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Kingafroninjaa May 2012
Can I drown in the sweet sorrow of your passion?
Bask in the drips of your essence and savor your liquid ecstasy.
Stare in awe at the contours of your body as it bends to my very will.
Making you feel as real as this fantasy world we have thrusted ourselves into.
Your soft whimpers caresses my ears as our spirits are driven by their own Heaven and Hell.
The rapid movements of your ribcage soothes my ravenous soul as our bodies intertwine with each other.
The aroma of our mixture captivates my subconscience as we're climbing towards your highest peak.
Your petite thighs clenching onto my physique build as the wave of nirvana overpowers your psyche.
She slowly drifts away from our fantasy world, leaving me here to dwell on her forsaken sorrow.
My body yearns to hear your voice in the endless darkness as it awaits for your return.
Can I cross the threshold into your garden of Eden one last time?
A dream catcher is the key to the soul,
Keeping away bad thoughts before you go to bed,
Having them in him for ever and ever,
So the bad thoughts can't come back to your head.

His own beauty compares nothing to me,
With his entire silent stillness and grace,
Keeping away all mt bad memories hidden to my sight,
Having my dreams keep their pace.

He has his own spirit far inside it,
Placing away old bruises and cries,
Scooping them away like cool earth dirt,
Carrying them away from my eyes.

He can't ever succeed another thing,
Attempting to keep my innocence pure,
He can show me subconscience from reality,
He helps me keep my awareness sure.

His own feathers are wild, curly, brown,
While the beads are his khaki green eyes,
He understands my abuse at a young age,
Makes me face my demons and say good bye.

His web to catch them are his hands,
Big, steady, undeniably warm,
Covering half the area of my back,
While I breath in his chest and hide from harm.

He knows he can leave, but he doesn't,
He's a nightingal, my children and I are his songs to sing,
Deeply breathing, protecting me all night,
He wears the other matching ring.
Traveler Aug 2019
Wickedly evil!
This beautiful trip
Pretend not to notice
The tares that we've ripped
Buy another car, drink another beer
Hell! We can't even see Yemen from here!!
Saudi Arabia, indeed! one of our good friends
Global warming will be the deaths of us all
In our final bitter end!


"We need change"
Seriously!
Traveler Tim
Mercury Chap May 2015
To dream a dream
That is hard to forget
In the mist of clouds
It disappears like a sunset
Ebbing away with clarity
Reverting in my desperate mind
Like it's a mere charity.

Oh the beautiful dreams aren't true
Knowing them is better than having no clue
The subconscience is an inconspicuous beauty
Like the roots of the tree
Entangled and buried beneath
Its beauty is hidden
Its thoughts forgotten.

To dream a dream
Is finding your love
Then losing it soon
It's the inward eye's beauty
So beautiful, so resplendent,
When you wake up, you soon swoon.
Dreams are beauty of our minds which we forget too soon.
Onackh Crustpunk May 2014
Paranoia....
Dont believe in me....
For im only a labyrinth....
To lose your head.

Your thought....
Is mine....
Nobody....
Will save you now.

Ill haunt you...
In your sleep...
Subconscience...
Never dies.

Im your doom,
Your cyanide,
Your Death....
Im you.
LiquidMetalFox Oct 2013
To you I come without question
my thoughts intensify from anticipation
my mind wants to be taken to to your low place
full of despire and filth that Hades itself would not follow
My mental *******
I no longer sense reason or justice, but a craving for the one who devours me
A lustful carnivore feasting on the forbidden areas of my psyche
creating the delusion of me being closer to fine
distorting my thoughts for your own perverted pleasures
I despise it, yet I long for it
I'm nothing without your cunning tongue
As you slide you words in my frontal lobe and play with the private parts of my subconscience
My Mind; that strangely isolated place yearns for another
even if that other destroys the foundation and tears the threads that hold my mental stability in place
but at least in this place though used and abused I'm not alone....My mind is a ***** for you
Brycical Jan 2012
some view storms
as clichéd expressions
related to the overwhelming
events of each individual droplet
shattering the serenity of our perception
& flooding our thoughts-
almost drowning our minds
in tumultuous anxiety.

i prefer to see storms
as a cleansing experience-
washing away those thoughts
& events no longer needed
within our subconscience
into a swirling, roaring
whirling and bubbling
muddy puddle...
down an infinite drain,
where the caked dirt dries--
crystalizes
into a lesson in humility,
& letting go....
Mercury Chap Jun 2015
Everything is so vague
Every word every bit of an image is so feeble
As if a black hole in my mind
****** all my memory away

Dreams are like that,
Resplendent enough,
But as soon as I wake
There's nothing inside but the residue of dreams
A few bits of ashes left
That the sweeper in my mind forgets
And leaves them like mystery to solve,
Deep in my subconscience
It is ensonsced

For me it's amnesia,*
Nothing lucid,
No colour but black and grey,
As if a black hole
****** all my memory away.
krm  Aug 2017
Remembrance
krm Aug 2017
Live my life through photographs,  
see foreign faces of people as my eyes dialate while,
my brain has taken the picture no matter how many centuries.
Is that the meaning of an old soul? 

My paintings have improved,
mixing the colors has become easier,
irises are a video camera
while, the nerves can rewind the sequence of events
and how the portrait or picture had developed.

Who the people were
and what their lives meant.
I don't live a tragic life,
I'm not trapped in some cryptic looking tower,
Only trapped, by my own personal unhappiness.  

These pictures are a way for me to live vicariously through someone else,
Imagining myself there. 

These pictures are taken to capture a momentous
or joyful time in my life,

television and movies are like that in a way. 
They remind us of the miserable world,
but we have decided to allow our worth
to weigh our subconscience like gold, 
These pictures are memories that trigger another event,
in a vicious cycle. 

I promise,
You don't get pictures taken of the countless empty bottles,
the pills you've choked down,
the tube that's shoved down your throat
when they 'save' your life.

(That left me wondering why I had to stay alive and it's all about contributing-
keeping up with the rent you're due on existing.)


 The happier times are easy to forget,
we didn't run out of film.
Aren't those kinds of things in pictures we see?
The media tells you to cut the corners of your mouth so,
you can smile.. 

 
My mother died some time ago a year and some odd months,
my mind had accidentally snapped a picture of her,
still framed; her statue like chest, no veins flowing, and the urge to wait for her chest to rise again. 

I think,
waiting leaves lesions on the brain,
because, most see waiting as pain without any kind of gain. 
That's where trauma comes from-
waiting,
time changing, embedded in the bellies of women and dripping out of men's mouths.
Cycle of life.

— The End —