Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Marie Stehlikova Dec 2012
The world is an ugly place:
so they told me,
The world is a lovely haze:
so they told me.
All the intricate beauty and pains of the world do not satisfy:
So I told them,
stubbornly away once more.
deciding to be condemned.

General notion ruled: misunderstood.
Cast away to the world of Under the Table.
From mustard to baby blue breathing moods.
Hurt & so abandoned.

Left behind starving on lonely thoughts.
All but one pleasure undone:
Purple gathered me up in her arms,
shielding from hatred of angry lost mobs.
Under the Table I finally saw,
Colours, as I chose to forgo.
Among burn bright yellow tears & teal laughters
All smiling, teasing, dancing,
I uttered nothing less:
The world is an ugly place:
I spoke to them,
The world is a lovely haze:
I spoke again.
Death is the punishment for boxed repeating:
they told me.
And I sat Under the Table and listened.
Marie Stehlikova Dec 2012
Three a.m.,
Friday morning,
Haunting, wake in bed.
Just like always,
Who could possibly satisfy the yearning,
when oranges and coffees are bad?

Sweaty fingers,
Burning toes,
Covers hide me, from their pointless lows,
My laughing while crying, moaning,
Yes, I do quite enjoy,
Misery-filled could, would shoulds.

Open one eye,
Too hard,
Close again,
Don’t move,
Not an inch,
Not surely or slowly,
No one shall me remove,
When they whisper words into your head,
Who knew, rock bottom, would be so exciting, tranquil and new?

Their footsteps gave up,
Knocking no more,
Pulling no more,
Begging no more,
For I broke their view of beauty,
When my moods were indeed moody.

Now loud, unrestrained and clear.
Slow start, swift prance no more
Johnny’s holding me, forever and always,
Protecting me from,
All you *******, culpable cowards.
Marie Stehlikova Dec 2012
Bathing thyself in Lethe,
not ingesting, forgetting,
yet not reminiscing
on thyne torment,
though immersing
thyself in it nonetheless,
persisting on pain and uncertainty.

El océano sin agua,
ese is what thou art,
unable to breathe,
unable to control,
longing for a hand
to halt the quiver.

In the midst of submission,
thy capture in the seductive
dance of the monster,
thou utterst sólo una palabra,
“help”; the first and final request,
yet thy time in Lethe
were much too lengthy,
not one hand shall be lent
to those who menacingly,
cherish death.
Marie Stehlikova Dec 2012
To be or not to be is not my question:
‘Tis not my purpose. ‘Tis not my calling.
I possess no question for I need none.
To act, to fight, to roar, to sleep, to submit, to slip in:
I rule them all for I am Panic. Johnny Panic am I.
They lose themselves in my presence: marvel and dream.
Look up to me, battle for my attention.
Battle to death for every minute of me they can possibly receive.
Others try to foolishly cross me, shock me, shatter me, **** me.
Cowardly seek ways to turn their backs.
Ask, fabricate, pose questions, then doubts.
Crawling back like spiders: they do come.
Seconds, minutes within my absence.
Head hung down, begging for forgiveness.
Begging for mercy for their defiance.
None have the strength to defy me.
Suffering is key. Suffering is victory.
Suffering is pleasurable, gratifying…undeniable.
I am victory. Never do I cease to win.
Shock, shatter or ****: my presence is an everlasting imprint.
None fade or neglect.
I am The Sheppard and they are My sheep.
Black, white, burgundy, mauve: all easy targets.
Yet the simplest of all are teal:
Sly, mysterious, fierce: Enigmas of their own.
They worship me like none other: love me, admire me, please me.
All present themselves to me: clean canvases for me to paint on.
To submit or to crack: THAT is their question.
Yet it matters not.
I am Johnny Panic.
Marie Stehlikova Dec 2012
I like to get lost in words,
in the lush lines of prose,
the lingering liberation of free verse,

Each letter a rosary bead,
possesses its own note,
as tobacco,
in a blue bottle of perfume,
nuanced, warm, stingy;
the code for describing,
lovers on an mid-autumn evening,
drinking black coffee.

But the anthology of words,
capturing my heart whole,
are the small, lace journals,
wrapped, in thumb worn, brown leather,
in the back of a little drawer, sound asleep,
hidden from the world.

Trace a finger along the spine,
open them to a maze
upon maze of letters-
my life, all swathed,
in thumb worn, brown leather.

I write them. leave them. read them
months, years later,
losing myself in, my own mid-autumn evenings,
and word worthy moments of my existence.
For I am able to say, “look how far I've come."

— The End —