Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Jun 2014
happily anonymous
I hear the demons whispering
but the angel of death is yelling my name
the stairs begin to creek
while the hallway light flickers on and off
.....this time I know they're coming and wont leave without a beautiful sinner
 Jun 2014
happily anonymous
her smiles shines like diamonds at the bottom of a clear cool lake.
her eyes like hazel tulips fluttering in the wind while she dances to the beat of the drums constructed by her soul
 Jun 2014
Amitav Radiance
You don’t customize your thoughts based on anyone’s blasé judgment.~ Amitav
 Jun 2014
Ashlei Cottom
Ashlei Cottom
Sweetheart, fine art is not about pride. It's about FINDING pride. It's about creating something and taking pride in the fact that you did. When I read your poetry, all I hear is "Me, me, me, I'm the best." That's not what poetry is... Poetry is not self praise. Poetry is taking the most hurtful, joyful, mixed, complicated emotions that you have and putting them into words that make everyone understand. You may tell write back and tell me everything that is wrong with my poetry, but I will not care. Why? Because I know that I have successfully been able to express myself in ways that other people can relate to and enjoy. Ways that they may not have been able to express the same feelings. I have confidence in your ability to realize your mistakes and fix them. I look forward to seeing these changes. So please, take this to heart and write. :)
Loghain Carvó
How laughable that one of my lessors attempts to give I art recommendations.

Ashlei Cottom
It's not so much your art I'm trying to change, but your character. It's your character that is reflected in your art.

Ashlei Cottom  
And if I could ask, why do you assume I am your lessor?
Loghain Carvó  
I am not assuming, you already have shown that you are a lessor human through your words.

Ashlei Cottom  
By encouraging you to keep doing what you love and bettering your character? Sir, I'm sorry, but if that is your opinion, I don't think it is I who is the lessor human...
Loghain Carvó
That is not what makes you my lessor, You are my lessor simply because you lack the artistic vision to fully appreciate the magnitude of my grand works. Please refrain from responding to this message as I wish to waste no more of my precious breath on peasants.

Ashlei Cottom
And how is it that I am a lessor human if all I do is try and help? Some people cut down and criticize and make others feel like mere mud on other's shoes. I am not one of those. I try to see the good in everyone. I think you have great talent, but I wish you would use that and dig deeper. I can tell you right now, with an unbiased opinion, that you unfortunately come across as narcissistic, selfish and and as you so eloquently put it, a "lessor human."
To our good friend, Loghain Carvó .
 Jun 2014
Joshua Haines
When the thunder collapses like my grandfather's love,
there's no one that can hate me more than I do now.
As the lights begins to stain and drain my eyes,
there's no one that can hate me more than I do now.
Skeletons fell with the sea shells in the air.
I hope I'm falling asleep.
To no longer be here
is to be fair to everyone.

Art gallery in my head,
where the paintings hang above
polaroids and used condoms.
Where it's okay that I'm there:
the picture of a *******.
Where it's okay to love me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to know me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to get close to me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to believe in me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to be me.

In 2003 I was molested.
I want it to be okay to be me.
I detached myself from lullabies
and sorry eyes, only to realize:
I could have been dead in March,
right before the summer glows
and everyone would know
It wasn't okay to be me.

Why did you have to do it
My flesh tastes tainted,
and my eyes are painted
with the disgust of distrust
and the disgust of your lust
that corroded my body
and ate my blood
Am I any good
I want to be good.
I want to be pure.
I want to be more
than what I am.
****
There's acid in my veins
There's ******* acid in my veins
My body ******* shakes
Even when in love, I shake
When I'm safe, I shake
Am I ever safe

God isn't real, and neither am I
I am about as real as the dream I can't even buy
My talent is irrelevant, my past dictates my decisions
My love is the only redeeming quality,
and even that lacks precision.
I want to be perfect. I'm sorry that I apologize for anxiety;
it's not so much that I'm asking for forgiveness,
I just want to hear that there's no need to be sorry,
because it's okay to be me.

Oh. Hey, my eyes are watering; isn't this cool?
We're all having fun. Yippee.

The sun bursts rays, and there are twenty-three different ways
to stay alive inside when I'd rather hide from the sun's naivety
Searching for warmth on the walls with blistered palms,
as I lay in bed, naked. Removed of clothes and hope.
Blood in my mouth, new starters with broken shoelaces on the floor
Dreaming of different places. I said: dreaming of different places.
Cryptic words. In other worlds. In fire, I learned to drown.

