whatdeo - Hello Poetry

In texts so normal we find Unraveled yarns they left behind To swallow a dry pill that bruises a dream It tends to be the easiest of things I’ve left my yarn in tranquil holes Dug so deep and filled with snow Underneath lie the bodies of old I tell myself Who could have known? Mended with gauze and fixed with scraps The vessel caves in and the flies come back The whither and tremble of a soft human hand Which quivers so lightly through weakened grasps I ask this old woman now barely stable Did your yarn precede the marvel Of a young child, bold and able? Did it graze him and make him wiser? Powdered bone you hid under covers How the leaves and meadows of your memories Reach for both ankles, pushing you gently Towards a beckoning boney finger that urges you closer Will such saccharine visions bury six feet under? So it goes The yarns unravel now, as they always have From birth to the backwards prance of descent She holds me, whispering me her loves, her life And my tears unfurl with hers as I ache, hearing such words Who could have known?

0

Oct 8, 2018

Oct 8, 2018 at 8:58 PM UTC

thanatophobia

In texts so normal we find Unraveled yarns they left behind To swallow a dry pill that bruises a dream It tends to be the easiest of things I’ve left my yarn in tranquil holes Dug so deep and filled with snow Underneath lie the bodies of old I tell myself Who could have known? Mended with gauze and fixed with scraps The vessel caves in and the flies come back The whither and tremble of a soft human hand Which quivers so lightly through weakened grasps I ask this old woman now barely stable Did your yarn precede the marvel Of a young child, bold and able? Did it graze him and make him wiser? Powdered bone you hid under covers How the leaves and meadows of your memories Reach for both ankles, pushing you gently Towards a beckoning boney finger that urges you closer Will such saccharine visions bury six feet under? So it goes The yarns unravel now, as they always have From birth to the backwards prance of descent She holds me, whispering me her loves, her life And my tears unfurl with hers as I ache, hearing such words Who could have known?

28

Replaying a riff four times perfectly One missed fret and the entire day ends disastrously Replaying moments of kindness and warmth To overcome the feverish idea that I hold no heart Every fourth step, threes end in ****** Maimed images constantly creep This subconscious ludovico technique These thoughts come and go in no particular order A seat at the table and a serviette on my lap What if I leapt out my chair and suddenly attacked? What if I aimed the knife towards my hand? I constantly question if that’s who I am I will have a picnic with her today, all joy and cheer When these intrusive thoughts will inexplicably get near And terrorize my attitude as well as my image Disassociating with a perplexed and horrified visage I’m so incredibly tired of existing A cruel and ironic fate I’ve missed out on so many opportunities All because of this miserable headspace

0

Sep 16, 2018

Sep 16, 2018 at 1:05 PM UTC

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

Replaying a riff four times perfectly One missed fret and the entire day ends disastrously Replaying moments of kindness and warmth To overcome the feverish idea that I hold no heart Every fourth step, threes end in ****** Maimed images constantly creep This subconscious ludovico technique These thoughts come and go in no particular order A seat at the table and a serviette on my lap What if I leapt out my chair and suddenly attacked? What if I aimed the knife towards my hand? I constantly question if that’s who I am I will have a picnic with her today, all joy and cheer When these intrusive thoughts will inexplicably get near And terrorize my attitude as well as my image Disassociating with a perplexed and horrified visage I’m so incredibly tired of existing A cruel and ironic fate I’ve missed out on so many opportunities All because of this miserable headspace

20

I've left a trail of honesty Leading towards the grave Hoping that within it A piece of me remains

0

Aug 17, 2018

Aug 17, 2018 at 4:23 PM UTC

The Common Fate

I've left a trail of honesty Leading towards the grave Hoping that within it A piece of me remains

4

No one else beside your fear It shakes the pace of a heartbeat And sends heads spinning in a clockwork motion You unravel from the inside out Shaking feverishly, muttering to yourself That everything will be alright I hear the crying of a child ringing in my ears And realize it comes from my gaping mouth I am powerless to stop this behavior Unable to move, I ask for help For a hand to hold, for a person to embrace me as protection The room stretches and distorts so far away I pray for my conscience to stay intact Yet, ironically, it is the very thing that crumbles my balance Pushing me off, falling towards the cement I scream so loudly, I ache so loudly My bones are shattering and I’m about to break And I can feel the whole office watching And I can feel this sense of drowning A white noise piercing me like needles My heart and my reality are a ball of yarn that keeps unraveling I can’t look at this world the same anymore, it keeps cracking open I feel the tearing of the skin begin I collapse as the gasoline pours all over me And I can feel this sense of drowning

