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Carlo C Gomez Aug 11
and the King,
plagued up
to his neck
in denial,

turning remote
into staffs,
staffs into snakes,
and hounds,

shaking the sistrum,
singing gospels
full of mystery
to a god,
a girl,
and state of mind
he will never solve,

asking skies
of transulent
from the far corners
of his world,
for pharmacopia,

then granting
his freedom
in exchange
for a box
of hot glazed

and always
his little
wild petunia,
painted face
and percolating
skin smooth
as the eastern Delta,

her weighted down heart,
his tyranny,

his self-destructive tongue,
her asp

Strapped to the catapult
I sportively plan my escape
By listening to pictures
In stereo
Of the flight
Of a fitful fugitive
Who sculpted depressions in ice
Throughout the flowerbed
Where there is no true sunlight
Only its influence
And by inhaling this fragility
Onto glass
Lowering the thermostat
Like a guillotine
Until hypothermia
Took his oppressors
This coldness might well
Be everlasting
But then, so is the will to survive

Ahmad Attr Apr 5
I said talk about love
My heart raced fast
I turned my brain off
But you were in your fancy car
You texted you were going fast
With wheels on asphalt

I said show me how you rev your engines
Pick me up
Drive through my city
Drive through the dark
My heart raced fast
I turned my brain all off
And We were in your fancy car
You said you want to go **** fast
Music on
Your favorite song
Ninety one
Going all night long
Drive until the dawn of morning star
We can go to the snooker bar
It’s all home wherever we go wherever we are
No such thing as going too far

But I said I want to talk
And you’re going too **** fast
Wheels on asphalt
You forget that I’m here
Wheels on asphalt
I shout but you don’t hear
Drive me off, let me go
But it’s getting crystal clear
You like showing off
Your money and your white car

I just wanted to talk about love
But you can’t have enough
Of your fancy car
Going all so fast
So I just turn my brain all off
Wheels on asphalt
A poem/song about toxic relationship
Rajan Feb 8
I and my colleague got out of our car,
We, the two men with a trench coat wrapped around us,
Walked down to the alley on that cloudy day,
A ****** scene it was, across the river bed,
Where once the pearly white swans swam.

There lied a dead young woman with a stab in her chest,
Through the heart,
With luscious red hair lied a beauty,
That enamors a thousand souls,
A blooming red rose aside her right arm,
A necklace made of scallops around her neck.

A blonde winged child crying profusely
With an empty quiver around his back,
While whistling doves hovered over us,  
And a purse containing letters from the shepherds,
And a commander.

And a man and a woman standing
Besides the body, were crying
And with sadness in their voice,
Saying about how without her
They will forget how to love in time,
And will never be loved anymore.

In such wailing times,
All I could do was to shed some pennies,
And I said them here are pennies,
To plant some myrtles in her memories,
Across these riverbeds,
And hope the swans swim in these rivers once again.
This is a poem, set in a fictional setting of 1800s of industrial England, where two detectives me and my colleague sees a ****** scene. From my point of view, I am witnessing the ****** scene of Aphrodite (god of love),
and I am describing the surrounding and people around the body of Aphrodite
Carlo C Gomez Nov 2020
They fought with swords and shields in sorted fields

of acrimony, declared life and limb to a barren kingdom,

bowed to the royal crown and wooed its fairest daughter.

They won her heart, graced her walls, and worked within them to produce an offspring

—a love child forged with the will of iron and a random, but possessive eye chart.

It nearly took the death of an empire to bring this passion to birth,

and here it so rests upon her breast, pleading an allegiance to her tattered flag.

Why even a thousand years of war demurred to her letting down her hair.

But whose army crossed that wanton bridge and stroked her into carnal submission?

Who kept watch at the crossroads?

History tells us c'est la vie was the culprit, and détente the better angel.

Sometimes it's useless to be useful...
softcomponent Oct 2020
"Curiosity killed the cat."                     

What this really means

is that,

at a certain point of investigation,


can become





Rumaisa Samir Oct 2020
They ask me why I'm silenced
I tell them I'm not; I'm civil
They ask me why I'm sad
I say I'm not; I'm conforming

There was a time when I ran free
When my voice was carried by the ocean breeze
When I ground wildflowers between my teeth
And built my house among the trees

I'd throw my head back and drink from the skies
I looked at the world through clear eyes
And coloured myself all the hues of the sunrise

And I'd run barefoot and dance in the rain
And when it thundered I'd scream my name
So the lightning would know it ran in my veins

And then they caught me-

They ask why I'm silenced
And I think "You taught me,"
They ask why I'm sad
And I think "You broke me."
Hey :)) I'd love some cc if anyone has some tips.
Max Vale Sep 2020
You locked yourself away,
When we were fighting and screaming.
You refused to open the door,
When I was pounding and pleading.

