Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jose Valdovinos  Sep 2014
skating
Jose Valdovinos Sep 2014
Trought these rought and cracked sreet.
Seems to remind me of life strugles and dispares.
But just like my skateboard that keeps going foward with every push I take.
I see know that no matter how big a problem, you got to keep pushing.
For the road is everlasting, but its time we dont have so just keep
Pushing.
Sailors we're not, but here our souls roam
Beneath the cold seas, and the waves and the foam
We inherit the depths of the oceans and sea
Never to know of just what we could be
We are the dead, lying down in the dark
Our stories forgotten, our history stark
We're not in one place, we live where we went down
Not a monument stands for most in our towns
We went down in rought seas, in a storm or a battle
We died taking a trip or transporting our cattle
There's as many of us as there are in the earth
We've been taken at sea, since man first did give birth
Our souls walk the floor of the deepest dark places
No one knows who we are, not our names or our faces
We ended our lives on ships , sloops and on ketches
We are the dead, some rich, some poor wretches
We never will age, never again will see light
We're still waiting for more to join us in the night
The seas give us life and they take just as fast
It's a tomb for us all, it's where our breaths were our last
Unsinkable ships...fifteen hundred or more
Lost their lives to the ice just like many before
The water cares not, your soul's there to take
Whether ocean or sea, or on river or lake
We walk in the depths, beneath the lighthouse and rocks
Our home is the cold, down below all the docks
We lie just off the shore, we died within reach
Some of us drowned just a bit from the beach
The sea's a cruel master, it owns all who sail
It cares not one bit, who you are or your tale
Stories mean nothing to those down below
For when it is time, to the locker you'll go
We died fighting pirates, we gave up our lives
We left our young children, our husbands and wives
From the Cape of Good Hope to the cold northern seas
Where we were still alive as our bodies did freeze
In the Indian Ocean and off the Newfoundland coast
Some nights you might see us, in the fog...just a ghost
We're the ones who inhabit the dark of the seas
When you hear the wind howling, you are hearing our pleas
Don't forget who we were, when we lived and we died
Please remember the families who broke down and did cry
There are fish in the ocean, but we live here too
We're the lost souls of people who died on the  blue
Sailors we're not, but the water's our home
Down in the dark waters beneath the waves and the foam.
Brittany Marie Nov 2010
So i have this some kind of past..
I spend most days crawling away from.
Most days, shoving the sound back
Down below my rusting throat,
Past my blackened lungs,
Behind my rotting ribcage.
Here lies its den.
Back into the deepest reaches of a
Cavern somewhere below my belly button.
Here lies its den.
Here resides the demon.
Born of dark corners asleep on the floor,
**** mouthed mothers, fathers,
Shaking words through their jagged teeth,
A mile a minute,
Too much speed for this babygirl mind.
Born of dark couches
The only light some type of grey-cloud
Frenzy on playback from the television.
And some girl is crying for mommy to come home.
Some days this little girl face is so distorted,
I forget that little girl is me.
Born of dark streets with concrete arms
To hold me.
As I am sending my tuck me in prayers
To the God who has let me become this...
Homeless.
And I am hiding all of this
Behind rotting ribcages
A darkness, chiseling its way out
I can't I won't
I can't can't let them see.
Every new face I am pushing this down
Farther
Harder
And it is SCREAMING louder.
Please!
SHUT THE **** UP.
.. I cannot let you out.
Here lies its den.
Some days it swells so swift
I feel it brimming at the specks of my eyes,
Pushing black ink from my pupils,
And I fear they might see it, pulsing.
This ugliness born of dark bedrooms,
Where the only sound, an opening door,
A sliding lock
faster than the closest gunshot,
It scrapes up your cowering spine.
Never have the hands of a sixty-year old man
Left so many fingered scars across my
Six year old body.
Some days this face seems so distorted
And then I remember
Some foreign, horrid tasting word,
Leaving desert sandstorms in my mouth..
Grandfather.
Here lies its den.
Heavy is the thick of its mane
Rought with iron roots,
Haunting with eyes of mercury,
Spurring an oncoming
Hurricane season,
I shall be torn from the inside out,
The darkness seeping out thicker
Than the rush of blood.
Exposed to the ***** eyes like ***** hands,
Stained by the unclean places we have become.
Disintegrating more tragedy than
The carved stone walls of Greece itself.
Give me sanctuary,
Yet when Evil holds its nest from within you,
No pearly white gates
Bask open arms
To hold you.
So here I've got sin,
Or sin's got me,
Planting seeds behind my rotting ribcage
From even the first of days I can remember.
So here I stand
With this some kind of past
Bursting from me,
From my torn apart seems.
And Now,
Now the ugly eyes of the world have seen..
Here lies its den.
Am I in Love?

