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The pool of rain shadowed the sun, dancing with a tepid demeanor. City lights' glamour reduced the light of the sun—melancholy was evident on her face, accompanied by the distinguished incorporeal's breath of air. The late-afternoon tea and dried-out smoke of snowy November. 

It turned into night; the sun was still blatantly drowning in the pool of light, where a small trickle of its shadows tantalized the mockery arrayed in her face. Followed by the sickness in her stomach, pinching herself as she naively believed he loved her for all she is. 

After all, he was the one who called her a goddess and even paralleled her in the universe in which Aphrodite takes part. Surprisingly and naively, still believed conspicuous lies. It scarred her. A mountain that cannot be climbed; a river where blood flows continuously; a garden full of thorns. The face of a fool. 

The glamour wore off when he saw her on stage, where all of his queens and muses were. He wasn't even paying attention to her, and yet she was the only one who performed on stage—she rose and fell; she sang and moved like a goddess, surprising and naively believing he could take back her youth. 

He watched her rise. 
He watched her fall. 
He watched her lose her life. 

She hopelessly believed, with her skin and bones, that he'd choose her this time. He didn't.
if my life were a song, it would be goddess by laufey.
Mark Wanless Feb 23
large round red puddle
blood of the dog that bit me
i do feel better
Bekah Halle Feb 4
Judgment, misunderstandings, self-protection,
All weapons of mass destruction:
Wounding others and ourselves,
With each thought and resulting action.

Lady Macbeth knew this,
Why did we not heed her justice?
Warning bells clanging,
Freeing us to step onto a new precipice?

There's blood on my hands,
Every time I don't trust and understand,
But I think I know it all,
And make my demands.

Perfectionism has been my cleansing balm,
But, in the end, it's just caused more harm,
Relearning is my matrix,
Continuously transforming and becoming calm.
How do you talk to others,
Dark past haunting knowing name.
Virus killing our brothers,
Do you dare tell blood the same?
No, you cower away ranks,
Afraid from confrontation.
Fear not, mere poems are pranks,
I don’t care your damnation.
Your eternal life is dead,
Absolved a long time ago.
Not Fleance, you’re poorly lead,
It took me this long to know.
Still waiting for a sorry,
My purgatory starry.
Resurrecting Angels, Daemons In Love With Tangles 14th Poetic Series By Nickolas J. McKee ⓒ 2024.
I S A A C Jan 26
venom meets venoms
neon blood moon
pray to the raven for bonhommes like you
cold hands meet in crowded rooms
firework sparks lighting up truth
graceful unable to be so far removed
cuddle up into my thoughts of you
the essence, my dependence
it is all about you
Anais Vionet Jan 22
Sometimes after Lisa and I do our early-morning 4 mile run (we treadmill in the basement fitness center if it’s under 43 degrees), I come back and lie on my bed, for just for a moment. This morning it was just as the sun broke over the horizon and a pink light crawled across my ceiling, highlighting every imperfection, like craters and mountains on some distant, barren planet. My Apple watch went chikle-inkle-lnkle. Ok, Time to start the day.

Later…

Leong got a new ‘Girls Life’ magazine, those always seem packed with the latest scientific info.
“Studies suggest that you and your deepest friends may share the same blood types!” Leong read aloud.
“I’m O-negative,” she announced, “What blood type are you?” She asked me.
“Red,” I revealed (I am, after all, pre-med).
“DElicious reddd,” Lisa updogged in a Bela Lugosi vampire voice.

“Americans are never serious,” Leong whinged, her voice rising and falling on the last syllables.
“That’s what makes us what we are today,” Lisa asserted, “a slowly, steadily, declining superpower.”
“We could join the military after Yale,” I suggested helpfully, “I bet they’d make us officers.”
“Oh sure, I heard the army’s making men out women these days,” Lisa agreed.
“Sounds messy,” I said, wincing.”
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Whinge: “to complain fretfully."
In their unsettling eyes,
where the depths of despair and sorrow lurk,
exists a city painted
in the vivid shade of red,
reminiscent of a beheaded goat.

It is a place where the very essence
of existence is severed, as if limb from limb,
leaving one utterly devoid of coherent thoughts.
And as blood trickles down, its crimson streams
permeate the worn-out cracks and crevices
of the city's paved streets, seeping into the
very soul of its weathered cement.

The trance-inducing stains, resembling veins,
intertwine with the essence of the city itself,
pulsating with an intensity that mirrors the
rushing flow of black cars, reminiscent
of clotted clumps of blood, flooding the roads.

Yet, just as an insidious cancer infiltrates the body,
the roadblocks erected by corrupt police officers
obstruct any signs of progress or hope,
suffocating the metropolis.

In the midst of this relentless chaos,
where silence is but a distant memory,
an anthem to the undead echoes through the air,
merging with the pervasive sense
of anguish that engulfs the city's very core.
Malia Jan 13
The poetry
Claws at my rib cage
Like it’s a real cage.
Like it’s minimum wage
Come to pay up, pay a price.
It 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘴 like blood
Or bone.
It blooms like a flower
Then crashes like stone.
It flows out of my lips
Like music’s own bile—
Life’s a trial by fire
But this is fire by trial.
neth jones Dec 2023
blood                                                  
blood patter and splash                            
leads us         concrete toward
tracing back        til the scene        
i’ve flashing thoughts of the brutality
   the violence     that must of cussed  
  between persons            
         in fear    fray    and inebriation

down the steps                                     
            my four year old child and I go          
the greasing bleed     in bronze putters  
growing and leadening
on stone labours

glowing citrus    the refrigeration
                          of the underpass
          ‘flips the bird'   at the summer blaze
grey dead coral bricks of urination  
seasoned in deep   beading now cold
the broke up weapon                        
                   candy slates of brittle teeth
glass / bottle / beer /brown
    the neck its' hilt              
     and the main mud of the bleeding

the flies are the thing                                
                         th­at bothers my ‘little nipper’
usually a flapper of queries on repetition
no other queries are raised
     just eager for the vibration
      of train carriages gatling over our heads

i stopper any words i may have on the matter
  he holds my hand with his hot hand
we progress under a port arms                                   
                            procession of caged floodlights
      and walled in by fresh graffiti
fingers dripping   retching for the guttering
Observed 23/06/23

unused -

on thickened walls      painted on over and over
by the neighbourhood watch
a  narrowed burrow
Sadie Grace Dec 2023
I wanna slice up my arms
Leave some real nice scars
Let the blood drip down my skin while I grin like a ******
Then go back in the store before stopping myself from doing more and wishing I had tore open a vein
I’m going insane
Guess I just love the pain
A slave to my brain
It just paves the way for another “episode”
Wish I could just explode
Or slowly corrode
I don’t know how to be with people
I don’t trust the man working in the building with a steeple
They’re supposed to be good but always end up evil
Doing **** that’s illegal
So back to my original thought
Now you know what brought me here
I wanna slice up these arms
Leave them nice and scarred
Cuz this life is ******* hard
And I just wanna feel something else
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