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fdg Dec 2013
A night that feels like years ago
but was really merely seconds
creeps into your dreams
(not that you're sleeping)
and reminds you of how good it felt to get under your own skin
(you deserved it, you little ****)
and after the memory makes you sink into your own skull so deep you can't even hear the morning birds chirp you into reality,
you walk face first into closed doors, trying to slam through
and the door handle is right there
but your hands are tied behind your back
tied so tight it's cutting
(this is what you wanted, ISN'T IT?)
I don't belong to anyone
I belong to the earth and the skies
And leap year's missing days
I belong to storms and thunders growl
To the stars and the moon
And broken birds' still beating hearts
I am a child of light and shadow
I belong to nothing and no one
I will never belong to them
I will never belong at all
Chris Aug 2015
My room has become a little less me
And a little more you
You've rubbed off on things by the shelf
Memories coated in a thin veil of you.
Dust prints on forgotten things.
Goodnight, goodnight, memories
Hung on the door.

Corners found branded with your name,
Initials carved into dry wall.
Things rearranged the way you like them,
The imprint of an old room grows tall,
Overtaking what's left.
Goodnight, goodnight memories
Stored in my drawer.

The girl in my bed reminds me less of her
And more of you, you see.
Or more strictly, how she could never kiss
Me, not like how your kisses could be.
Goodnight, goodnight, girl unbelonging
Next to me.
Let me keep in secrecy the troubles that have befallen me. For if she sees the worries written upon me she's sure to make note and in turn ask me for my reasons of longing. My sudden unbelonging for it is not here I want to be, cast into shadows walking amongst the lost and forgotten treading on a muddy Valley floor whos paths were long worn and trotted with many a misery, and snare. Please let my feet not fail me nor my minds eyes bury me in fear. Let these tribulations befuddle me no more instead place my mind on beauty and lend me a message of hope and prosperity a figurative ladder to reach heights of lights gleaned with Emerald ethereal glow and plate colors pure as snow glown in strewn out rows across the skies like Aurora Borealis
Deswer  Jan 2012
Verisimilitude
Deswer Jan 2012
This poem is going to be a lie
He tells himself
Writhing in tantalizing filaments
The bright asphyxiation drawing him closer and closer
To this
An ideal
Of the perfect truth
Told out in unwritten song
Painfully typed words
A clever shower of meteors
Belittling the dangerous craters on the surface
The danger of tripping and dying
Not withstanding what we know to be
A falicy
My multilingual interpretation of her feelings
Old testimonies heard in the court
Of the already guilty
This poem is a complete distortion of facts
My trivial response to empowered individuals
Standing on my Adam's Apple
And beating on my lungs like drums
Rhythm meaning honor
And the attention of the onlookers meaning
The inviting glow
Of the fireplace.
She sat down next to
That night
That town
That unfamiliar castigating of a child not belonging to
You
Or her
Or the abyss
"Unbelonging"
"Inbelonging"
Not.  Yours.

The wordsmith falters
Checking his math
Calculation, equation, kiss on the cheek
For luck for death
For the noose to slip, lovingly
And gently to the ground as the trap door swings open
A great, open toothed smile
Laughing at silence
BARBARIC to interrupt such delicacy
Straining to look into my eyes
She whispers low
I want to find a home...
And i tell her, with my heaviest conviction
"No home is."
Which could mean anything.
This poem is a verisimilitude
A lie about a truth
Which, again...
Could mean anything...
Sometimes I feel I am not for this world
I belong to some distant star, far away
Or deep under the ocean
where the currents will rock me to sleep
I lie awake in my own bed,
in my own house, forever whispering
'I want to go home'
I don't yet know where home is
maybe one day, maybe one day
a  Nov 2015
paris
a Nov 2015
city of love painted crimson but not
for the passion and hope but
for the blood staining the streets
in unworthy unbelonging abode.
and i'm sorry. there is a place inside
me that aches and screams and yearns
and apologises.
those who committed these acts of
****** are not muslims as they so
proudly call themselves, there is only
one word for this type of man and it is
murderer.
im so sorry
Satsih Verma May 2019
Why did you want
to become mine,
when god was not there?

This sun, this moon,
these stars. My Miranda,
my nightingale.

An Atman floats
without a body. Can you
touch it with lips only?

Like potter's wheel
starting, you want to create
a body with words,
not hands.

Then why did you follow
me, watching me to take
the ash-bath, becoming
sinless?

Tears runs faster
than blood.
aurora kastanias Mar 2018
Countries fabricated
by roaming people drawing
borders behind them,
trails of hostility

to select those who would cross
rims after them, to keep
resources to themselves,
lands of prosperity

on which to build, greed
homes to shield,
newly engendered families
xenophobes,

induced to believe
by governors they are different,
they are better, superior
and ultimately worth

much more, than any stranger
standing on the other side
of imaginary lines, they are barbarians,
unbelonging

to great civilisations, against whom
we need protection,
stealing scientists
left right and centre,

research peddled as development
promising a high from nuclear weapons,
bombs called mothers to adore
campaigning over a grand potency

participating in, an international
mallet-measuring contest
whilst signing accords,
for those who have to keep

and those who don’t
not to aspire, to acquire,
a prize for populations
who have successfully or can

destroy approaching aliens
simply by, pressing the right button
on a joystick suitable for games,
of mass destruction

ten thousand nuclear warheads
ready for use.
On nuclear weapons and non-proliferation treaty
Satsih Verma May 2019
Why did you want
to become mine,
when god was not there?

This sun, this moon,
these stars. My Miranda,
my nightingale.

An Atman floats
without a body. Can you
touch it with lips only?

Like potter's wheel
starting, you want to create
a body with words,
not hands.

Then why did you follow
me, watching me to take
the ash-bath, becoming
sinless?

Tears runs faster
than blood.
staring into the warm void this evening
i take my place within jarring volitions.

thought is volatile. a mason strikes
metal, revealing its malleability.

there is treason in thought of geography;
i will shatter the mooring and find myself

something the fluting wind is the muse
and echoing quiet, a ripple from stone-skip.

the next place to go is the beginning
stemming from a concatenation of ruins.

the thinning visage of masses crossing
the streets wary of collisions

is something realer than the wounded glaze
of asphalt and the mirage that goes along

tiptoeing like a danseuse through shards
of incandescent figures. fumes. sprawls.

untouched virgins. tacit stones. doves
perching on powerlines nestled like youth

suckling mothers. fathers facing telegraphs
and the sure machine of dearth.

stasis of peregrinations. peripatetic
crush of imminent homes.

this is to assuage its call, from nowhere
arrives the next train to Kamuning,

disappearing in a plethora of arms
sequined by sweat under the swelter of planets

unfurling a bent axis of tragedies. we are
fraternized to tracks, unyielding distances,

makeshift solaces serial, benign, tenured.
   belonging. unbelonging.

our destination: an impending sojourn,
   the verdigris taking form.

— The End —