Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
This was supposed to be over.
I was supposed to grow.
I should have overcome this.
This should be a memory.
I was supposed to look back and smile, looking at what I've left behind me.
A draft from three years down the hole, that I hid because I thought I would regret it.
It was supposed to leave with time.
Was that simply an episode? Was it all an episode? Is three years of drowning really the better half of the coin? the alternative to being crushed by the water pressure of the depths? was what I saw as improvement really just my mind displaying its duality only to plunge me back in deeper? am I deeper than before? oh god... am I worse? is this what I get for indulging in candy and soda? for finally finding some serotonin in inconspicuous self medication? is the cold crushing sea tossing me around because I created a storm of withdrawal so far above me I was too focused on finally getting sober to notice? I don't want to swear, there's a child in the room.
It hurts like poison slowly eroding me from the inside out.
Numbing my nerves.
I hate how slowly it moves.
I hate how lost and uncertain the silence makes me.
The skin on my back is as heavy as the early morning sky.
I hate that. To think of the dark A.M. as morning.
Its so cold.
I hate being cold.
4 AM cold where breaths and time are thin.
It reminds me of the hard cold of the dark floors in the dark room in the dark corner of my mind.
It reminds me how little time I have.
How little power.
Subsequently, How little hope.
I feel endlessly cursed to be another's design. Any but my own.
As if I am being tugged violently from side to side.
Tumbling around like a ragdoll.
My lungs rattling around inside of my body.
They hurt.
Why am I still here.
Why am I still coming back.
There are no more boxes to hold my symbolic vice.
I purged my talismans.
Because I thought I had moved.
I thought I had warmth.
Its supposed to be warm here in the right arms in the right conversation.
I thought I could never relapse, double back, because I have no good ******* reason too.
I thought I would finally have to give up making myself miserable.
As all that I have would keep me. Now all that I have has turned into guilt.
As the inviting scents of earthy Ash and hiccups call even though they know I don't have any time. They sound so warm.
I thought the timeline had departed.
But now it seems less likely than ever as I grasp hopelessly at the tangibility I destroyed.
This bodes a time loop.
I would rather be in hell.
There aren't, supposed, to be, such, bad, nights, anymore.
Why am I not growing. I did what I was supposed to. Why is it still raining. Its not fair. Haha Jack stauber reference. Shut up bsnsjjsjs uhhh uh uhmmm hot dogs...
A touch of death,
Specimen in the back shed,
Joggers on the streets.
Seizures of cursed withering adolescents who ate the sweet pomegranate of lust and *******,
And never came home.
Sirens at the sybaritic streamlet,
Swashbuckling seventeens and greed of fanciful adventure.
The delinquentile nature of hopes and aspirations.
The harvester, the hunchbacked prince, the harrowing keeper of time,
Creeps like the night,
Like the stains of black ink that scurry and watch,
Who spy for the other-mother.
The exquisite expectation of an oncoming assassination,
Unsuccessful, beaten, and purged.
Burried in the soft silence of the hushing leaves,
In the swaying trees,
As the fatuous breeze follows aimlessly,
At the ankles of its maker.
The exhaustion of the tangerine technician,
At his mercury writing desk,
Pondering if he begs for the inspiration of the raven, to the very extent it drives him mad,
Pondering if that was not the goal to begin with.
What is the difference?
Oscar and his procrastination citrus.
Sweat-pea and her blood thirsty desires, driven by the hypnotic whispers of the freckles on her cheeks.
When peices of the sky fall as ashes and snowflakes to earth,
And the harmonious halcyon of the rested victims, are freshly plastered with claustrophobia.
As the vicious vindictive fates knit them a merciless sweater.
Factories, employing those who they despise,
And delivering death in their paycheck.
The last humans left scoar the barren dust storm that was once the azure bliss of the promised land.
Do not ask the witch doctor for answers,
Simply receive his remedy and swallow.
hate it here :)th devastation life love death us earth sun moon nature
Passing around a fatal flaw like a joint in a hot box,
Refreshing baths of Coca~Cola and regretful indulgence.
I'm wasting away in a paradise of my own creation!

Poems tinted grey through abstinent romanticism,
and an inexplicable undertone inherent to my prose.
As everything starts to return to a drumming constant.
It all sounds the same.
Like ashen trees and factories which procrastinate and suffocate.

We've been sunbathing in porcelain skies and lonely daydreams.
I know it sounds dramatic but as is the nature of reality.
Drab and dreary and acid washed.
Interrupted like a beach by the sea,
By the little peices of honey soaked warmth that act as comforting distractions.
A smile or a shoulder or a sunny day to drink from.
Summer and solitude, the likeness of warm bodies in a cold pond.
So.
Compose me an opera of Soda Cans and of choral song. Of coffee and two bass lines and pollen and folk.
Make it for me so I can watch you as you work.
Let me listen and bask in its ludacris vanity, and clean shallow waters.
How I would relish the time spent muddying the current. Destroying the tide out of boredom.
And black hot frustration.