At night, laying sleepless,
I bemoan the treacheries of life
with my love
and appreciation....
And though,
in my dark,
and cavernous foundations;
Roar the pillars of stone,
and shake them.

Waked,
by curiosity,
and interest,
I stare intently at you,
and though I cannot see,
You are there.
Tangible,
by my creativity,
and invisible,
by my negativity.
And through the secret game
that to many, has forbidden name
we speak.

Fear,
and pride,
my greatest hatreds,
now run through me,
though the game of
Predator, and Prey.
I am the prey,
of myself,
in the black vapors
of my confusion,
you two rought me
with confusion
elaborate,
and woe,
despicable.
My thoughts now strand
off into many divisions,
all joining together,
to reveal my fear,
of disappointing you.

The thing we connect through bings,
and so we remain in contact, it seems.
But ever, we thought beautiful
I am marred, and proved untruthful.
You do not deserve me,
but somehow
in this void-feeling heart of mine,
I sense you care.
I care.

Am i in love?

My Mind craves you,
and I put much emphasis on that,
for that, might,
just might,
be my undoing.
Should I look to the East,
to find you, riding, in
shining, and metallic armor,
And see only dust clouds
roam aimlessly from North to South.
But I hear banners, in the West,
all risen high,
as high hopes,
and high spirits,
to guide them.
This, is what I've waited for,
for years,
as do we all.
But my misinterpretations,
now lead the banners,
with silver swords,
bearing the name of hate.
with this,
I deserve only
to lay my head down,
lamely, for you to hew it
from me, and call it,
Victory.

This, I forsee,
this unsensible
and crazed
sight,
that passes through me,
and guides me
to all darker paths of light.
So that I may be dimmed,
and in a cycle refrained,
I should, as a doomsayer,
say my doom,
and I, as a fool,
should subconciously make that true.

This is what I see.
I fear, for you,
and fear,
for me.

I burden all, though a child
and my will is heavy, upon you,
and wild, is my desires
and should you penetrate my curtains,
you should see,
the cold bitterness, of my truth.

But all the while,
mind and soul crave you,
and body revives,
slowly,
but surely.
I sense love,
and my stomach churns,
knowing I shall hang my head
in Guilt.

Am I In Love?
Dave Williams Oct 2015
nothing is above what we think
because the perception of reality
is what's thought

nothing is above what we own
because the perception of success
is what's bought

nothing is above what we find
because the perception of fortune
is what's caught

nothing is above what we see
because the perception of distance
is what's short

nothing is above what we want
because the perception of desire
is what's rought

nothing is above what we are
because the perception of selfless
is what's taught

nothing is above my intention
because your perception
of what it is that i do
doesn't make sense to me at all
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
it's almost like saying:
   atheism
                                   and theism, or deism
or whatever.

                                  it's rought comparison,
but that's the best i could ever hope
to allude to...

      concerning the aye, eye, i...

                       oko:                 eye,

                              okno:               window

     oczko:
                                       a little eye, typically
                       of a baby;

judasz / judas: the peeping hole
                                            in your front door.

                   bilingualism is like
a mongolian horde in terms
                                 of etymological
"struggles", i.e. introspections...

i can't even begin the platonic
                     assertion of form-morphing
that's translated into
     darwinism of
          monkey into an ape...

  as someone who's into artistotle more
than into plato, because he's more
into shakespeare's dialogues than plato's...

    i don't buy the platonic crap
in darwinism...
                                  it would be, perfect,
if we were all reduced to monkey form,
and picked out one type of monkey
as our origins...
             what, *******, point, would,
a ****-brick sized gorilla ever need to evolve?

      a gorilla that could wrestle a tiger
and pin him to the floor, while breaking his jaw?
the **** is this?!

                  or right... choose a chimp...
but not a macaque monkey...
                                 i'll just do what atheist
youtubers do...           in terms of language:
                                              ******* imbecile!
pointless platonic imbeciles!
              darwinism = platonism...
                  god, in the now, now, now...
        now i should be exhibit (c) in a zoo...
or playing that ******* wormhole of a game
that's the sims...
         eugenics didn't move it far along
the argument scale, that we needed
to play "god" while playing the sims...

there's nothing worth an aristotle in the framework
of darwinism...
               darwinism is platonic...
       it arises from the head, and the abstract,
rather than on the basis of the senses,
that said:
               as one hindu guru said:
why aren't there more monkeys evolving,
turning into neanderthals?

             the more atheists call others *******,
we'll be swimming ad infinitum ad nauseam
in circles, concerning ourselves with
   arguments, that... well...
                     are best summarised by a cat's
meow of concern for
                   the arguments in themselves...
           bo'h-                              -ring!
oh look,                  retards either direction;
if that's what humanism has come down to...

