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Gale L Mccoy Jan 2018
If you ever want to
Look inside yourself
To see how your blood pumps
And the color of your flesh
Take a pen and tear
words into paper instead
Bleed worlds and people
Scream through the mouths of others
But not through your skin
It will only scream back for more
And there is no harm in being unable
To stop a pen
Rather than a blade
Gabbi Jan 2018
Woman becomes blade. Woman becomes something sharp,
something you’ll think twice before running your hands over.
Woman becomes cold steel, because maybe if she is threat
she is no longer target.

You do not blame a sword for how it is sharpened, how if it
is wielded in the wrong hands it can wound. Still you say this
is no way to live. As if your sharpened teeth and hidden claws
do not bear the same weight.

You say this is no way to live. As if you alone could melt
her winter heart and metal bones. She will not bend to your
will, no matter how she loves you so. She will not soften her
edges into a coffin. She will not become your final resting place.
Jennifer Nov 2017
masked, he came towards me
weapon in hand, hands bloodthirsty.
the white of his mask showed no purity,
only a sinister mystery.

most would run, or scream even
but i could not; legs tied with fear
tongue tied into a knot,
i remained silent as the assailant
drew near.

close enough to feel his breath
warm upon my cheek
he whispered:
‘my name is Hope.
this is what i look like.’

i could feel his blade
cold, pressed against my thigh
yet he entwined his leather gloved fingers
with mine.

swaying gently, bathed in an unknown,
gentle light.
but the light grew harsher;
i notice it reflecting off my

heart.
the silver blade, burrowed into my chest.
my knees buckle and
the floor is ice.

warmth drains from me and
hope crouches down - removes his
mask.
faceless and empty,
empty with unknowing.

from nowhere, Hope’s voice echoed
everywhere.
he said:
‘my name is Hope and
hope never dies.’
M Rose Nov 2017
Calling out into the canyon,
Echoing, echoing, echoing.
Sometimes I think I'll die there in the morning light, but then--
a Buzzing. You ask if I'm coming home.
I hear the rumbling of the semi trucks
and they sound so tired. They sound like me.
The Gray enshrouds me and it gets hard to breathe.
I think about that night so often.
I thought we would be a Long time
but you disappeared right before my eyes.
Steam rising from my flesh, with my last breath I ask you to stay;
you remind me that I held the blade.

When the shards of glass Pierced
your skin I felt the Stinging
alongside you.
Mouth gone Dry,
at last I see how my love turned Blind
for nothing more than a Flicker and a Shadow.
tw: violence, intrusive thoughts, etc.
AtMidCode Nov 2017
I didn't want to hurt you
But what would you do if the blade's digging too dip into your skin?
You push it back
And no matter what you do
You hurt the person holding--thrusting--it back to you from the other side

See?
We're both bleeding.
To HePo, for making me realize that all types of poetry, even those that do not sound like poetry to you, should be written.
Lyn-Purcell Nov 2017
Imagine seeing a silvery blade dancing to the music of death.
Marred by the poetry of blood
A trumpet to the cries of war
But it also reflects the wielder.
When looking at it, you can see yourself.
But in my eyes, I can see the steel's heart.
As it's in your hand, preparing to protect, it's polished until it shines like luna wildfire.
In the end, I believe the true beauty of a katana comes not from the hilt or engravings, but from the steel.
How many songs has it sang in our battles, can you imagine...?
A katana's beauty comes from the polished steel as it's shines so brightly
with victorious prayers.
This poem is dedicated to several katana that I saw in a museum near me.
(I'm a nerd for these things and I'm not shamed)
Katelyn Billat Oct 2017
I want to smile for once,
So I pick up the sharp blade
And carve it deeper into my cheeks.
As the blood trails over my chin and jaw,
runs down my neck,
Finally, I'm smiling.
Ashley Chapman Oct 2017
Feel empty in your post apocalyptic City of Angels,
Where not even your pets are real!
An electric android, a sheep or a frog,
The whir-flutter of micro-electrical wings of a butterfly.

Good, and so you ought.

Now grab the handles of your empathy box,
And in a shared virtual hallucination –
Feel: empathy, depression, pain, delusion and despair,
The outré myriad gifts of consciousness.

Billions of discombobulated and disconnected wrecks:
Adam's sons; Eve's daughters,
And among them simulations too,
Fakes! androids!
A phony circuit of implanted semi-conscious memories,
A hive of neural malaise!
Welcome to our world;
know how dead inside I am.

You, yes, you:

Need a pet to make you more complete?
Maybe you can afford
A Fake Fakir Flake like me who looks like Jude Law,
Sounds like Richard Burton,
And silently romances you like Rudolph Valentino.
Come and stick what’s left of your mind,
In here,
In hair,
Hear her:
har, har, har…

A box of lies...

A voice, Mercer's,
With texture from an age you neither lived in nor dared in:
Al Jerry's, a TV actor,
Droning on in pre-selected tones.

The real thing, the men, the women, the children - their animals -
Made in the wild, wild desert,
In the green pulsing savannah,
On the open crusted sea;
Now too, washed, choked, and drained,
Too many spliced and diced mutations,
Iterating your image:
The thing that was my heart,
My Child, now its imitation.
Performed for Celine's Salon at Gerry's Club, Soho, London and at Time Event Space, Glasgow, April 29, 2022.

This comes from my fascination with Philip K. **** and Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. In this, his future dystopian vision, androids are retired, a euphemism for terminated, when they have passed their legal age limit after four years. Humans, us, have by now ruined our environment and become enthralled to a false religion, Mercerism , a fabricated make belief, spun by an actor, Al Jerry. The empathy boxes plunge the followers of Mercerism into a shared virtual hallucination. I was also enthralled by Jude Law in AI by Steven Spielberg who gave what I thought was a mesmerising portrait of a *** robot, the ultimate Lothario and so tragically programmed to flaw.

In 2017 Mercerism was the theme of The Tunnel, an art collective to which I was a participator, through poetry.

Then in 2022,I was invited to perform it in Glasgow as part of Celtic tour of Britain for Celine's Salon.

It will soon be published by Wordville Press.

Blade Runner, the film, now Blade Runner 49, is based on this dark interpretation of where we could all be headed.
Your "used to it."
Blade digs deeper into your forearm.
As I watch you bleed , all I can do is cry. For I fear your pain has turned to look at me.
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