepost for many spectral truths overshadowed by one miserly fool flummoxing with albatross without the overhang  of pluvious integrity shepherding his hauteur in zig-zagged wallops rather than buoyant serenades
Thus entrenched in juicy poignant barricades against virulent spawn of the katzenjammers of squawking femicide I spout the blossom, bequeath the gift, renounce the delusion and form a formidable bastion against depredated valleys blemished from sight by intolerable patches of darkened verdure hiding from commonwealth perception the pearl of ecumenical salvation swimming in the naked tongues of honest profession dancing with conventional demarcated demerits of Rimbaud ramshackle deracination as a humdrum belittled squander of a prop of craven filibuster rather than beavers outsmarting the delignated destruction of habitat because of outright distaste for plucky individuation above the squalor of relativism in minor octaves of gnashed betrayal rigged by hamsters rather than owned by the men trigger-happy with rat race motivation only to the servitude of degrees rather than plausible recovery embedded into the fabric of fickle society
Hidebound tomes fishing for destruction but grappling with the enormity of the plagued pitfall of ceramic skirmish with brittle conscience emerge with epincion rather than sulk in brooded hyperbole of convenient drapes of flocks postulating irrelevance clearly in the light of the truest day frolicking with gigantic swaddles of curated support etching masterpieces of traipse into the frescades of future calenture beyond the petty misestimation of hemitery politics
Thus the weapon serves two masters of row rather than regatta and the besieged rankles the testy predicament to a teased poetry riveted by years of rhapsody rather than moments of tomfoolery emergent victorious rather than dilapidated by what-could-have-been chary brinkmanship on the precipice of modern sacrilege
To instruct the herds of men to hoard and the wisdom of the wise to circulate that apothegm of reclamation owns superlative traction fundamental to whimsical festivity even forsaken on a churlish masquerade outmantled by frenetic activity famigerated by the true Richter Scale of public fanfaronade because justice is truth and only in germane truth beyond germ scares will decrepit scarecrows demolish their Fear Factor even when the gullible squirm for nexility on bounded continents rather than novantique frontiers
Conscription demarches for assembly beyond relegation and celebrity above frays of discordant rumination feasting advenient rather than cherishing internal and integral the virtuoso wrabble of residue generations churning wheels of acceleration rather than quibbling extinguished vitality as principal complaint exercised in negligent abodes of facetious barnacles to outlandish freckles in the majestic pulchritude of a Titanic salvation beyond and considering the curglaff of sunken resources pitted to my registry by slot-machine audiences incognizant of brittle whittled henpecks of adoring truth and perdurable verve
We sink and die by destructive tongues but abide and live by righteous exemplary prowess capable of scraping the towering canvass of the firmament and the retches of the deepest sea inhabited by any curiosity worthy of emolument
So in token liturgy I decry sidelong cursory squandered affronts that drive the Jehus madcap with fractious celerities of formal destitution rampant on flonky menace rather than modern hypertrophy
In The End, we see triumph in every nuance and bristling concord with every perspiration of ennobled effort truckling into serrated selachostomous and fractious bromides of wrecking-ball fashionistas fumigating cultural pederasty with subtle bailiwick but ragged travesties of taxidermy celluloid
Marvel in-between the serenade and grandstand and cull the turnverein of triumph from banished evasive rundles of the outlasted calculus to neuter the estranged and to estrange the atocia of vibrant surreal vibes no stranger to an alien hand in a desolate world.
David Hilburn Jun 2022
Lost, refound
Boding a sense of austerity...
That predicted a conscience, of how
The wait and waters, of possibility...

Finish me
My salt's worth, is a heroism to find
The world in a tailspin, a poised anarchy?
That sees the seldom of assurance to mind...

Long and bared
The tooth of passion
Has been lost, somewhere
And a secret with my needs, has an intuition

Berate a friend for slowness...?
A tale of homage and vestige, to count
As another ideal live and let live, of kindness
Has come and gone, to consider a chastity in the round?

Curiosity, is at an all-time high?
Time with a haphazard sign of the times?
Bared elucidation will become our justice for nigh?
Asked by a truer us, the past to few, is but intellects shines?

