Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jun 2014 · 461
i havent been familiar
its been

about two months

since i cut my heart,
since i summoned my mind

since i kneeled before thee,
and bled my heart out for you
as if you were some sort of oppressive ******* god

in which i kept my thoughts so dear
as i was forced to read your virtues,
before i was playing your little games

its been so long, my child
since i held dear to your scriptures,
since i curled you up against me
as i whispered my sins to pass unto you

i have been subjected to secrets,
to new lies,
to the unfamiliar,
to those in which i hate

scumbags, all of them
sometimes im unsure whether or not i should reflect
and take down them
or myself

im a wretched being
and so are you, pig ****

not really,
i couldnt **** for my life

it's been while since i posted on here
hello - poetry
this is like half psa half poetry
"They are just have some bad stuff going on. So that is why they attack you."
"Do you have any idea of those bad things? Any proof?"
"No, but we can assume."

So we can assume it's okay to trip me while walking around class,
it's well and melodious to harass me, or use slurs against me,
it's fair that they can threaten to pull a salvo on me?

But it's not okay to not want to return to the hall,
so it's not well and melodious to have a crimson shoe mark on my Gastrocnemius,
so it's unfair to only feel disdain and regret for nothing at home?

I'm afraid this is unfamiliar to me,
sure, I may follow the extraterrestrial at times,
but how does this enigma even work out,
to the point I'm the horrendous fiend for being hit, or insulted?

I may not know the truth of them,
but since they have the three-hundred dollar Nike shoes,
always the epicenter of attention,
the one and only worthy being in their eyes,
always so confident, and yet,
how are they the ones to let their crimes go unpunished?

They go after the weaker, the vulnerable,
the plethora of an occupation a five year old can handle,
the gazelle platter of a lion,
you make me feel,
you make us feel,
like we are on an ocean with only salt water to compliment our dehydration.

You think you set a "Good," example for everyone else,
when in truth, you only teach us to beat innocent down for success,
I may not believe you are always faulted, at this point,
but in truth, to do this for fun,
is only comparable to the larva in the next.

So apparently, trying to gain my ruin,
makes you only to reign as king.

too bad
game over, i suppose
*shrugs* how i feel sometimes
its gross yo
"As she watched the growing grass,
for the time would only pass,
for the disease she fed,
until she was found dead."

sometimes i worry about myself gosh
what is wrong with me
i always write morbid things
And I have the most terrible feeling I wouldn't mind,
because it doesn't matter to me,
my childhood inventions, concepts,
all distraught and rusted,
my instincts, faded,
my sense of humanity, lacking.

But hey, I feel as if I'm charmed,
as if I'm charmed to not;
have emotions from cost benefit diagrams,
being enthralled because the higher ups said I should be melodious,
not being tricked into that the strident labor is the melody to gyrate by.

my mind is nothing but a series of hallways,
polluted only with that truth, hazed by the fog,
only saying to people's argument "We'll all die in sixty, seventy years, why does any of this matter?"
letters from my mother, piling up,
having yet to give a reply,
that has been aging in my notebook for the past three months.

I feel trapped,
I feel as if I can't function,
the clogs in my brain moving counter-clockwise,
disobeying my false hopes,
disobeying the sight of the flowers on the ground,
and replacing them with thorns as if suitable.

As I watch the world function,
the riots, the massacres,
the back-stabs similar to Cesar,
their tears washing away with the sea,
their sentiment carried by the wind, and away again,
only to say "All is lost, and will be lost again."

But I'm joyed to know that,
everything will be a blank slate,
nothing, nothing at all,
for I can tremble in fear,
only to see the purified reform,
and its empire crashing again.
i originally posted this on figment so dont go out of your way to say i copied this
like literally all my accounts have the same name so like !!!
plus i would prove it
but yeah, this is what sickness does to me.
sometimes i just want mercy to kiss and snuggle me ohh <3
May 2014 · 658
The Swingsets.
The swingsets,
the relief from the world's hypocrisy,
the only place I can feel as if I am a bird in the sky,
the bird that flies it's own pace,
acknowledging it's goal, but keeping it's distance.

The swingsets,
the make me know how it feels to die,
how it feels to go to Heaven,
and how it feels to fall off and go to Hell,
the contrast between the igneous, dry land,
and the subzero, wet heaven,
if I even believed in that ****.

The swingsets,
they set me free,
from how the people came to abhor me,
or how they came to have intimacy of me,
in reality,I only like those who present a medium of their standards,
for I am not perfect enough for those,
who try to exterminate me,
for those slaughter my wall I had constructed,
like the Roman's had done to Rome,
so carefully, and in coordination,
so no one would hate me.

The swingsets,
to make my ill intentions,
and my good will fade,
so I will both realize and reject the idea,
the abstraction,
the truth,
of the concept of nothingness,
because I want to be isolated,
but I do not want to be or see nothing,
so please world, continue to grow,
at least
leave me a swingset
for all
of my sins,
and virtue.

