Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Those who enter here
Consumed by the darkness
Where the coldest touch
Finds their very soul
They keep searching
For the heat of humanity
That stays out of reach
So they keep writing
To escape their pain
Embracing unreality

Some live forever
Their immortality claimed
Like some hungry vampire
Seeking their own need
The purpose to exist
Their words flowing
Finding hungry readers
Devouring all that they see
Where the poet is haunted
Releasing their own anxiety

Like those from the past
Writing of ravens and night
A new breed has come
Embraced in torment
Looking for release
Setting free their inner self
Poetry born in flames
Of the forbidden imagination
Forever to be remembered
In the club of the ******
Copyright 2012
Oh Lord my God, I want to die
And you are the reason why
Die to self, die to sin
Die to the man that lives within

The man that's deep within my soul
Too often takes complete control
Have mercy on this sinful man
Chief of sinners that I am

But you oh Lord
Have sealed my fate
To live is Christ
To die is gain

So that is why I want to die
And Lord you are the reason why
Die to self, die to sin
Die to the man that lives within
A love where you’re

Ignored,

Unseen,

Forgotten,

Competing,

Overlooked,

H­oping,

Wishing,

Praying,

Is nothing.

The worst kind of love is where

You’re waiting…

For that one message

For all these not to happen

All over again.
 Mar 2014 Antonena Ishkova
cg
1) For every great skyscraper, there are petty fingers that built them.
I wonder if we were made the same way.
They were strong enough to raise a hammer, but not enough to raise a family.
I wonder if we were made the same way.
She is cold, and he is drinking, and this is our backbone.
She is alone and he is driving home too fast because sometimes you don't have to be in the wrong place to be looking for the wrong thing.
She is afraid and he is warm, this is the beginning spark of a forrest fire filled with broken glass shattering in broken homes with broken people inside on a broken piece of land in a city that has too much rain for someone to build an emergency room in. Everyone with a burden holds their confessions in their left palm and their beggings in their right and no one ends up having enough arms to hold each other.
2) One day the whole world will be in your hands too, and you'll see that sometimes darkness can blind you worse than the red glare the sun paints your vision when you stare at it with your eyes closed.
You will be brave, you will stand up straight, you will stop being royal when people stop painting Jesus with a purple robe.
Even the concrete asks the sun to make it a garden so try cracking your knuckles a little louder and maybe you will wake up as a mountain.
3) Autumn. When you wrote secrets on notebook paper and taped them underneath benches in the city park, you gave too many pieces of yourself to things that weren't made for holding that much weight.
But you said it kept you honest and there were never any reasons for me to ask you to stop giving away the parts of you I wanted to myself. It kept me humble.
4) I am alone
5) You are October in a green dress with a black mask around your eyes and you have stolen the breathe of that day. And I hope when you are 80 years old you feel a breeze sliding on the back of your neck reminding yourself of all the times it should have snapped in half during the moments of what should have been your hanging, how it takes you back to living life like you're always in the desert and stealing innocent people's money and smoking cigarettes beside rattlesnakes.
I hope you find a beach in the Caribbean that asks to be died on, I hope you learn to forgive people harder than you can cry on their shoulder. I hope you watch a sunrise that you spend the rest of your life thinking about. I feel like for that to happen you need your feet in the ocean or underneath a rocking chair, but I would settle for your bedroom.
6) But with you it was never settling.
Hark! Now everything is still,
The screech-owl and the whistler shrill,
Call upon our dame aloud,
And bid her quickly don her shroud!

Much you had of land and rent;
Your length in clay ’s now competent:
A long war disturb’d your mind;
Here your perfect peace is sign’d.

Of what is ‘t fools make such vain keeping?
Sin their conception, their birth weeping,
Their life a general mist of error,
Their death a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet,

And—the foul fiend more to check—
A crucifix let bless your neck:
’Tis now full tide ‘tween night and day;
End your groan and come away.
Next page