Until...
A silence is broken by the seizure of occults
Of vice and sigh's of vindication, a bitter pill?
We can spend on moral's, the better purpose without walls

Pittances and pains, patience and poorness
Through an angel's eyes, devil's become a shadow
Of complexity we should know, for a world to guess
A faring sunshine to tell a story about a staring shame, love?
Places to warm the spirit, until a new day dawn's
As I sit waiting in my lonely castle, gripping onto the parapets, I pray that I can keep myself away from the fringe of reality

And though I am not lost, it still drives me bonkers that I cannot raise myself up as some sort of merciful avatar; some sort of pillar that cannot be driven into a tailspin as gravity falls around it

Yet, I find that I have leverage in this scenario—that my choices do not fall on pale wings supported by goodfeathers

Somehow this calms me and keeps me feeling supported in a world of alphas, and I know that my final words—even if they do not end with me yelling eureka—will have the effectiveness and power of the big bang theory

And I carry on in thought, yearning for some sort of fairy tail that doesn’t need to begin with “once upon a time,” but that can still lead to a grassy meadow where I can my lay my hands on just one firefly

So I pull on the cape that I was given from this King of Queens, ready to chuck myself over the ledge of the tower, fearing that these pocket monsters I carry with me will do nothing to save my fall

And even though I’m mad about you, and even though I feel like I’m stuck somewhere in the middle, I trust that my life will be saved solely on the fact that I am a person of interest to all

For now I see the end and fear the worst, surrounded by freaks and geeks, by a full house in dire need of home improvement

And despite the fact that family matters, I find that I would give it all away to help a lost girl if it meant saving me

In the end I grab the block of black and, with regret, I end it all with the click of a button
See if you can find all twenty-seven hidden shows!
Sam Feb 2015
chugging
twanging
thumping
snarling -

no drugs needed; the tempo sends me into a tailspin of bliss.

a frightened ear would perceive a dirge but
to the acquainted
it can only be a hymn.
written in a doom metal haze after subjecting myself to hours of homework
Lucy Tonic Nov 2011
Locomotive wing
Has got me in full swing
Seeking bulbs of brightness
And I've no idea why
Yesterday in rays of sun
Now I'm navigating some
Odd moonlight
Peering through the trees
Straight trajectory
Feeds my energy
Until I see a stronger source
Then I'm thrown right off the course
One eye blind
And one wing beating faster
Till I'm almost fully gone
Haywire tailspin, in a song
Of neighbors scorched and burned
I guess we'll never learn
Now I've got my own throne
Helping others find a home
A tiny sliver of power
Amongst these ultraviolet flowers
Now I'm feeling kind of stuck
Reaching for the same old ****
Guess it's just a matter of --
Now they're telling me that they can make a purse out of a sow's ear, aye, says I, but is the wool worsted or are you using silk?

At times it feels like I'm in a soap and the main character is blowing bubbles and at other times it only seems like I feel that way,

thankfully, and I say that in the full knowledge that later I shall be
as squiffy as a squire,
it's Friday and time to forget
it's Friday and time to forget.
M Clement Apr 2013
The unwritten words and unspoken thoughts
Are what threaten to destroy anything I've built
Including all you've had a hand in

It's funny
You know?
The thing that threatens is that which is not allowed physical existence
Philosophy
Filled with me
Thought upon thought like the final piece before
The Jenga Tower falls

Stacked
Backed
I'll take flak for whatever's necessary

I'm terrified
More than I've ever been before
I went to bed, and all I thought of were demons
Staring at me in the bodies of children
But they lacked eyes

Somebody cut my brakes
I'm in a downward tailspin
Don't worry, I'll give in
But hopefully not to what I want
What You want

I'm praying today, tomorrow, and the day after
I might even say the rosary
(I never do)
But I need this.
I need this relationship
Double the meaning
Bring on the bleeding

I'm so scared to die.
And I'm terrified to die to self.
My life is crazy right now, and though I love it, this is a complete reflection of what's on my mind... I think.
Metanoia Dec 2014
I now realize the best way to express my love for someone is to release them into the wild
free to become what they wish
encouraging them along their path
as a sister or a brother
how absurd to think
I used to want to control everything
driven by envy or fear
always blocking the light
from reaching my eyes
denying my true self
in a perpetual tailspin
with shovel in hand
digging holes for no reason
reluctant to grow
wings of my own
I now realize the best way to express my love for someone is to forgive them
even if they meant me harm
learning to love without conditions
is the sweetest release of all
Will May 2017
In a flightless freefall, the heart plummets to the ground. Would a soft landing negate the fact that the heart did in fact fall? Would just a scratch or cut be justifiable?

