Cautionary visions visit in viciously vivid fashion
I'm dead and my head is missing
Everyone is laughing
And the sky is sorta dreary but I don't know
With no eyes you don't see too clearly
Sew me a new one on,
Attached at the neck
Plastic instead of brittle skin and maybe then
I can exist in some form above the normally gray and grim
I pray to a faceless facade
I made a "God" in my head
An eternal alternative to turn to and blame
And claim to strangers that he works in mysterious ways
My lips are chafed from singing unheard praises
I'm tasteless and it has me thinking that maybe my mouth was only a product of my imagination
Food for thought I chew and stop
Its too **** hot for contemplation
Still, I used to think my hands belonged to someone else
Right up until I used them both to **** myself
And try to light em underneath an ocean's worth of crude oil
That is forcing it's way into my lungs
My high hopes hung their heads in the past as they waited to be hanged
But now the concept of life felt empty and displayed itself as a delay
A casual lack of oxygen shut off all process in the brain
And we are on our way.
in the depths
And the darkness fades to grey,
**A less ambivalent shade.
Bad memories linger
In sour clouds of self pity
**Like farts of the mind
Didn't mean for this to turn out as a haiku but it totally did. Happy accidents.
Depression has become an insulin injection
A necessary evil
Only required because I have been underneath it's moon so long
Any other tide pull would surely drown me in confusion
I etched patterns into a tree with a pocket knife that had a red plastic handle
Indentions such as these never stay
Yet eternally we press against the world
Hoping to make a mark that will shine in the daylight and glow in the dark
I'm a shriveled slice of the Americana pie
With my soul on a swivel and the devil in my eyes
Life was a son of a ***** with fists that spat dirt when it spoke
And it ONLY screamed.
I'm somewhere between *David Duchovny and Stephen King
And I'm trying to rip up manuscripts that I didn't write and I don't know who did.
Goodnight America. My patterns will explain my existence more than I ever could.
Life is a melody
You can listen to only once.
The first thirty seconds, you find the groove,
A harmonious rhythm hereto unwritten
This could be your favorite.
For the next three minutes, you settle in.
The chorus comes around.
*You'll be here again.
It's fresh, it's catchy
You're enraptured by these certain pitches and the words rhyme perfectly.
One line flowing into the next, the ends justifying the means.
Another verse, another chorus. This one feels more weathered
Routine, maybe. You still feel that groove but your perspective of it has been altered by the change in tempo and direction during the last verse.
You realize you have fifteen seconds left.
This was your song. What did you do with it?
*As you think back, a gentle blanket of white noise embraces everything that ever was, and your song fades
Let me know how you feel.
Being interrupted by far off people making exceptionally loud sounds while trying to write poetry is exactly like having a horrible toothache and trying to perform a tracheotomy on a rabid cat.
If you look at everything a little sideways
You would be amazed at the intricate connections between everything in this life.
**Everything is poetry, just as poetry is everything.
You blend with shadows*
And the cracks in sidewalks
Brittle grime trickling down your hand
You catch each bit between forefinger and thumb
And turn them all into tiny broken men
Stench streaming in smoke like ribbons
Your skin is icicle cold
But the smell ignites the sensory fears of those you draw close
Shattered skull love songs emit from your bones
Calling all sinners to you to atone
You are the blackest person I know.
Not black by skin tone,
**BUT BLACK BY SOUL.
Who did the *****?
I'm wanting to know
Was it Chrysta or Alex
Or someone unknown?
27 ***** chilled my spine to the bone
I've seen less ***** on ***** sites that I surf when alone
*Evidence was prevalent at the High School and the class fool was pinned as the guy
Peter and Sam then planned to document everything to figure out who and why
I won't spoil specifics cause that wouldn't be slick
I'll let you peruse through a plot so thick
Keep your eyes open watch for clues in the mix
And ask yourself this question:
**Who Did The *****?
Inspired by the Netflix Original: American Vandal. A mockumentary style true crime drama you should check out.
I had a dream in the middle of the day
About a boy with springs where his legs should have been
He jumped so high he got tangled in barbwire clouds
And it rained blood and viscera for a month
Breathe each breath as if you are inhaling the sunrise of a new day**
Possibility filling your lungs
Every cell in your body
Dancing to the rhythm of a fresh start.