Flowers painted in acid and acrid accounts of repetative revalations in the context of rude rosy cheeked acceptance.
Blonde haired ignorance and one dimensional delusions.
Blue eyed terrorists armed with air and arrogance.

Give me seatwarmers and handholding
Or corvettes and convertables.
Give me arrowheads and heart attacks
Humble my bones with a cardiac

!F.R.I.E.N.D.S.!
SITCOMS
ADJASENT PLOTLINES
mumble rap
AND ***** TALK HOTLINES
seven letter words with little context or meaning and selfless expression that's often demeaning

Its September in January and it rains for a day
And despite our efforts
We still waste away
Lightning playful through a poisoned bloodstream,
Veins on torturous, burning fire.
Whispers through my home, hauntings of the faux trauma and unresolved crucifix standing ready to bear.
Left unfulfilled by the crushing unrefusable statement of self sabotage.
The flaming star of the avatar, the nomadic extreme of the eternal hellscape that resides in my hunted stomach.
The predator and the prey, predetermined and praying.
Just another eternity until the monsoon departs, the season ended. From there the calm waves will carry me to shore.
The dark restful, kiln, I am your dough, as I am your clay, a grateful panettone.
Mold me, endow me the drug, the decree, the great recipe of relinquishment.
No Elysium, I denounce Gehenna,
I crave nothing but the sweet, serene, comatose clemency of unending hibernation.
Cold blooded sunbathing in the radiant rays of the great bird's wings.
The boiling embrace of his feathered fire.
The brutal, unrelenting, chaotic, climactic, adrenalitic pull into the hot murky depths.
Scald me, lash me, revive me in death.
For I can wait no longer.
Living in fear of the Reaper is worse than The Harvest its self.
So come unto me my lord, my peace,
And engulf me in the ******* rest of departure.
Pretty hot. Haha get it .a ha ha
Strangers on the subway
Who I never met and never will
Say, "hey, martha", like they're hailing a taxi
And I say, "hey" back, because, I am martha.
The lights go out in the tunnels, because, the conductor thinks it's funny and,
Three murders happened in that time but, no one cared
And the conductor still does it.
That train after 1 am
The grey and green one that smokes and used to have a future,
That was, good at writing or something in high school, but, never made it to college, you know the one.
That train rolls up and its five minutes late, but it's always five minutes late so no one complains,
And I stub my toe on the way in, I forgot to, mind the gap, and
A strange stranger bumps into me,
They say, "watch where you're going sean"
And I say
"Sorry"
Because, I'm sean,
And we all get on and no one says a word, and most of the passengers are rodents
But maybe some are marsupials
I dont know the difference.
And we sit in there for ten minutes maybe, avoiding eye contact like it's the plague,
Excepting, of course, those few that make eye contact the whole ride, like you're interesting or, appetising, or, they're blind and those are actually glass eyes that just happen to be looking your way.
And, when the train starts it lurches, it belches down the cars, because it, doesnt think anyone can hear it because its five meters underground and, no one could hear anything from down there.
And as we sit and we ride the silence turns to music, like the lack of even rustling, or bustling, or conversation to a friend, becomes the sound of collective recognition, often purposefully ignored, that no one on that train is going.
The train moves, but they dont, and, even though their stop is right around the corner, no one on that bench will ever find their corner piece, or land that gig, or get the girl, or save the day
Because in the looming washed out morning,
They're all just, simply, nothing more than, strangers, on the subway.
The letter I never sent,
I write my valentine on your beating heart,
And send a perennial prayer,
That you could know without knowing.

Petals on your doorstep,
But no signature,
Pink Rosehip on your bedsheets,
Spying through your window blinds,
At someone unreal.

A label that travels as my desperations move it,
How I value the sick,
The unnatural,
The corpse and the consent.

The tenacious nature of a train,
With a hundred destinations,
None finite,
Moving and passing every station,
Leaving like it never stopped,

The will to pull me off it,
The weight of every expectation,
The ommitance after the deprication,
And the incommodious silence after the exposè.

I lust for that iced libation,
The roseate water of ivy and redemption,
A clay to fit inside my insatiable skin hunger,
A welcomed error of continuity in my own beliefs.

The rain of rapture will flood the streets to the chorus of weeping,
The composition of the crestfallen,
And my perennial prayer,
For an ardent antiphon.

-Unabaitingly, The Romantically Inept
Next page