Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I'm listening to Alice,
Alice in chains,
She screams, we hear,
Ain't it sad, she died,
Even though we heard her cry,
And scream, her privacy was raked,
Her struggle to be herself,
And we could not leave her alone.

~÷ The sound in my head is deafening me,
Give the truth so I can nod~~
adrien 7d
"This is church, this is where you come to forget"
listen to our pastor confirm
prescribed frail justification
bless my bruises, drink my blood?                                        
we will give you our food money if you will allow us to make an offering
i promise you, it's more than 10 percent.

we will go home after this halted hour
march to our waiting stations                                       
she would leave her bedroom if she could.
she has a headache again.
your mother is busy praying.                                                         ­                     

Father shows us grace.
Father shows us heaven.
Father shows us stars.                                           
Father shows us stars, too...                                          
every night, I pray to them.
i don't think anyone will get it, it's cool.



What phobia should I do next?
An abstract thing
More composed when I sit next to you
Exceedingly so when I feel your breath on my skin
And fingertips start to sting

What unspoken promises lie beneath the surface
Of each touch
Lies they tell too much
For they are ones we can not keep
Promises that pose no purpose

An abstract concern
Vague they become when you dissipate
My mind just can’t fixate
Unknown and unclear
Return to the ones that burn.
Another one for you

The biggest thing I could find
Was my pitiful sense of pride.
Blinding stage lights I set make me blind
New sockets to inhabit myself self eyed.


Maybe a cursed heart but blessed mind.
Ribbons wrapped on gifts with a contract tied.
The wrapping paper weaves into a bracelet with mine intertwined.
Chuckle and hide the gift, a furthering puppet on it’s right foot stride.

K n o w s?

I crave remembrance in the tenements of the refined.
As I greet the regulars, painting the memory a pubescent tide.
Those decrepit halls of poverty ascend to new space confined.
My images too familiar, as the graffiti covers my father art. And mine already died.


Sympathy nods and greets me down the Levie, the fish streamlined.
I seek sustenance distilled in it’s shadow, it’s promises to my mind a ride.
Years of excuses for odd fish to the family, age to this unkind.
I feast, yet with my family complain the taste too tacky and tried.

I crumble and grovel at the end of the line.
I pulled the linchpin, and came tumbling down my statue of twine.
Strung of nylon lies and bitter vine.
The pedestal willowed and wales of years in the spine.
And the rain wails upon the unstrung man, all quite a whine.
So now where the sun forgets to shine
I build a shrine
Out of old wicker and pine.

To remember the time
Struck out of prime
That I built castles in rhyme.
Now I turn to the store with a dime
Backpocket backwater downtime.
To buy a Cassette of the old ragtime.
To the shrine, I play it in passtime.
I pass it every day as I think of bedtime.
And think;

“Oh What Liar, what cheater and what hypocrite will I build in it’s honor? One robbed of innocence, fiendishly poignant, selective in forgery, one failed in love and one carnal in empathy. Oh but one my dastardly, and more selfish. As the purpose of role models has changed, they inhabit your world now. And I inhabit a world where I decided to go and pull my own Linchpin.”
A Poem about my Flaws, about who I am and about who I want to be and aspire towards.
M-E Feb 3
Open a window to the unconsciousness
Sun rises on broken lamps
In the city of slaughtered lambs
With nocturnal jobs and diurnal breaks
Red, red, red lights
Pen bleeds on paper leaves
Paper cries and streams to you
Penciles sketched a ***** Plato
Shadow cave imprisoned Aristole
Once right and true, now hyperbole
My room of fallen dreams
Smells of eggs and smoken beams
Triple *** and Triple 666
Sold books and bought a Twixt
Watch yoga beggard with red lipstick
Hands that wrote, punched a face
Threw anger with a victory fist
For playing on a piano of benefits
Pray a prayer and Trust In God
Pay justice for In god We Trust
chichee Jan 31
You said you needed an extra pair of hands
                                    so I took mine off and
gave them to you.
The sun set in my glass,            darling-
                                   can't you hear that?
         coo-ee, coo-ee
                    oh the cockatoos
are jabbering philosophy again.
I want to push my fingers into your mouth,
                                  swirl it in all the      honey in there.
                                                          ­    My hands on the clock
pointing at quarter past five,
                         birds swing up into the air like
                    the half-beat of a pendulum
                                                        ­      lungs filling up with water-
we're all romantic fools here.
                     Sometimes I think of time         as fluid
tick tock tick tock
                my glass dripping into
                                                          ­We're all running dry,
quickly, before the night ends-
                                 ask me to         dive off
the edge of the world                
                                           ­        with you.
Took me ages to title this. Not as sad as what I usually go for.
Dean Jan 31
the strokes of color painting the sky when the sun says goodbye.
the can of soda, countless more, sitting on the bedside table.
the final chapter of a book, scent of parchment in the air.
the lights in my apartment at 3 in the morning.  
the feeling of your lips pressed against mine
moving in sync as if it is known
that you and i are deeply
in love and
you start
to drift away
and the sensation
is only just that once
you are gone and pulling away
all of these a vestige, and you are mine
ves·tige: noun
a trace of something that is disappearing or no longer exists.
Austin Draper Jan 31
Magnificent sun shows the stacked color
Over the edges but with the bars as its collar
But hidden plainly on the inside edge, the grey bird hangs as a Crawler
As it mourns the people who put it their, just for being rare. Them and you.
A Modern Descending Rhyme poem, one focusing on happiness.
Jacob Parnell Jan 29
These days, I spend my lazy days coming up with phrases to say.
A delay is to wait.
So what am I waiting for?
A torn deliverer departs saying life is an art form.
Sworn to protect his endeavors.
Swift and as light as a feather.
The blue embarks to make his mark on this world
So I wait, and I wait out the hate this country has torn into.
Pandora's box locks from the outside.
I'm not hiding, I'm living in plain sight.
We all wait until the day turns bright enough to ponder more.
We have all fought the night enough in excellent form.
We will rise as a nation guided by unspoken voices.
Verses and choices.
In due time.
We stay alive till the coming of dawn.
That's just fine.
In due time.
Generations wait belated unto their fate.
This is our time.
We rise up.
Uncriticized this is our time.
We rise up.
One as a nation.
Two as a people.
Three as a crazed individual on a soapbox.
Four as the children with smallpox.
Five as the ones who just try to stay alive every night when the light shines too dim.
Six as the individuals who act on a whim.
Seven as those who pray to get to heaven but work all their days at a seven-eleven.
Well wait no more.
We are the infinity score.
The war torn worlds go down when they sleep and so as not to make a peep we plan in silence. Abstracting violence with peace. We sit in hollowed out churches without verses because if we speak the truth the worlds seams will undo, that's power.
One day will speak for hours for us.
Those of us who are meek and delirious.
Still stand proud.
Yes I'm loud.
Say into the light signs.
Stay until the night time.
Weigh it all and that's mine.
Yes I'm loud.
Take the voices. Reiterate the choices. Learn it through osmosis until we're comatosis.
Gleam what we mean when you read all these words.
Your life is better for it.
Just a phrase as it turns.
Abstract poem about certain dreams that I've had.
Next page