I am like a man
That lives inside a very small cube
**And is deathly afraid of corners
It's our time
Rhyme and reason
We season this reality with words instead of thyme:
Both are medicinal
Antiseptic chemicals to keep away the grime
*Don't tell me any different
Bare witness to the gift of bliss that is *expression
Words can increase life expectancy in the midst of depression
They can get back at those who hurt you without using a weapon
Or refresh your mental image when you're feeling less than
They form legacies and dedications
Eulogies and congratulations
They give everything in existence an identity
Even the most ****** obscenities
Words are life and words are love
Words even form this silly cheesy stuff
**To everyone feeling poetic, I have but one question
What's one way, while writing, your life has been blessed in?
They say home is where the brain committed suicide* first
Hushed conversation overheard
Flushed worth down the drain
And as it spun
The dark corners never seemed so inviting
Enticing how the pain makes you notice yourself when no one else does
Reality is a setback that you've sat through and kept mum about
Contemplating the things that are all in your head more than things that actually are
You've already done it a thousand times
And accepted the indifference growing like vines that intertwine in your mind
Now your thumb is out and you're looking for a ride
Not any particular place, just "away"
Toward somewhere not quite like this
*You use a tied rope as a taxi cab
For an entire lifetime
I thought I knew
How to spell "Love"*
*Until I met Y-O-U.
To my beautiful, sweet Melanie.
Lost inside a clockwork
Waiting to happen
Ticking and cracking
The silence in half with a second's helping
I was hungry and delving deeper into somnambulance
Gambling my waking minutes
Away with a hazy resemblance of life
The sharpest of minds couldn't cut it out
This troubled route gets more fractured with each forced laughter
Hours pass faster the faker my happiness becomes
I scrape by on a yearly basis as my days have gone numb
... The best possible outcome given the circumstances?
Tempestuous pestilence of manic depressive tendencies invested in a message cocked and loaded as a centerpiece
Unfold it, if you will,
The beast lives in these pages
While the people all went home to their own separate cages
Locks become phones that never ring
No bars but still encasing, these cells are in our genes
Its a prison of DNA strands unlocked with a paper key*
Held firm by *words written within the world awaits to see
You aren't what you are born into. You can sculpt yourself to become whatever you want and achieve artistic freedom.
In a thousand years,* will anyone remember you?
Will people read about you on their brain implant computers and bring you up in casual conversation over whatever coffee flavor is popular a millenia from now?
It seems like a stretch. Us humans operate on such a small scale, but we love to dress everything we do up with purpose and grandeur. These days its easier to sink to the bottomside of insignificance and pretend you run the show as you drown than to swim towards relevancy.
There's always time to do it later, right? We can wait... right?
Just... not now.
So many dreams and aspirations have broken open against the constant battering of those reschedulings and put-offs.
*Keep your dreams alive. Don't fall under the curse of the Not-now.
Stranger things have happened
The splitting of an atom led to all the Eves and Adams
We just keep climbing up this ladder
What happens when we reach the top of it
Does it matter?
Still, stranger things have happened
I hung myself with string theory gripped in madness
And visited the vast void dripped in blackness
Crippled past tense reminds us of what was
And how inevitable it is that everything gets crushed and
Deboned with time
My skeleton remains hesitant at 11:59
Still even stranger things have happened
I woke up as a lab rat with a hazmat and a gasmask
Phantom of the operating theater with the seats packed
Breathing in sterile air trying to feel the breeze
Strap my self into a gurney
To perform out of body surgery
I said I'd never turn the other cheek but
Stranger things have happened
Dragging my knuckles* on the sidewalk
I find myself hoping for a *spark
that would confirm my mechanical makeup
Titanium and servos buried mere inches beneath faux flesh
*Friction, it would seem,
is the only force powerful enough to reveal me to myself
Lean on me
And let our broken pieces slide against each other
And together, we will make a **beautiful ******* mosaic
A poet's supposed to only post poetry
If I try to do anything different under a pseudonym
They'd know it's me
They're not too dim
To shine a light on similarity
Between two varying laugh tracks despite all the hilarity
Been getting down to brass tax with a microscope
I could read the fine print even if both my eyes were closed
So tie the rope tightly around your own necks
As I work far outside of my trajectory from how I make the bow flex
If I was Archie mixed with Cupid
Follow an arrows arc like an archery marksman whose targets are Betty and Veronica's beating hearts
And when they get hit,
They both fall pretty hard
And meet me in my back yard where I get their backs archin'
Point is, I've got precision aim
When I'm shooting for emotions
Make you never feel a thing
Make you clear minded and focused
Let you all in on my pain
Have you buzzin' like a locust
I peeped through the keyhole a little to the left
And noticed that Futility had left a note
before it went vacationing.
