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Selena Atlantis Nov 2014
Forgive me Father for I have sinned.
I cross my heart and heat the pin
To burn out the angels and tarnish my soul.
Dark Father, I have forgotten your goal.

Our Cathedral stands atop basalt
Chaos churns its eternal assault
Across the horizon where my tears were shed.
Forgive me Father, I should be dead.

The Throne upon which your eternal flame
Rests on my brow - a crown of shame,
Has beauty and light crossing it's face.
Forgive me Father for kissing Grace.

Take my heart as if your own,
Make it bleed and make it moan
It's confessions upon the cold earthy ground.
Forgive me Father, for the Light that I found.
(c) Lady Dlos 2010
(c) Selena Atlantis 2014
Selena Atlantis Nov 2014
What is Melancholy
But the sound of a clock
Echoing its tick through the room,
Reflecting the beating of my heart?
Or the quiet tears held in check
Unable to trace a path along the cheek?
The breath - labored with heavy chains
That drag along the floor of my mind.
(c) Lady Dlos 2010
(c) Selena Atlantis 2014
RJ Days Nov 2016
must recognize our Form
in the mirror,
see our Face, and make our reflection
as we kiss it, though it regularly sickens
Us.

I

We are still Us, though
that probably means little if it ever did;

We have been amended beyond recognition
from centuries of lobbing
off limbs, appendages, stitching clauses
like bandages then forgetting about them
if we ever shower,
disfiguring the pale torso of our Body
politic, naked and middling before posterity
grotesque genitalia dangling
hopelessly, and useless
between marble columns
unable to unite in congress assembled
erasing pluribus unum;

We're our Legs, buckling under obscene weight
now cloture’s invoked, the question ordered
on history with yays and nays,
discourse long reduced to the nuances
of blusterfuck;

We're our Buttocks, passing gas
bills, denying a snowball’s chance of
melting in frozen hell or on house floor,
and our Brain, lobotomized
better half yearning “Yes, we Can…
…ada” beckoning the coasts, blue dots
on blue dot ever browning;

We're our Fists, clenching gavels
while advising Mother Earth to **** up
because even without her consent,
reality’s adjourned;

II

We're our Skin—yes, our Skin—, thin-
ly veiling contempt insufficiently concealed
by layers of spray tan and unmarred
by blood sweat tears of our foremothers
and our Brow, not sweating more perfect
when it's so easy to turn and follow storybook greatness,
when our Fingers, callused from tweeting
Little Bits of *****,
which though once again retitled
and re-released, remains a classic,
completely unrevised;

We're our Ears, nostalgic for the crack of doom
and we're our Tiny Hands, unable to help themselves
from popping a Tic-Tac and grabbing
onto those titillating, dusty buttons
on the hydrogen jukebox;

We're our Eyes, heavy
as a defeated queen
with makeup running, blessing us
all for this operant foray into madness,
ever observing how our Arms, which
(torches now extinguished)
flail in confusion amid incalculable darkness
still hoist our pitchforks low and
our Tongue still grievously petitions
for more deplorable words amid
hallucinations of victimhood;

We're our *****, *******
on progress, except
which—failing to rise to the occasion—
nonetheless manages
to flop over and strike once more: a dis-
chord in common defense of
fragile white male privilege
always showing, never growing,
general welfare and tranquility flushed down
the toiletbowl of history
hoping those old turds never
resurface, still ignoring the stench of injustice
and the chipping of gilded porcelain;

We’re our Lips–which neither Broadway hits nor
newspaper clips nor high minded pleas alarmed,
and with Dr. Franklin’s warning notwithstanding–
We are our Lips on treacherous steps which will be
all executive power herein vesting;

III

We're our Palms, grasping rope amid air
saturated in deathly vespers, which tugs
down-up toward unearned heavens;

We’re our *****, pretending to be
our Mouths which chide & otherize, while
our Shins expose their cuts to ****,
bullet-holes welcoming the swift infections
in what dank sewage now pours from open
Overton windows, broken along with
any pretense of civility; ultimately,
the only thing we could shatter;

We’re our Holes, shamefully enjoying
the prodding and poking caresses
of anarchy, be-
moaning un-
Equal Protection law & order bestows,
depriving life, liberty, property
when our Hearts, weary of
the long hard due process, supremely
malign centuries’ holdings;

We’re our Immunity, sovereign it be
fighting all insults foreign and domestic
and our Voices rising in lamentation
for what we’ve lost and what we’ve barely kept;

We’re even our Hair, unkempt, distracting us
from enduring corruption of our Blood;

We’re our *****, too. No, never mind.
We never had any. But She did,
and class despite the strength
of glass;