The swingsets,
where every child has grown up,
where every adolescent has matured,
where every adult felt nostalgic,
for they shall live on in existence.

The          ,
it has continued.
wow corny poem
how do i write some weird *** **** wooow
i blame myself
May 2014 · 2.2k
I Must Take Note.
I must take note,
of how the people lie,
their dastardly twists and turns,
their shifting and conflicting emotions,
spiraling out of C O N T R O L,
their faces grim, as the enigma is made,
they paradoxed their words and actions, and all I,
and all I am for, it a laughter under my mask.

I must take note,
for if I don't, I won't be able to detect a group's actions,
they could cause the destruction of my dynasty,
I had set up in my mind,
I deliberately made a world of hope for those who need it,
I who is king, I who is God,
I, who is the only citizen,
they must not find out, and corrupt it,
for I will go hysterical.

I must take note,
of the weather,
what makes the spherical mass in space,
and the biodiversity in it continue to go forward,
for the blades of grass that cut me like a knife,
or the indifference of the flowers lovers give to us,
or the emotions, the physical strain,
that is made within the weather,
how my bones ache in the sun,
and how my emotions contrast in the rain.

I must take not,
or I shall parish,
or I shall meet my demise,
whether it be at the hands of the blades of grass,
or the conspiracies made from the liars,
or the people,
for I will meet my expiry,
the storybooks have told me so.
whoops wrote again
Apr 2014 · 581
this poem is happy
My melodious bulbs,
that spring in Mother Nature's melody,
your petals, indifferent to the next one over,
as if you were the phalanx working against the Persians,
at the Battle of Marathon.

The way the leaves always sprout,
from my tree I had always referred to as "Hank,"
as he bleeds out glistening vermilion buds,
to only release emerald plains, to expose to the world, to become a source,
of both food, and shelter.

My shelter of the world,
how the branches curl themselves around the sunlight,
as forming a dome over my head,
keeping me safe from all that is

I­ enjoy to watch the animals live,
as the birds soar into the sky,
singing their songs in unison.

The rabbits in the field, feeding upon the lilies and grass,
oh look, there resides a wild ferret,
and a non-domestic fox,
and soon the scene becomes bleak,
covered in flies and vulture shadows,
as the children lash out in the scene,
remaining fighters brawl for the corpses.

mother nature is happy.
what i wrong with me i tried to write a happy poem hahaha
Apr 2014 · 616
Sometimes I wish I had the voice to speak out to the people,
the will to let my actions flow from me,
to let my actions take me to new world,
but I only paradox my thoughts.

To think of the song "Somewhere Over The Rainbow,"
once I become the being some will love,
instead of leaving me behind as an abandoned phantasm,
repressing my feeling of desertification of the creativity,
fooling it to think it is purification,
when in reality I am nothing,
when I sometimes think I can succeed I just fall when things become an obstacle,
a brick wall my mallet can not collapse.

I like to wear the masks,
to hide my failure from everyone else tricking them into,
thinking I am just being foolish as I really make them to show my,
horrendous persona,
the monster you have all repressed for so long I am.

You scrunch your nose at my masks smile compared to the cannibal,
that lives in the alleyway waiting to jump at the prey as he prays,
to be the predator he once was.
My mask can relate to him,
as I watch the "Happy little bluebirds fly, over the rainbow,"
when I am naught.
e m o t i o n s

ps I marked it as explicit because guidelines explain nothing, and it had a cannibal metaphor or simile, or whtever, and I was nto sure how they would feel
Apr 2014 · 818
from Always.
From always have my story books ever spoke,
urging me to live life with one phrase;
Memento Mori, a simple Latin phrase I had known,
from the beginning of my universe that I posses,
to the society I once slept upon, have I ever known,
that the sky is always sapphire,
the grass is always emerald,
and the blood is ONLY but ruby.

Whereas my storybooks told me, Memento Mori,
I will eventually whither away like the plants I was reluctant to plant,
to watch them die away,
so I could grasp it's corpse, and crush it's ashy substance.
I grin at that notion,
the concept of me having power, to crush,
my homicidal grin, illuminating malicious vibes,
only to feel guilty for I am enjoy their pain.

Although my storybooks, had always said Memento Mori,
they were books of a hero to zero, a man of a demon,
they had always spoken to me, their lustful eyes,
entrancing me from an angel's call, and telling me the phrase;
tu fui ego eris
"As you are, I was; as I am, so you shall also be"
They were right, for I had sinned like the killers in my book,
just like them, and they were just like me,
and we both could not avoid death, just as out gravestones had said.

I had refused to accept Memento Mori,
I refused to acknowledge the emerald that I had stood on, what it was I could never,
the sapphire I had not known, in the heavens only my piping plover knew,
and the ruby, has I always felt, warm, as it was around my feet,
only to be purified, and realize no one else was different.

We all murdered our complexities.
im sosososo sorry if i used tu fui ego eris incorrectly
and that this poem *****
it kind of just flowed out, ya know?
one of those awful poems that flow from your fingertips

— The End —