Triumphantly throwing the door open and
stepping into the brisk afternoon air
with a puffed out chest
I bent down to see the tiny words scrawled upon a mere 2 inch scrap of paper
"I give up. Bye"
I told her I'd never fallen in love
with an alien before
She gave me an odd glance
And then I told her she was out of this world
She chuckled and smiled
And at that moment
it became evident
*Her lips don't even have to touch mine for me to get lost in them
Beauty comes a dime a dozen**
Sliding through the cracks
Sticky change if you ask me
But I don't check the facts
I'm a penny-pinching prophet
All premonitions made out to cash
My fingers dig between the floorboards
But there are *some things I can't grasp
I'm standing here
In this doorway
Halfway between where I have been
And where I will go
*And I can't help but cry tears of joy.
Suicide should only be committed once*
So why the hell do I try every couple months
Something's up with the water
I don't feel the rush like I used to
There's no happiness tutorials on YouTube
I laced together my shoes, through them on a wire and convinced myself to sit and think
The kitchen sink's dishes stink
But you are what you eat and I had a helping of insane
Low key lowlife, broke and high under a spotlight
No ice so there's more drink at the drive thru window with my eyes suspiciously low
I'm ridiculously close to laughing what's left of my mind away
I forgot how it feels to feel fine today
It's either *love or hate and there's no areas of gray
*I wish I had a thousand hours to sit down and figure out exactly what the **** that I've been running from
I wish someone would stick around long enough to identify with the place that I'm coming from
The non merciful metaphorical mercenary
Mastered ******* on critics when deemed necessary
Blow up the treasury
I ain't leaving empty handed,
Ima take a couple heads with me
It's never about the cash; lounge in a huge bath as soon as I'd stand in the rain and wash paper down the drain
Dead presidents spent on a winter coat
It's getting cold
I might move down to Mexico
And lean against the wall
Sombrero down with a sign that reads in Spanish "**** y'all"
Appalled at the outlook, I'd rather color in books than look at Facebook
Look at where this presidential race took us
We're getting *****, tooken advantage of
They ran amok saying **** they can't back up and y'all think they can handle us?
I pray that Yellowstone erupts and this place is all just ash and dust
I'll be gone, I'm all packed up, sayin **** it, move to Canada
Who's world is this
Don't give a **** who's,
I just pray that Trump lose
What a dumb ruse
Controversy don't win votes,
This ain't no TV show
Needa be in the mirror saying "You're fired"
I remember being nine and watching the Apprentice
Phony persona when the cameras rolling
Probly still on studio payroll
We gon' trust him with these nukes we holding?
I remember when all our guns were sticks
I remember when pine cones were grenades
I remember when we always got back up
And war was just a game we played
My artistic tendencies have been asleep
Wake me up
Confetti coming when the cake is cut
Make sure to rake it up
Taking puffs to feel the same only made my visions change
Still mixing liquor, rain and other liquids To **** the pain
Plain paper bag with the key to life inside it
Problem being I only conceptualize it when Im high
Trip and fall and lose altitude
The earth is coming fast
I'm bout to hit rock bottom still praying my high will last
I get lost in your kiss
Yet feel at home on your **lips
Sometimes I hold a dead phone to my face so I don't look crazy as I talk to myself.
The oppression hangs stiff and unrelenting
And the sincerity comes off too awkward and from left field
I just want to move, but all I can accomplish are twitches in different directions
You're talking at me, not with me
And I'm close to fabricating an elaborate story to put you in shut down mode so that I can continue on my day
I don't care about your message
I'm not buying your book, I'm not reading your pamphlet, and I'm not joining your group.
I'm eating a ******* burrito, and that's IT.
