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Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
and he does not think it strange,
watching two hours of the hottest hip hop,
in freezing cold surround sound air,
returns home to a medium warm bath,
where the drink served, icy cold vitamin water,
liquefying the mournful, dismal~gloomy,
lugubrious poems of lost love he finds
under his hello poetry pillow,
that gives no one relief,
neither to the writer or the victimizer

and he does not think it strange

reads strange takes n' poem tales from Avenida Paulista,
but his body dances to an Argentine milongia melancholia,
a contrast and a contest,
his heart asks where is Patagonia,
as the Arctic Vortex melts into the bath water

and he does not think it strange

for he know, he knows that this makes little sense,
but perfect sense to the poet-man,
try to see it his way,
there is a fussing and fighting inside,
that cannot be worked out

and he does not think it strange

but this be the funk groove of his extra
ordinary life wherein his body and heart,
and hundreds more,
can be held aloft
on a single wrist with fluid ease,
if allowed

and he does not think it strange

when he says,
aside aside fellow dancer,
and he does not think it strange,
he wants you to understand
for that, you must be
*be beside beside, fellow dancer
You deserve some explanation.

Saw two hours of this dance company

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5EZ-eS-LClY


went out into the sub freezing cold.
climbed unto the holy water to
read and write, and reads poems on HP from SP,
and poems of busted love while
McCartney sings We Can Work It Out
writes of the streams mingling,
and he does not think it strange
but duty bound to ask you to join
the ride, and herein he signs your
permission slip,
for his woman is off dancing Argentine tango at a milonga
till long after he falls asleep
Johnny Raven Jun 2015
Johnny's not here right now, but if you'd like to
Leave a message he may or may not call...
He's tired, exhausted, bereft of giving and
Receiving in return nothing, nothing at all.
He's become the Velveteen Rabbit without
The happy ending, someones over time
Pulled out all his stuffing and yet he still tries to
Play, frozen in a game of Freeze-Tag so far away
From the other boys...frozen in that dusky darkness
Right after the street lights go on, just another broken toy
Just another broken boy who never understands why the life Experiences he speaks congeals to wrong, dribbles to creepy, or Explodes to wildly unsettling,
So many thoughts drawn on raged bits of drawing paper, art therapy, psychoanalysis, Freudian French
Kiss of poison and genetic quadruple DNA strands writhing
For information, 158 IQ, so ****** pointless without the proper Socially acceptable and personal domestic expressions
Drowning in a childhood sandbox, GI Joe's destroy (ed)
He's realized he attracts the broken toys
Headless-heartless dolls most men no longer want to play with
And have destroyed, the violent dolls stained crimson
With the victims of their games, stained crimson as the victims of
'Sane-ity' to insanity, *****, robbed, the other boys violated their Humanity, in turn, the circle burns, round and round from victim To                         Another      Elizabeth Bathory
They've butchered and they've eaten all the kindness
That remained, their 'The Hungry Heart,'
Pound for pound, their weight in pain, daily dose, an
Eternity of pain...until all that's left in all of us is this darkness
This disdain, this narcissistic fatalistic madness
Which now has made it's home in us, so many
Severed 'n' shattered veins...cataclysmic catechism,
Unbroken, unbound but bound,
Round and round and round the cycle of victimizer to victim,
From predator to prey, we all try to stop the wheel, but we're all Performing the                 Mississippi Dog Paddle             ...still,
Broken arms, broken legs, fractured neck,
Lacerations from head to toe
In blood will out, in mud will in, blood and mud, drowning in sin
Buried to our necks on The River Styx trying to dig our way free
Before our next victim, before our next prey, the tide of
Suicides tears are rising, but we'll dig ourselves out another day, Another day as darkness fades to black...drowning in tears, but Lack the drive, lack the eyes we've clawed out the other day
Out of sight and out of our minds, not today
Another broken teacup in our pieces of
Our lives, broken little china set, water to wine,
Tea to blood, lay our heads back blinded in the
Quiet of the screams...in the quiet of the stream
In the quiet of the River Styx, forced us into
This Morpheus sleep, dead is the new alive it
Seems, Concerto 23...
...Used to feel a modicum of emotion, enough to
Cause me pain...so foreign are the long term acts of
Kindness and Decency it's difficult to believe in ever
Finding that happiness again.
Some people hate the gender that solidified
Their rage, that solidified their pain, that solidified their hopes of
Ever loving another again, but I have no hatred, no blinding
Bursts of rage, no pain left to speak of because that would
Entail a minuscule of desire, of hope, or a sensory/synapse spark, Enough to retain love, or a grip on seeing the beauty of the sunlight Once again...
Depravity, nothings left but this emptiness
This oubliette of nothingness, you see?
I've grown so exhausted, so devoid of drive of
Hope or compatibility, I've finally given up the
Fight of avoiding Dante's Hell's, like
Judas Iscariot, bowels open and out, betrayed
So many times with a kiss and a promise (s),
Crucified for my sins, then hung out on a tree
In an empty field, the ground stained in blood...
Nailed until asphyxiation, my soul now
Stained in bloodied mud, is this what everyone
But me expected, is this what everyone but me
Could see? Some voyeuristic reality of all who see,
Who see to watch me scream and bleed?
Am I just another serpent in the garden, eating
My own knowing pretty poison until I die just
Like every other breed? "I am become death..."
"Now we're all sons of *******..." this was my last breath,
Only now another empty meat-bag, just displaying,
Playing at being human, a little inner child's twitches,
Trying,      Trying,      Trying
After so many ****** stitches, so many fractured psychosis',
To crawl back into being,...I think we brought back something from The darkness once again...a little more of I T a little less of us
Each and every time we slide back into that murky blackness.
Like water with the consistency of blood and oil,
An atavistic primordial state of mind, an
Evil indescribable in our time and this time
I believe we're unaware "I make our own home be our gallows" Of what will happen...posthumous could be
Written, the only thing keeping me from
Physically dying, is the child inside who
Won't be beaten, no matter what he's missing
Broken, bloodied, torn, and flayed
Still barely breathing, let them see, let them
All see the thing these men & women have made...
Ethical concerns have become lost
Aesthetic-al concerns have now replaced what was.
No more morals, but morale
No more feelings, no more bleeding's
Just another broken babe, being.
We'll see, lost at sea, don't drink the water
Because that's all that's left of me...
"Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink..."
Have I become the sea? Am I undrinkable?  