IV

We’re all that still, and our Souls'
politic too, fractured much asking
what Un-
ited States we’re in;
September 17, 1787 – November 8, 2016. Not a bad run, I guess.
M G Hsieh Aug 2017
Our tight ****
holes make
sure everybody gets
their comeuppance.
Ethan Taylor Feb 2010
These words are hot
Fresh from my fingertips, raw and unrevised
Like drops of molten glass from a furnace
These words burn up my throat as I am breathing flames and steam
My heart, like a bellows, forcing syllables across my tongue
They burn and itch
Inside and out
Days, weeks, and years pass
And these fires still burn inside me
Flaring with the passion of a little boy who has not had his last question answered yet
So he screams and yells and stomps his feet
Trying to put out the question inside of him because it is burning
And he’s afraid that if he opens his mouth, to let it out, the whole world will be set ablaze with his question
And he is waiting patiently, with his hand high in the air
Hoping to God that someone will call on him
Hoping that God will call on him, and offer him an answer
God, extinguish these flames!
I am burning with all the passion of a little boy who will never know the answers     
     to all the questions he cannot ask
Because he does not know the words to describe his thoughts
Because he cannot paint pictures with nouns and verbs
Because he still only speaks half English and half God
So he is coughing flames until he finds the words to ask the question whose answer will put them out
And with the fire of God inside me, I hope I will never learn the answer
I will always be searching for the words to my question
And I will always be asking questions
And I pray to God that I will never know the answers
This is a stream of consciousness piece. The only editing I allowed myself to perform was that of typographical errors, and only after the entire piece was written in one attempt with no forethought.
Richard j Heby  May 2013
musing
Richard j Heby May 2013
My muse must be a jokester or a ****,
who’s starving at my fluffy luscious words.
My musing is so sensitively sick
I doubt my muse has ever talked to birds.

But when my muse is gone they sing to me
and he returns to tell me what they’ve said,
but makes no sense and speaks predictably
of seasons, love, the grief for long-lost dead.

I guess my muse is old and out of touch;
for everything he says is nothing new
and where the secrets are, there aren’t much,
with him i win the hearts of just a few.

I love to blame my muse, though i’ve come short
or quickly come, his unrevised cohort.
dye  Aug 2014
VII.
dye Aug 2014
As we threw our caps north,
my excitement sank south
descending step by step in a spiral staircase
the hope started flickering
this might be the last glimpse
but holding on to a ‘might be’ is critical, delicate
it’s like breathing with gaps in between
you might die anytime soon,
who knows
I might see you lifeless in a box
but I’ll keep you alive
in my memory
with strong hues
vivid outlines
our plots unrevised
exact timelines and spaces
names of people we liked

I won't stop remembering
because that's the only way
to make myself forget
recycled **** series
Amanda Nahir Oct 2014
(WARNING FETUS POEM, UNDER CONSTRUCTION, 1ST UNREVISED DRAFT DONT JUDGE)
My pen must be tired
of bleeding on pages for you
it might feel used
as if I only pick it up to write words like
tragedy
cry
leave
goodbye.

I don't know what words I'd use now to describe you now
I remember how you once apologized
that words were the only thing you had
the only thing we have to share
and what I should have but didn't say was
I think that words
and the brush of a pen
are one of the most beautiful things to exist
apart from our story.

I think
"You're my silver lining."
is a close combination of words
I'd use
because I know you
like the back of my hand
and the roadmap that will lead us
thousands of miles apart
towards similar goals
and identical places.

You and I
"We."
exist only in midpoint
and in white and blue
sometimes green and white
if there is really bad signal.

We know of our friend's stories
but not their laughs
or their voices.
We only know each others.

Friend,
I love you.
No,
not in love with you.

But I'd be lying if I said
what we share
is only a silly connection
and I guess I"ll end this poem now
because my pen must be tired
of bleeding on pages for you.
Diana Feb 2020
Baby please
Please express yourself unconditionally
Because I will love you
Unconditionally
Give me the good and the bad
Don’t pick and choose
What you want me to see
I want to see the most authentic version
Of you
The one you hide
From everyone
Even from yourself
Let me see you
The unrevised you that you try so hard
To conceal
You fear rejection if you show me
But what you don’t see
Is that I’ve already done this process
With myself
I’ve stripped away my facade
To the point where I was just a string
Of stereotypes and personas
And it was in that moment
Where I began to explore who I truly was
When I learned to love myself unconditionally
It’s a daily battle
Healing
Even quite messy
Yet no one tells you that version of it
But I’m here for you
Just like another was there for me
So baby
Please
Please break for me
No
Break for you
So that you can learn to love yourself
Unconditionally
In the way that I love you
Unconditionally

— The End —