No.

The pain would still exist.

Some say the bottom does not appear at all. That our hearts just continue to fall until we find another heart to fall with. These two hearts join together and fall in love.

The joy that exists between the two is boundless, unfettered, and infinite. Shooting at the combined love would cause the projectiles to bounce off. Yelling at one heart would cause the other to fight back.

In this state of perpetual falling the two hearts complete one another. The rips and tears of one are filled by the unhurt parts of the other. In this simple union they are perfect.

But time does not allow for immortal love. One heart will choose to float away, falling at a different pace. Falling out of the love it so joyously engulfed at an earlier time.

This sudden uncoupling causes the other heart to tumble in a tailspin. No longer falling in love, but falling into heartbreak.

Where love feels like resting by a safe fireplace, wrapped up in a blanket and sipping on a warm drink. Heartbreak feels like a cold house filled with bitter memories and empty tears.

One might ask; "Is there any everlasting love? Why must the poor heart always be falling in and out of the love it so desperately covets?"

Some do find love eternal. Some do not. For some it is a person who cares for them. Others find purpose in a job or lifestyle.

But those wounds are still present on their heart. The scars never heal. The pain never truly fades.

The heart never ceases to fall down, with gravity pulling it towards the endless void below.
Hannah Feb 2017
I'm slipping again,
and I am so tired,
that I can't fight it.
I feel more alone,
than ever before,
but I can't tell you that,
because I'm fighting a war,
that you can't help me win.
I don't have the energy,
to try and fill you in,
on this demon
that has been haunting me,
since I can't remember when.
I know how it hurts you,
to see me give in,
to the restricting of my diet,
just to be thin.
I'm fighting this battle,
deep within my skin,
but it's so hard to understand,
just where to begin.
I take one step forward,
then two back again.
This starving of my body,
it's the worst kind of sin.
This demon latches on,
then twists me to spin,
and it's so hard to see forward,
when you're in a complete tailspin.
I haven't decided if this poem deserves to stay.
xo
KlHobbs Apr 2013
Im in a tailspin. Trapped in the push and pull of your moods. Living in a day dream that I've prayed to god would come true. My flights of fancy are too big to contain. The sound of your voice is so intoxicating.

I'm drunk on you. Stuck on you.
You say that you'll call but you won't. You say that you care but you don't. I've talked myself in and out of this mess. But I can't let go. No, not yet. I'm drunk on you.

I understand the position that you're in. The stakes are high love and you might not win. You have every reason to fear But god I just want you here.

I'm drunk on you and all the lines you threw. You say that you'll be here but won't. You say that you know me but don't. You are the sun, moon, and stars to me. Why can't you see? Why don't you see?

I talk myself in and out of this mess but I can't leave now. no not like this. I'm drunk on you.
JL Smith May 2017
My head lowers
And you lift my chin
Doubt festers
As you take me in

Concealed struggle
Catastrophic tailspin
But your belief in me
May help this end

© JL Smith
redemptioneer Oct 2016
Not to sound blunt or anything but
You felt like a car crash

Looking at you was like
Watching tragedy unfold,
Like watching the car tailspin or
Hydroplane and wrap itself
Around a telephone pole
Or bridge
Or person.

It's like you knew this wasn't going to end well
For either of us
I was just trying to get somewhere and
You were just trying to get in the way

Like a barrier between everything,
You were a traffic jam on the way home from church,
A Sunday morning plagued with grief and guilt and all the glamor.

It must have been nice
To talk to all those emergency medics
Whose side of the story did you tell?

The truth or the other truth?
How dare you choose dare.
This isn't a game fit for liars or lovers.
This isn't a game at all.

Something about sterile sheets in a hospital room
And someone waiting outside the door.
Something about screaming
"let me in and let me see."
Something about crying and
"you're not just a body to me."

Why was that all I ever was to you?
Bones and bad lighting and
Holding a hand that doesn't want to be held.
The doctor comes in and tells me
It's time to let go.

I know.
It's an overdue goodbye.
You and I were always meant to end.

Something tells me the hand I was holding
Wasn't yours.
Something tells me I attended my own funeral
And you didn't bother showing up.

Didn't even leave flowers.
Didn't even cry.
Not even a “Hey, I'm sorry life didn't work out for you this time.”

