Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
c Apr 2018
i could not begin to
add up time spent
scrubbing you from my lips

in an instant
i return
to the taste of
yellow

--
c
A crush I know I should not have
c Apr 2018
Hey *****--
Lucky you:
You've fallen into my trap!
...

Oh, what to do with you?
Bury you deep in your own ***** greed?
Or paperwork up to your knees?

Or do I feed you just enough?
The ***** to basic human need

After all, I know your hunger well,
I practically invented human will

I pay a sum--a dying wage
That you'll pay back
Till your dying age

One time a year
I'll slice a chunk
Piece by piece
Down to the bone

You'll bend the knee
And do me right
I know you won't
Put up a fight

I am your god
The beast you serve
Now turn around
And get to work

--
c
  Apr 2018 c
Edward Coles
Don’t let the *******
Get their foot through the door
Say yes once, at the wrong time
And you’ve said yes ten thousand times
Soon they’ll be taking the hours
From your life

It will happen slowly
Creeping up on you
Like glacial tides
Like choosing a Pope
Like *** cancer
Until one day you are consumed
And struggling only pulls the mud
Further up your throat

They get you with all the necessities
Food, water, beer, clothes, and cigarettes
It takes POWER to say no
Not a lot of people have power
At least, they say no to the wrong things
They’ll say no to a mid-week ******
And yes to the slow death of 8-5

You see the injustice in their eyes
You see they are looking for an escape
You know, though, that they wont
The ******* move in

They claim they already own the place
That they never moved in at all
They’ll start rearranging
The furniture of your life
Orientating everything in their image

Don’t let them in
Don’t even open the door
They’ll take everything-
But it’s yours to keep

To keep so long as you
Love their cruelty
And allow them the last thread
Of consciousness
That leaves your body before sleep

It’s yours so long as you
Turn up on time
And stay late
Punch the clock
And throttle all human smell

It’s all yours
If you give yourself to them
They will use up your patience
And then start on your confidence

Until they have you
Decorating your iron bars
With raised, clenched fists
Declaring loyalty to those
Who would drop you without hesitation

Soon, they’ll **** that spark
That Blue Moon spark
The one you feel when the sky
Mimics colours of happy memories
The one you feel when
You wake with movement in your bones
The one you feel when
A balloon swells in your chest
Or when ecstasy fills your spine
How the wind at the back of a motorbike
Blows the cobwebs from your mind

They’ll take it all away

They’ll take it all
Compensate you with a paltry sum
For all of your hours
For all torn relationships
You have no time for

They’ll turn the vice
A little tighter each day
Until you turn crazy-
If you’re lucky

If not
You’ll be there
Spent on purified sugar
And a lack of motion
To your days
You’ll be there
A hollowed shell
Of violent potential
Lost

Lost in timesheets and long weekends
You’ll take pictures
Of days spent in the sun
So that in your luxury
Your geriatric, loose-skinned luxury
You can look back
On your small life and say
“Hey, I did everything expected of me”

And that will work
For no one

Don’t let the *******
Get their foot through the door
You have no POWER to resist
You won’t be you anymore
C
c Apr 2018
I danced all night in the dress He gave us--

Pins stuck in my hips
Zippered through my spine
I even painted my lips
To match His werewolf eyes

"You're beautiful baby"
He takes in a mouthful
I slink at the waist
Just how He likes me

"Let's get you a drink"
And I feel the sway
He bathes me in blood
He takes me away

Tonight I'll be His **** nurse
His seasoned strip steak thigh
His Only 18
His innocent eyes

Tomorrow I will lick the wounds
And pray He'll call again
Tomorrow marks another night
Of dancing in His dress

--
c
Inspired by PJ Harvey's song "Dress"
  Apr 2018 c
David Lessard
Poets are a common breed,
they're a dime a dozen;
my uncle was a poet,
as was my second cousin.

Some are mad romantics
some are crazy, like a loon;
they write at all the odd hours,
morning, night, and noon.

The good ones leave you gasping,
at each turn of phrase;
you envy their technique,
strive to learn their ways.

The bad ones leave you laughing,
as they offer empty blithering;
you tend to scratch your head,
is there such a word as glibbering?

But, bless them all for trying,
to say what's on their minds;
it only goes to show you
it takes all different kinds!
Next page