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J J Aug 26
Autumn,with the force of rapid thunder
Dawns the sky, clawing the lake asunder
  Beneath our steps
As we leapt
  To,fro,and to again;

Here we burn, trapped to our limboid sojourn
Gasping for air as the Daemon sits without a care
Tracing and chasing the ends of his thinning thread
Connecting to our voodoo dolls, laments of our death
In silent whispers only existant at all by the dents
Where our mouths should be.

This dreaded haunting, this memory looped
With crimson nails the Daemon draws hoops
Pliable as a smoke ring from laughing lips,
The Daemon strings us by his fingertips—
Reminds us we alone created hell on earth—
You can taste it in the kicked up dust,
The unlexical powder that remarks our birth
In this stale heat, our skin starts to crust.

I called you my best yet, you said I was a settlement in a lost bet,
I called you a ***** and wished I drownt you in the wishing well
Where you'd only have other mute spirits left to tell; I set

Out on a ****** scheme that night--
To slit your throat as you awoke and watch you fight
Without a chance.
I watched you in your contorted dance and felt you lift,
Shiver and go stiff
Dying in my arms. But as I sighed I felt invisible red eyes
Settle on us from the willows
Behind the blindness window.

I heard a needle scrape, a scornful moan and a bat's descry.
I knew then I truly was the pawn in a wicked game
Who's evil was signatured in our name.

The devil netted your soul dear, and already had mine.
And as I sat straddled over your limpid frame, frozen in time
And feeling his nails, like worn toolbox screws, along my spine
I oddly thought pleasantly of better times:

Of our first meeting on that autumnal day, when caught in the breeze
And kissing discreetly
Amongst the trees
and along the lake we simontaniously compared to the mythical  Lethe.

I loved you then, oh how I did,
And in return, we'll love forever—
Us, the looping dead.
Nick Jul 28
The cigarette was trailing down my throat like a ten-inch tapeworm
It was grounded, the bright look she gave.
I projected my disgust onto the rain.
This was my one shot to make a garden.
I've never had a cigarette. Read the tags.
Asyura Apr 2
She’s a book.
No not a paperback, but a hardcover.
An inviting sight,
yet cold to the touch.
The scent of woody pages lingers,
the edges never ceasing
to cut your grazing finger
when you least expect it.
Her intricate words, unnecessarily bewildering
Her methaphorical phrases will have your head throbbing
as you so desperately search for their
meanings.
“Daedalian”, she would say,
“As in ingenious, intricate, and confusing”
You spend hours
figuring how to unravel her Delphic words.
The more you read the more complex she gets.
A thin line appears in the middle of her spine,
a crack,
from being opened and closed too much.
Her exhausted pages tattered and dog eared.
Your determination to solve her
was no match for her ambiguity.
She’s  a hardcover
you’ll never finish reading.
Matthew Feb 18
Hush little baby, don't run away
Mama's gonna see you another day

And if that time is too much to bear,
Papa's gonna buy you a new blue chair

keep that blue chair close to you
I'll need it for the day you say "I do"

Shh little baby, wipe away those tears
There is something that you need to hear

                                                           ­                         I'll love seeing you again
                                                           ­                                          remember that

                                                           ­                                 It might be too soon
                                                            ­                                    for you to accept,
                                                         ­                                                            but
                                                             ­                                                            ...
                                                             ­                                                              .
                                                               ­                                     She's dead
Final words
chichee Nov 2018
The city knows.

Alleyways push me up against the bricks and
whisper ***** nothings to me.
Drowning at the bottom of a swimming pool.
Drains threaten to
drag me
under

I'm no angel.

Please, darling,
I say to the skyscrapers,
If you don't like who I am, you'll like who I could be

I carved a map of Manhattan into my shoulder blades.
Unhinge my jaw into a smile
(oh my what big teeth you have)


The truth is I'm terrible at this.


All these
Working Class Angels, their
rabbity pulse beneath their skins
(I wonder if they taste like it too)
Because darling,
there's no way this is heaven.

Cruel hungry city,
I feel your streets closing in,
your lamplights lurch forwards
waiting for a ******.
Not really proud of this one but it needed to get out of my system.
Sabika H Oct 2018
I wonder where your mind takes you
when you're silent.
I wonder what your voice says to you
when you're in bed
or what scenarios could be playing
in your head.

Do you think of something new and exciting?
Something logical or political?
Do you think about only yourself or others too?
Or do you think of something impossible to understand
but not for you.

I wonder how you approach your mind,
I wonder what secrets you hide:
I wonder about the thoughts that comfort you in sadness,
saves you from madness.
The thoughts that give you balance and guidance,
maintenance and sustenance.

I wonder what dreams you dream while you sleep,
What thoughts do you hear while you're unconscious and defenseless.
I wonder what really is in your heart,
because the answers to these questions
is what truly sets us apart.
I'd love it if some of you actually answer some of these questions. I'd love to get to know your soul, unfiltered.
Anya Sep 2018
I’d rather honestly
Spill my feelings
With my words
Than,
Rely on
Ambiguous actions
Tarik Aug 2018
What's eleven minutes to me?
Not a thing.
I have plenty of minutes.
Eleven minutes I shall spend.

What's eleven minutes to me?
It's worth something.
But I can't help myself.
Eleven minutes I shall spend again.

What's eleven minutes to me?
A waste.
At this stage, countless minutes I'll never get back.
Eleven minutes I wish I still had.

What's eleven minutes to me?
I'm afraid I can't answer that.
It's not that I don't want to.
I physically can't.

Because I am no longer physical.
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