Tonight, I spoke into the darkness,
No stars to light my way,
The black void all encompassing
My words drifting up in ribbons,
I waited for something, anything to happen
I felt a rumble that was akin to ripples emanating from a drop of water hitting a puddle
I was small next to the impossible,
And when it spoke back, it changed me
The blank canvas of stark black was pierced by blades of light,
The sky becoming a shutter in a rain storm
Blowing open and closed
The words came and wrapped themselves across my body in its entirety
Constricting my air flow
I felt myself shatter
An implosion of feeble glass
Ricocheting through a skeleton of paper, reflecting the brightness above inside ripped skin
I was nothing.
I didn't exist.
I floated in an incomprehensible place that had no end, no walls
No ceiling or floor
Just illumination in every direction
I opened my eyes
And was blinded by an incredible radiance
I shut my eyes tight and swatted in front of me
My hand struck something metal and I yelped in pain
I shot up and stared downward
Towards the desklamp unplugged on the floor
Breathing heavily, I sat upright in my bed,
*Struggling to pull away words that had already sunken in
Once when I was young,* I was told you could swing so high you'd be able to just *fly away.
I learned early on
That not everything we're told is true
The fantastical can sometimes amount to a pile of plastic bags scattered in the wind
The end isn't always happy and there's not always closure
Punctuations are more often question marks than definitive periods
And looking for a definite explanation took prevalence over allowing our imaginations to fill in the blanks.
Play time was replaced with study time,
And before we knew it, it was time for work
We strayed from the playgrounds of our youth,
Never returning to the top of the slide, we'd hit the ground a bit too hard to keep the enchantment of seemingly endless possibilities going
Carriages became pumpkins long before midnight,
And the school bell rang before we could finish our fun
But to tell the truth, sometimes,
When everyone else has gone inside, back to the real world, full of logic and banalities,
I sit on the old swingset kicking my feet
Hoping it will let me *soar
Muhammad Ali died on the third.
Kimbo Slice died yesterday.*
If one thing is now clear, it's that life doesn't appreciate those who are strong enough to fight back.
Hanging in the eyes
They struggle to open
But are tightly glued shut
I wonder then,
When the dream began and ended
And if I was ever awake
The way morning sunlight creeps through the blinds,
Light streaming in, crisp and warm and new
The way air makes its way to our lungs and we feel the energy
The rush of fresh oxygen
The way snow falls,
Small, clumsy flakes at first
And grows into an all encompassing blizzard
THAT is how to fall in love
Poetry** is the ADHD of literature
She dipped her fingertips in paint
And left her identity on my canvas
I'm writing myself into my own little horror movie
One where all of my victims are **myself
I stop in my tracks,
A hollow clinking in the darkness.
In an alleyway, somewhat familiar,
Vacant and forgotten in the twilight hours
Except for the lingering cigarette smoke
And the scent of frigid, dehumanizing hate
And a clink
Low and somehow beneath the dense, dank dark
A sound disillusioning and honed to a fine point, like that of a blade meant to harvest death
And another clink
There is a man sitting near the end of the alley
At the back of the throat of Hell itself
He has his head down
But through the thick black smudge of night
I can still see the base of a brown glass bottle tap the bottom of an upper row of teeth
He stops, and looks up at me with eyes that resemble mine a little too much for my comfort
He brings the bottle down, and lowers his head, gazing at it as if for the first time
Suddenly he snaps his eyes up to mine, instantly staring into the deep void of apathy that looks back.
He smiles a knowing smile, and slams the bottle against his teeth.
It does much more than *clink.
As talent drained from every inch of my mind
I found reading other's work only made me jealous
I started to feel unpopular
Not enough ideas left to create anything at all. Not a single drop of inspiration.
As all of theses emotions and realizations mixed together
I became okay with copying your work.
I can imagine you slaving in the dark
Racking your brain to find the perfect words to finish the last line
Lucky for me I have it all right here, completed and ready to post
Finished and polished and prepackaged with a message I didn't think of but everyone will commend me for.
*I hope you enjoy it.
Not actually plagiarized. Just tired of seeing others plagiarize on here.
I'd rather listen to
blood flowing from my ******* ear drums
than five more minutes of you.
When your seething need for someone to IMMEDIATELY LEAVE is overpowered by your need to be creative.
If I could find the connection between each raindrop,
No matter how infinitesimal,
I know I'd be *OK
I opened myself up and pulled my ribs to the side
Trying to find something that matters.
Something to stick to.
A religion, a belief,
And in the dark empty space
Whatever led me to understand who I Thought I was
**|was already dead.
I wish the mind was as self-healing as the **body