You left me there on the side of the road
And on the side of life,
Exposed and about to expire.
Something tells me we crashed long ago
But you were always the one
Who could walk away from the wreckage.

You could always walk away from everything.
Including me.
for my ex, you were always a disaster but i loved you so.
You thought I couldn't hear you, in the next room over
Body limp with nightmares
Pale and crippled
With memories
You think I couldn't see your agony, your feeble flails
Hear your searing cries

But all your happy words, your
Empty eyes betrayed
Your frantic
Masquerade
You never could let them see just how vulnerable
You really were

In your bedroom's prison comfort
You made red
On your arms, your thighs
Where you thought nobody would see
You tailspin, shatter.

And still you kept your head high
Couldn't let them see you cry
You looked sad when you thought nobody was watching
I knew what that meant,

But somehow I thought it would get better
What else could I do?
By morning you were gone
And I was numb and drowning
I guess it's how you felt.
I understand.

I'm sorry.
Liam C Calhoun Nov 2015
PROLOGUE –

Silliness becomes a later suffering, if only tinkered by potion –

PART I –

A contractual moment whilst halos best remain hung on the hat rack since devils taste so much better. Bitter but belated, ritual yet related, so to in avoidance, fleeing anything that’d mimic life, “ideal;” perfect being a, “nine-five,” during which, “monkeyed with,” comes to a peak and a valley’s once more, a lack of control. A tailspin wherein one truth can become just a shy more intangible mere seconds later – We can see it, we can smell it and we can almost touch it – so allows the specter, the hand holding drink, and later, permitted, for our nakedness to play once more.

PART II –

Four more down and a few gin-fueled gestures later, we stumble upon but one edible truth, an apple and, “sin,” repeated thousand-fold – so succumbs you and a parallel I atop our empty and, “precious,” wants carnal. We masticate and learn to destroy the TV – naked, begrudged and bent over the boxes we worship. We annihilate the machines. We profane the dependencies; placation and participation wrought this artificial coercion, once a friend and now an object – a disdain, a thievery, a prison, vicarious and to be avoided by all costs.

PART III –

Human interaction and fluidic free choice soon become the new, “in,” the primal addiction amongst the bottles of tequila, *****, and plain-old beer. Our grinning, in the flesh and not in pixel, must and will rise like the places we’ve so very poisoned. Here and now, we care. We have to care, because if we don’t, it’s all for nothing. So we top the night twisted, simply breathing, where the smog isn’t seen, but it’s there. We top the night tethered, where the rain doesn’t burn, it believes. And we top the night innocent, and among stars, both in the sky and entangled the heart beating my right,

EPILOGUE –

For the time being, just being, where all seemed right, a little twisted, but wiser nonetheless.
A little long; but a moment I'd never forget.
Anais Vionet Jan 13
I’m a tightrope walker, strung between
the hedonistic abyss of winter break and
the unforgiving canyon of organic chemistry.

The stack of spring syllabuses are a prophecy whispered
in Latin. The story they tell haunts my dreams - wherein
each biochemical is a monster lurking in the shadows.

“I’m not in a tailspin, that would be unfair,” I tell Lisa, “I’m in a lull.”
“It’s like that awkward time, between a hangover and drinking again.” she laughs.

Sure, I envisage late, week night study grinds, and sleepless
hours, but the price of serious things isn’t trivial - success and hard
work are, unfortunately, yoked together, like Shakespeare’s double shadow.

A tough spring curriculum won’t stop me from
taking 3 or 4 minutes to dance with roomates
when a head-banger like ‘Spiral City’ plays or
enjoying sudden, late night jelly bean melees.

And then there are the spring things that spark joy.
Walking to class on a brilliant spring morning,
with birdsong, a warm sun and fragrant breezes.

Laughs stolen in the back of classes,
gossip and secrets exchanged over
guilty coffee and croissant indulgences.

Skipping through crowded halls, drawing looks
‘cause we’re clapping aggressively to each other, singin’
“You got the swag sauce, she dripping swagu, ooh!”

“Ok,” I think to myself, putting my hair in a ponytail,
“I’m ready for spring semester - bring it on.”
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Envisage: picture something it in your mind

“You got the swag sauce, she dripping swagu, ooh”
Are lyrics from the song “Party” by André 3000 and Beyoncé

— The End —