seriously... if i were a gorilla... why would
i want to devolve?
                              so i can be subordinate
to beta-males' taxation rules of governing me?
    punch the ******* in the face, and move on...

to me, aristotle would have rejected darwinism,
but plato? ooh hoo hoo... he'd be darwin's first disciple;
******* ponces.

  don't bother questioning whether
poetry requires objectivity...
               it's a non-objective form of expression...
   as it was never supposed to be...
    take your 1 + 1 = 2 elsewhere, and ponder it there.
#t
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
.confined to: on the nigh... look... no surd in sight... no white night... do i need to say a certain word? no... but do i need to write it? well... if you want to take an escapade outside of the realm of dyslexia... sure.

i'm a wordsmith,
i tend to listen...
   better written down
than left
to a simple
conversation...

      ******'s aryan...
how else
to fudge so many
extra letters into
the word

          nigerian?

or maybe it has
something to do
with reading a book
review
by trevor phillips...

a book entitled
white fragility...
by robin diangelo...

               akin to that...
ha ha moment...
   when you spot
the vowel-catcher
aspect
of the tetragrammaton
and the, base,
for laughter...

can't seem to hinge
laughter on any other
consonant, other than
the H...

           sure: in hebrew that
amounts to saying
in English: the the the...
point?
    closure...

was i ever wrong in saying,
and abiding by
a non-dialectical
observation:
   a jazz record sounds
best...
   on vinyl...

jazz on a bus...
  a ring to it, doesn't it just
have it, the missing G
in a word like:
the Niger river...

oh right, that song...
not Oliver Costello's
oliver army...
rhymes with trigger...
on 1585AM radio...

they didn't hush
the word...
as would be the case on
FM radio...
i think that's
the right frequency...

i spent an hour sitting
in a car in a car park
outside the vets...
a cat in a car is like
a man about to fly
in a space-shuttle...
   the windows steamed-up
like that *** scene
from the movie Titanic...

billy joels':
we didn't start the fire...
belgians in the congo...
apocalypse now,
             heart of darkness,
joseph conrad...
         more like:
belgians in england...
          these days...
belgians in portugal...
        
the added G...
****... at least i'd be identified
with a Latin word
for black...
flag pole... the north pole...
******: grr...
         just one more word
you can add to speaking
a foreign tongue...

1 hour... sitting in a *******
car...
   can i drive one?
no! but i can ride you a horse...
how's that?

i had to lazily fathom
my... inability to dream,
or feel anything profound...
like making baby-steps
in a ******
that's supposed to be a heart...

well... if everyone is going
to be so ******* honest...
suicidal thoughts?
  oh, plenty of them...
   it's the only way to
contemplate mortality,
overshadowing an aspect
of god to send out Samael...

        well...
seeing how i ate the pain
of the four knuckle burns
from a cigarette
and enjoyed it?
           yeah...
that's weird:
     having the capacity
to enjoy pain...
                 it's like:
i want to feel what these
****-sodden *******
of a 14 year old girl
feel like...
     when cutting....
        the sad truth being:
               burning leaves
       you with tattoos...      

still, lazily budding with
a variant of sado-masochism...
           if there's pleasure
to be gained from...
   over-exposure to
the nerves...
           being recipient
of a...
                        impetus?

the fear of clenching
your teeth before
falling alseep...
in fear of a quasi-epileptic
spasm...
     fun days, and night...

hello the Chernobyl
winds...
             that year...
when the local park
experienced a curiosity...
when an atomic wind
passes?
  strips of trees...
roughly 10 metres
unaffected...
   rought 10 metres
decaying or...
speeding up from spring
into an autumnal
allure...
                  
  and this... this wasn't even
in Ukraine...
     head further,
north, across the border...

why i've come to enjoy
pain?
       a male ****** was
only ever so-so...
          what...
having to pull back
the *******...
   revealing the perfect
*****-****...
         because of two
protruding veins
being the reason for
not being given the:
             snippet treatment?

a hour, sitting in a ******* car...
apparently i gave off
a stench of a brewery...
filled the car with
toxic fumes of
the previous night's
whiskey consumption...

and i look at gambling
and think...
   yeah... i gamble...
i take a liter of whiskey
with me to bed...
chances are: i'll wake up
the next day... 3:1 ratio of me being
right about that...

     so...
   racism... race realism...
   very racist of me,
i somehow managed
to "bribe" a black girl
   with my up-stairs
doing it in the dark
on a leather sofa in a bedroom
while entertaining
a few guests who
managed to bother
a birthday part of me...
"bribed" her by providing
a decent stealth of cocktails
and cedric IM brooks',
notably the song
satta masa ganna...