A-B-C-D-E-F-G
Reentering the room, drunk.
H-I-J-K-L-M-N-O-P
Hide behind the bloodied bunk.
Q-R-S-
T-U-V-
W-X-
Y and Z
Now I've learned my lack of harmony,
next time won't you spare me, please.

Roses fall from the ceiling. There's no way I'm feeling.
Detach yourself from this room, this nation, this planet.
"You're too fragile to talk to, Josh." Thank you.
Don't allow yourself to ever be hurt again.
Regain your focus after I count down from ten.

Ten.
Reasons to stay alive.
Nine.
I want to live, I don't want to survive.
Eight.
There's nothing about me that anyone should hate.
Seven.
There's no god, but right now, I can make my own heaven.
Six.
I detached myself from lullabies and sorry eyes only to realize I love you.
Five.
"You're still there, right?" Dial tone silence, followed by fist to wall violence.
Four.
And to know you, is to know everything.
Three.
Adaptation without reclamation I find you in my translation
as hurt yet elation.
Two.
I want to make love in love. I want to die and donate a part of myself;
my backbone, lack thereof.
One.
When I fall asleep my eyes meet yours.

Intermission:

Do you like hurt? Do you like pain? Is a happy poem not your game?
Well, read a poem by Josh Haines and never look at him the same again.
And don't look at yourself the same, because it's okay to be you!
For the price of absolutely nothing, you can look at his words!
Wait, and that's not all! Validate the 'beauty' of his words by
touching that heart and making it red!
Make it as red as the bloodied bunk that stained his back and heels!
Only for the price of absolutely ******* nothing!
Hurry, though! You only have until the end of ******* forever, so act fast!
The number is
1-800-I'M AVOIDING A LAWSUIT LIKE I DO THE PEOPLE IN MY LIFE

2nd.

Hey, do you like your parents?
Yes!
Trick question. Do you looove your parents?
Yes!!
Do you like seeing your grandmother in a wheelchair?
Yes!
Do you like being hurt by the people that you care about the most?
Yes!!
Then grab some popcorn and cola!

End of Intermission.


Trying like you're crying at the end of the film that documents your life
To divide a knife into your skin like it's a sin to feel this way
I just couldn't take it, bones in the corner of the room.
Inside a skeleton's eyes, flowers bloom.
Chicka-yay-no way. You swear? You say:
Ti-ta-time is on my side, but that's not how it feels inside.
An internal measure of the pressure of the world
and it's bound to run out like the sand in my hands
at the precious beach that would **** me if I stepped
into the blue, for me and you.

Let me turn back time to when I first met you.
Don't be afraid.

I remember everything. To never forget, is to realize every lie,
smile at every face, and to remember every goodbye.

I hurt my hands, I need to talk to you on the phone.

My insomnia lives off the thought, that I hurt you.
The room is blurry, and I'm sorry for being cold.
I am warm. I have the sun inside.
I guess I'm just afraid of burning you with it.

The drums pound into rhyme,
Diamond casualties
Rewind, wound, rewound
To scratch the surface
until there's nothing but sound.
 Jun 2014
K Balachandran
Sickened he was by her bad word choices, special need for
incongruous expressions,words spelled the way she likes,
blanks that can never be filled, invented quotes, fabricated realities,
thunderous "****" repeated in intervals, as if  each an inlaid jewel,
and then, having no fixed meaning for that favorite word of hers,
nothing more than an intention to denigrate ******,
                                                                ­                   and women as a whole,
a subconscious compulsion, strangely included, her's also in it's ambit.
He understands her compulsion for such expression thus--
fulfillment of some innate need, an expression of her own worthlessness,
resulted from some grave injury of the mind that happened,
sometime early in her childhood, one could guess.
He took the decision to mark her "UNREAD" for ever
with deep anguish of course,after reading her many fine and sane pieces.
A poetry site distinguished, moderated by editors, a pleasure for participants, as one of those rare sites where authentic discussion on poetic aesthetics is held,  edits done to polish a poem, now finds a fall of standard, which is painful.Core of the problem is few with interests other than poetic..
Their attitude is strange,  and every one pretends emperor's new clothes are fine..
Or is it because some want to be e.e cummings, Bukowski and few others, all at once?
Next page