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Sparkling eyes,
Perfect eyes,
Looking up at the night sky.
The night contented with itself
Mocks the man,
And stares at him strangely.
The man maddened with himself
Watches in the mirror,
Not his admired or braved self,
Not what people call him-
The man who feels no pain,
But his terrible and lifeless self,
His twisted reality.
Plenty of bloodstains colour his white bed,
Deep scars on his body are not so deep for him,
Unforgettable injuries are still forgettable for him.
He lets out a final sigh,
And stabs himself,
Looking up at the night sky,
With his sparkling eyes,
His perfect eyes,
Longing for pain,
Fear,
Suffering...
This poem is a continuation of my previous one- the man
Zeyea Jul 2018
The heaviness on my chest,
the strangled breaths stinking of wafting toxicity,
the bloodstains on my hands
from a ****.
My mind is whirling,
and I wonder
if this is it
if this is insanity distorted past reality
if I am truly lost in this labyrinth of twisted smiles and white lies
if I have finally finally turned myself into a monster.
David Hutton Oct 2017
Bloodstains staring back at me,
Illuminating every part warmly.
Blanketing the entire floor,
Ingrained into each pore.
Disinfect to a high degree.
Graham C Gibbs May 2015
i used to wake up with sore eyes and black bruises i've never seen before
i'd look for long cigarette butts half full beers and forgotten liquor drinks
i had two cow licks that stuck up like horns
i had thick cigarette smoke like peanut butter and puddles in the kitchen that leaked from the trash bags into the rug
i'd paste cardboard boxes and ripped up comic books together with my drawings
in permanent marker and scribbled edges of ballpoint pen and colored pencil coupled with
writings of philosophic schizophrenic machine gun word salad
that ran off the page and
onto the walls
i had slippers i'd worn out months ago and shirts i washed in the shower
with dish soap
i had flies that flew around in circles until they got smacked or fell dead
i'd climb up on the roof in the afternoon
throw bottles in the street and ******* the side
i welcomed the dirt the bloodstains and the deep cough
i loved it but mostly hated it
and i'll never forget it
dedicated to the year 2007
Lenore Lux Jan 2015
Unfrozen, surviving in miles of silent wasteland
Somehow risen from cold to my feet, but not breathing
Am I flawless that I drift so lightly with a Western wind?
Or so flawed that I don't admit I'm desperate for coming home
The final night with my elbows on the throne
Laughing over longing after end to the infinite.
Beheld well with the highest intention to flatter you
Maybe I'll die in laughter when you realize I invite you to bitterness,
brittleness to the shattering for which I'll want you close
Because with another's bloodstains I can live alone
Using what I've siphoned to make my ill-advised scratches on tablets on tabletops.
Cade Apr 2014
blood-stained battlements stare,

once harsh white,

now, deeply dyed,

with our loss of innocence,

the pain is evident,

the sorrow obvious,

but the halo of hell alight,

forever burning,

— The End —