   i do appreciate that classical
music lasted for
let's figure this out...
Vivaldi (1678)
Bach (1685)...
   vaughn Williams (1872)...
roughly 300 years...
        jazz?
             how long was that?
i'm not going to check,
i want to be guided by
some variant of ignorance
in... making general statements...
50 years?
           nig(g)er dropped
the ******* trumpet!

before it was rap,
it was a rhapsody...
            and i have...
0 colonial ancestry in me...
so... of course i'm not
excused...
         but you're just black,
while i'm a ******* flag pole...
and the people
most acutely aware to
any verbal transgressions?
they're the ones who
have no ******* puddle
for a soul behind the facade
of a smiling face.

racism contra race realism...
hmm...
       sounds like something
from an existentialist menu
that's... *******...
          hot... like a bagel
from a brick lane bakery!

never to be a convert
to rap, 'ere...
                reggae...
anything by culture
or isreal vibration...
who's who and who isn't
culturally appropriating
what?
         bunch of ******* schizos,
trapped on Jamaica,
thinking the Ethopians
are the 13th or is it the 14th
tribe is Juda?

i'm just a ******...
   shying away from
a Germanic heritage...
  ****... i'll just have
to butcher mein deutsche
for the, tickling thrill of it all!
and speak anglo-sax!
Diana C Jan 2017
I like being alone
Sometimes,
When I like pretending
It doesn´t bother me that much.

Then I thought
''Hey, the world is a telly
And I have the remote control.''
But that thought vanished as I looked outside
At the icy kingdom of winter
And the rought whispers of cold wind
Told me I´m stuck here.

Yet maybe this is just a phase,
A way of the nature forcing me
To live alone for a little while...
I don´t know, and maybe I´ll never find out.

But I do know that once you´ll be back
It will all go away.
I don´t know if it´s gonna be because
I´ll magically conquer all my fears and insecurities,
Magically forget and ignore all my urges to be out there,
Somewhere else where something usual can surprise me.
Or if I´ll just settle my mind
And concentrate on our love, our life, our routine.
I don´t know, no matter how many times you´ll ask me.

Maybe you can tell me
Or at least teach me how to listen to my mind and heart.
I hear them speaking out loud,
Screaming sometimes in the night
But it´s all gibberish to me.

Find me a path
Give me a pair of legs
Teach me how to walk
And I´ll make history.

But until you can find me all these things
Don´t be surprised if I´ll sit here forever
Because God knows I can´t help myself.

Yes, I think I´m being unreasonable too.
*DC, 2017
Dakota Schmidt  May 2010
Blood
Dakota Schmidt May 2010
I clutch my chest as the blood
Flows from my open veins.
Nothing can release me from these
Unbreakable chains.

I glance down to the growing pool
Of scarlet around my feet,
I should have known we could never
Make ends meet.

The gruesome memories haunt
My every thought,
Along with the unsettled wars
I constantly fought.

There was no excitement, no glory.
My life is coming to an end
As I tell you my story.
I drop to my knees in the object that

Rought me life,
And remember the need to
End it with that taunting knife.
I scream out in pleasure at the thought

Of my pain ending here,
The sweetness of death is all so clear.
I fall forward to my awaiting death,
No one will hear my last dieing breath.

I learn a final lesson before
The blackness engulfs my soul,
No one really knows when they will become whole.
sycokitten  Nov 2011
Blue
sycokitten Nov 2011
weak willed, i listen to the collision of manic thoughts that resurface like a neverending disease whenever you are mentioned.*

blue..*

the whirl of memorys start, and in the mass hysteria of mental chaos i feel my fingers slip over the keys to write to you. of what is not important. simply a few meaningless words will set me up above the clouds in a serene distant state. the promise of that momentary bliss is enough to keep my reasonable side hidden away... she'll come out later, and when she comes so will the negative ideas. the "why did i say thats", and "what is he thinkings" all of which will riot through the clouds ripping them apart until i fall and smash back into newly cold reality.

of course by then the conversation will have ended and i wont know what you think of the crazed words i somehow managed to smash into thoughts that sounded like sentences at the time, but now look like the disasterous scribbled rought draft of a 5th grade report over an unknown topic.

so with the last of my resolve i hold down the backspace key until all of the mangled writing is gone. you of course have no knowledge of this inner turmoil because i never hit enter.. i tell myself thats for the best but im not sure if i believe that, then again if you lie to yourself long enough you can believe anything. so why not, it's only survival..
Lindsey Eleanor Dec 2012
cur        f           w               d             dis          and p
A       sed    iend     rought      eath             ease           ain
bles       fr          b              br                and              ag

— The End —