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Jul 31, 2018

Jul 31, 2018 at 9:00 PM UTC

This Sense of Drowning

No one else beside your fear It shakes the pace of a heartbeat And sends heads spinning in a clockwork motion You unravel from the inside out Shaking feverishly, muttering to yourself That everything will be alright I hear the crying of a child ringing in my ears And realize it comes from my gaping mouth I am powerless to stop this behavior Unable to move, I ask for help For a hand to hold, for a person to embrace me as protection The room stretches and distorts so far away I pray for my conscience to stay intact Yet, ironically, it is the very thing that crumbles my balance Pushing me off, falling towards the cement I scream so loudly, I ache so loudly My bones are shattering and I’m about to break And I can feel the whole office watching And I can feel this sense of drowning A white noise piercing me like needles My heart and my reality are a ball of yarn that keeps unraveling I can’t look at this world the same anymore, it keeps cracking open I feel the tearing of the skin begin I collapse as the gasoline pours all over me And I can feel this sense of drowning

25

Swan songs gently glide over pools of stardust Their necks rubbing lightly on each other’s feathered melodies I excitedly compare such yarns to the velvet passions that elate us Such a kitten smile, I sink into your light, enveloping in you spiritually

0

Jul 26, 2018

Jul 26, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC

Decadent Warmth

Swan songs gently glide over pools of stardust Their necks rubbing lightly on each other’s feathered melodies I excitedly compare such yarns to the velvet passions that elate us Such a kitten smile, I sink into your light, enveloping in you spiritually

4

Women are born with heavy feathered wings Hands that hide starlit craters Celestially they spin in infinity and find each other Stroking the softness, in awe at the wonder of the unashamed mystique That perpetuates newly hatched faces A world without the incessant need for reassurance Which towers intimidatingly over the forest border Small ordinances that keep themselves airless No longer striving for the greater force of flight Clipping away their feathers with garden shears, hosing down the blood Tuscan architecture abandoned countless ages ago Ancient in idea and aesthetic I’ve wandered many miles to reach such exotic visions that have been dead for so long The heads of kings lined up on the edge of a waterfall Their bodies still holding onto the swords they clipped their wings with long ago A little further, a river emerges and spills cold water from the azimuth of God There was a communicator present at the time of cleansing, unbeknownst to me To accept ones sins is to be cleansed of them, don’t you agree? He asked this with shaking shoulders, his robes unraveling to reveal the scars on his chest One for each pectoralis I looked away in tragedy I enter the wooden gate, into the Macedonian fortresses of old My torso has been replaced with a harp, which I feel these princes pluck so sensitively I hear the timber echo throughout my chest and vibrate in my throat My back has merged without consent to a beast that bends backwards The harp strings have been torn I am now mute Raising the weary head of the sleeping dog and the sleeping disdain I slept in an isolated piece of land untouched by human hands And sank into the forest floor In which the grass and all living creatures decided I had left the physical form My eternal resting place

0

Jul 24, 2018

Jul 24, 2018 at 5:54 PM UTC

Charcoal Feathers

Women are born with heavy feathered wings Hands that hide starlit craters Celestially they spin in infinity and find each other Stroking the softness, in awe at the wonder of the unashamed mystique That perpetuates newly hatched faces A world without the incessant need for reassurance Which towers intimidatingly over the forest border Small ordinances that keep themselves airless No longer striving for the greater force of flight Clipping away their feathers with garden shears, hosing down the blood Tuscan architecture abandoned countless ages ago Ancient in idea and aesthetic I’ve wandered many miles to reach such exotic visions that have been dead for so long The heads of kings lined up on the edge of a waterfall Their bodies still holding onto the swords they clipped their wings with long ago A little further, a river emerges and spills cold water from the azimuth of God There was a communicator present at the time of cleansing, unbeknownst to me To accept ones sins is to be cleansed of them, don’t you agree? He asked this with shaking shoulders, his robes unraveling to reveal the scars on his chest One for each pectoralis I looked away in tragedy I enter the wooden gate, into the Macedonian fortresses of old My torso has been replaced with a harp, which I feel these princes pluck so sensitively I hear the timber echo throughout my chest and vibrate in my throat My back has merged without consent to a beast that bends backwards The harp strings have been torn I am now mute Raising the weary head of the sleeping dog and the sleeping disdain I slept in an isolated piece of land untouched by human hands And sank into the forest floor In which the grass and all living creatures decided I had left the physical form My eternal resting place