- Johnny Raven ©06-08-2015 9:15 PM.
I don't know, I just started writing. Apologies for the non-sequitur of it all. I keep going back trying to make it make sense, but I'm going to leave it. It fit my day inside my head. Questions, questions, questions.
Questions of others actions and my own and attempting to understand both parties pain.
Mercurychyld Sep 2014
The many highways and varied roads we travel each day
are lined with much danger and pent up rage.
A sense of anger that is a constant potential time bomb
just waiting to go off.

Many paths are taken at every moment of our lives.
Some roads are quiet, surrounded by solitary vegetation,
some roads are long drawn and monotonous, coaxing you
to fall asleep at the wheel.
Still, others are surrounded by dread and danger on
either side...here, safety is a seldom seen luxury.

TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK...
LISTEN TO THE EERIE BEATING
OF THE CLOCK!

You have only to watch your daily news to witness
countless examples of a festering that every day,
in different ways, just boils over to a culminating
point where both victim and victimizer take a
proverbial bullet.

Children killing children, mama's selling themselves
to feed one or more 'juniors', daddy...where is
daddy in most cases?

TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK...
LISTEN TO THE EERIE BEATING
OF THE CLOCK!

These pathways and roads on life's highways are
littered with our minute to minute decisions and
bring equal consequence at every turn.
Many times the challenge becomes exiting any
number of one way streets where hate and
collective fury reside, and finding passage to the
expressway leading to boulevards of understanding,
compassion and an enlightened view of our
fellow commuters.

TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK...
LISTEN TO THAT EERIE BEATING
OF THE CLOCK!

Soon...very soon...this world; our world, the only
one we've got...will implode then explode then ball
itself up into a fetal position, and finally drink its
own bitter, fallout tainted tears as each last
survivor...remembers...what once was...

TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK...
LISTEN TO THAT EERIE BEATING
OF THE CLOCK!

I'm afraid...YOUR TIME IS UP!!!




-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Rage, disappointment, disgust of life sometimes...I know these well!
I’m sorry you feel the way you do
And I hope you suffer greatly
More rather, I hope your friends suffer
For what they did to us, what they did to me
And I only wish this upon you
So you and your friends will understand
The pain I have to deal with and conceal everyday

You are such a victimizer,
But you are not the victim here; I am
Stop trying to say you are
It’s not all about you
This time, it’s all about me
And how poorly I was treated and the damage that can’t be undone
How the loose lying mouths of your friends
Influenced you into becoming something you’re not

Easily influenced means you have a weak WILL
Weak WILL means weak mind
Weak mind means poor impulse control
And you my friend, have all of the above
But I love you anyway
From: Talk *****/Breathe Easy
© Khrystina-Lee 2011
Her intentions are as clear as fog and her kiss as soft as stone.
Her words set the air on fire and her eyes pierce bleeding hearts.
Her hands hold no future and her feet have traveled no past.
Her hair covers my bloodshot stare and her frame never lasts.
Is she wounded or is she a witch, does she hurt or does she hit?
Is she vulnerable or is she a victimizer, does she cry or does she care less?
Her number has found my phone at ungodly hours, and my fingers have tasted her... sour.
Her address has always escaped me, and her best has tried to replace me.
Yet there are no buts, only simple worthwhile regrets.
Nothing half hearted, only heart stopping all-in bets.
Her intentions are as clear as fog, so I take caution haphazardly.
Her kiss is as soft as stone, so I cradle this kiss fearlessly.
Her hands hold no future, so in my hands I hold time for her.
Her feet have traveled no past, so my feet, this journey, they shall endure.
Her hair covers my bloodshot stare, so I bleed blindly.
Her frame never lasts, so I remember it fondly.
She is a wounded witch with no spell to save her.
She hurt while hitting back at this failed familiar.
She is a vulnerable victimizer of countless victimless crimes.
She is a careless crier when she hears tragic romantic rhymes.
Her number has found my phone at the darkest of my hours.
As I fight slay dragons and climb towers.
I've tasted her bittersweet sour fingertips.
Escaped with only seconds to spare.
Replaced hope with bottomless pits.
Leapt without wings, crashing without burdens to bear.
How could I forget that her words set the air on fire?
Only breathing in when death is the desire.
She is not my half-hearted pity bet.
But simply my worthwhile life-long regret.
Shutterr Aug 2019
When can I feel like the victim
And only the victim
I can't be a victim and victimzer
At the same time
It sends me into a spiral
Of only accepting what you say
Is the truth
Onoma  Jan 18
The Crucifier
Onoma Jan 18
in a demented convulsion

the victimizer played

victim.

the crucifier screaming

over the crucified.

as if respondsibility will

carry confusedly over stone

cold truth.

concluding thereof it was an

outside influence that saw

to the carnage.

blameless thus the full inheritence

of the earth conferred.

of course--rightfully so.
Jonathan Jul 2019
“Don’t say sorry say thank you”
A breakthrough in my recovery

I want to apologize to you
I know I ****** up
And  you didn’t
deserve what that did to you

I know I hurt you
I’m sorry

But I need to stop saying sorry

Framing myself as your abuser
Blaming myself for everything

When we both know
You
were a part of
T h i s
too

When I am the one
who hurt you
I have
to hurt me to make
hurting you
Ok

I wear the crown of the victimizer and victim together.

And at that expense

No

I cannot say sorry
anymore

So allow me to rephrase

Thank you for letting me into your life
Thank you for your affection and love
Even if it went sour
I appreciate you enduring the trials we went through
Even though
we weren’t meant to be
But we had fun

So thank you
Thank you for playing a part in my crazy ****** up journey
To becoming better
I hope you were able to
Enjoy some part of the wild ride too

-I left for the wrong reasons

— The End —