The flashing lights came,
You were on the ground.
I was crying and praying,
For you to come around.

You looked lifeless on the bed,
Without you I'm incomplete.
The black raven bows its head,
I can't hear your heartbeat.

I still need you,
Please don't go.
Haley Protega Aug 2020
I stand in a dessert without a single dune
- just flat sand as far as the eye can see,
And high above me: an unreachable Moon,
silently shining its silver on me.

Too distant for me to hear,
- but I know it sings
A soft lullaby about fear,
And sorrow, and broken wings.

So I keep walking, further still,
Through this nothingness of sand,
An emptiness I cannot fill,
I wish for a helping hand.

But there is none, and anyway
A helping hand I couldn't use:
I alone must walk this way,
Stand and win, or fall and lose.

A whisper from above and far
Tells me I'll be home soon;
I need no guiding star -
I have a guiding Moon.
Note: The dessert is a metaphor for depression, while the Moon represents the will to live.
Rachel Armstrong Jun 2020
She followed me around, matching every step I took, every time I tripped, every inch I squeaked across laminated, tiled, grassed floors. She followed me through cornfields, though war, through the deserts of Saudi, through the alpine cliffs and tundra of the wintered northeast states. She followed me into the restrooms, and into my bed, where we whispered our dreams to one another, silently letting the hours pass as neither of us could muster a blink, only to express our undying love for one another. I couldn’t sleep with her there. She kept my eyes on her, and in moments I became ravenous, and sleep was found only once we were satisfied. That love was vapid, and that love was only a fragment. An expression of the true whole. My undying devotion to my love. My one, true love.

     Her face was beautiful, pale, blue yet almost grey eyes, staring into the wall. Blonde, shaggy, unkempt but not unwashed hair fell a little below her shoulders. Those eyes looked so magnificently marvelous with the glint of our shared lamp on the edges of her eyes, the shiny reflections seemingly engulfing me in her wonder. And yet, as I pay attention, I know she has nothing in those eyes, and that beauty is a husk. For a brief moment I understand, and then once more, it is gone. Her beauty enraptures my soul once again, and I am lost amidst a dream of her love, her love so strong and deep and penetrating into a heart I thought had been broken long ago, rekindling what desire I had to continue trying to survive.

     I stood up once again, but she bid me to sit down, as the show wasn't yet over. The inspiration she had just bestowed upon me would go to waste if he stayed, but after just a moment looking down into those corpse eyes, so wide and begging to be shut, I conceded and sat again. She kissed my nose, one for each nostril, giggled, and left. I love her. So much. I would do anything for her. I would die for her. I spend every minute of my day thinking of her. I worship her.

     I can't forget her. I can't deny her. I can't refuse her. She feels like nothing in my arms, yet everything. I have no control. And I relish in these chains. Every moment I struggle is another **** she can mend. Every war I fight brings more scars to heal. Every catastrophe has her there, faithfully by my side, ready to cheer me up. I held her hand through all of those things, tightening my grip with every new anxiety, every new stress. Every new responsibility. Even as I stumbled she whispered in my ear, that she was still with me, and willing to be there forever.

       Every time I fell, she helped me back up. She always knew the perfect thing to tell me. She was right on time to make up for any mistakes I made. She had a great eating schedule, and helped me get fit, like I never dreamed I could. She made me popular with the other girls, though; she was always jealous, and always kept herself for last and best. And, truly, I couldn't deny her, she was all I could ever dream for.

     My dearest, every moment we are apart is torture to me and a slow death in its own way. Another minute of being so alone like this, without you by my side to keep me safe and warm, is terrifying to think of. I dream of walking outside and seeing you, there, ready for me, having been gone all these months, bright-eyed and beaming with joy, rushing up to me and folding your thin arms around me, crying about how you missed me so **** much. About how our life together would be eternal, until death. Marriage wasn’t important. What was important was your place in my heart. About how we could finally be back together.
We can finally be back together, my love, my crystal methamphetamine.
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