32

In time we stand still forgetting the memories That burden the frontier with poison and tragedy Lest we forget that the deed had been signed By prospectors and cowboys who’ve long since died Aiming a loaded shell towards eradication An idea that precedes psychopathy in terms of petition Yet ponders so freely to children so willing to point them the barrel and fire such rounds I urgently take the bounty for the hunting of the buffalo Using their skulls for declination, a sturdy stronghold Yet deep in heart I realize that it spawns back to devils That pay only to spoil their countless fruits of survival The cause paints our flag a brilliant blue The blood breeds red and helps assimilate too From their ponytails, against remorse, I could yank off their heads And perhaps repay the herd of bison for their dead We danced mountain songs naked under pale blue moonlight Imitating their gestures in the style of caricature The stars glistening, reflecting in pools of gory mucus The rotting carcasses that attract forest vultures Which we willingly hunt and devour without hesitance A rack of scalps hung from the duster, cloth sodden with their fluids Marking migration patterns on various maps to follow and stalk with Here we sing to the villages of which we’ve burned down Hoping that God, in His grace, could forgive such savage hounds The calls of doves forfeit an olive branch Which I gleefully wave just as they have My own Trojan horse stitched together with leather That wasn’t dried enough, and now radiates a stench that reminds us of their innards I’ve slaughtered and mangled all over this place Made worse by their stories of which I desecrate Publishing such influent texts that examine the earlier beds Of which they rose, so little prose, such daft fools with stone age tools Crops yield only ******* food made for the feeding of the poor Discarding the rest of them as bait or our personal ****** “I weep for the white hand that cared there for me! To wrap me in blankets and help me to feed The weak child in infancy cooing so sweet Not knowing they’d have him killed in his sleep” Annihilation fits best at the source, this genocide funded by the Master of Greater Deed and Good The weary dead, the weary live, the weary now stay in places we couldn’t stand to be in A gift that gives only twice, an upstart arch that cradles this land so warmly, inspiring us to embrace our homes The promise of freedom which notions an equality we could find only in remembrance of scattered bones The lawmen there, they never repent, they’ve lived all their lives and they never forget of their deeds, which secretly brings a perverse enjoyment none other recieve Unless you count rapists and murderous men which tally their targets and hold out the heavy heads of victims in satchels and bags A shame we now see them as monuments honored so swiftly, decorated with golden plaques Please leave some flowers in the mass grave I was buried in, somewhere in Arizona, it wouldn’t hurt to sense the illusion of fresh air A torso of tooth and rib and a dried clump of hair Look down on your works, ye lowly, and despair!

0

Jul 21, 2018

Jul 21, 2018 at 12:06 PM UTC

A Chant Without an Author, but With a Cause

In time we stand still forgetting the memories That burden the frontier with poison and tragedy Lest we forget that the deed had been signed By prospectors and cowboys who’ve long since died Aiming a loaded shell towards eradication An idea that precedes psychopathy in terms of petition Yet ponders so freely to children so willing to point them the barrel and fire such rounds I urgently take the bounty for the hunting of the buffalo Using their skulls for declination, a sturdy stronghold Yet deep in heart I realize that it spawns back to devils That pay only to spoil their countless fruits of survival The cause paints our flag a brilliant blue The blood breeds red and helps assimilate too From their ponytails, against remorse, I could yank off their heads And perhaps repay the herd of bison for their dead We danced mountain songs naked under pale blue moonlight Imitating their gestures in the style of caricature The stars glistening, reflecting in pools of gory mucus The rotting carcasses that attract forest vultures Which we willingly hunt and devour without hesitance A rack of scalps hung from the duster, cloth sodden with their fluids Marking migration patterns on various maps to follow and stalk with Here we sing to the villages of which we’ve burned down Hoping that God, in His grace, could forgive such savage hounds The calls of doves forfeit an olive branch Which I gleefully wave just as they have My own Trojan horse stitched together with leather That wasn’t dried enough, and now radiates a stench that reminds us of their innards I’ve slaughtered and mangled all over this place Made worse by their stories of which I desecrate Publishing such influent texts that examine the earlier beds Of which they rose, so little prose, such daft fools with stone age tools Crops yield only ******* food made for the feeding of the poor Discarding the rest of them as bait or our personal ****** “I weep for the white hand that cared there for me! To wrap me in blankets and help me to feed The weak child in infancy cooing so sweet Not knowing they’d have him killed in his sleep” Annihilation fits best at the source, this genocide funded by the Master of Greater Deed and Good The weary dead, the weary live, the weary now stay in places we couldn’t stand to be in A gift that gives only twice, an upstart arch that cradles this land so warmly, inspiring us to embrace our homes The promise of freedom which notions an equality we could find only in remembrance of scattered bones The lawmen there, they never repent, they’ve lived all their lives and they never forget of their deeds, which secretly brings a perverse enjoyment none other recieve Unless you count rapists and murderous men which tally their targets and hold out the heavy heads of victims in satchels and bags A shame we now see them as monuments honored so swiftly, decorated with golden plaques Please leave some flowers in the mass grave I was buried in, somewhere in Arizona, it wouldn’t hurt to sense the illusion of fresh air A torso of tooth and rib and a dried clump of hair Look down on your works, ye lowly, and despair!

48