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Noandy Dec 2014
(A Sequel to The Corpses Have Hearts to Speak)

Long have I waited
To be resurrected
Cleansed, to be
Undamned

My eyes are sore
With dust desires
To see the colors I have seen
For I know that I can
Never step upright back

To the world
Of clinching steps
Where my windshields weeping
Is regarded as the omens of romance

See my heart,
It is clouded by skull silk
It is caged by casket
It is as the way it was not

My remains and my days passed
Might never gain back
The state and pieces I was in
Full of pride—
Empty of soaring sympathy

And gratefulness, I threw away is
Now just a simple decay dance
Now just a simple foul fool
Now just skinfingers mingling upon lovebones

The dangled toes and soundless threads
Could only boast ethereal sweats on top
Of our dead lungs
Revived by revolting revolver of tears that passed

Do you not feel sorry,
For our dull presence?
Living without our warmth,
As we live without a light,
Except those of the angels?

And up above from Heaven’s throne
A gospel rule was set for our liberty
And we are allowed to break free
Not long after

Only when the days break on the fifth
Only before the stars shade on the darkness
Of the sixth
I shall exist
As bound white shadows before your dull chamber
A Sequel to The Corpses Have Hearts to Speak
Noandy Nov 2014
I am bored to death
Of this desire to play with
The heart of human child
For it has never given me  
Much amusement.

I am bored to death
And my soul, empty;
My soil vessel broken
When I wished to mend the splits
Lingering, lingering in your heart
Yet you stood up
Without my embrace.

I am bored to death
In this small town owned
By Mother Solitude where
Only angels speak to me,
Where I am hurt by my fault
My fear
My grace I have disdained;

I am bored to death
Of death; for the question repeated
For the blames I have done
For regrets, come at last
Redemption, sinned like ballad

I am bored to death
Of death
Whether it be hell;
Or heaven of days—
One I shall go
by the end of the day.
DIRTY DEW Nov 2014
Arms outstretched
Eyes to the sky
Back to the ocean
I go

Floating
The sun ignites the sweat on my forehead
Gasoline

What happens when you open the cage
Of the bird that wouldn't stop it's singing?

What song will it play
When it lands on that final branch
Never to be heard again
Natalie Neo Nov 2014
I burned my feelings into ashes
with the dry ice in my heart,
from the chills you bestowed upon me.

Those ashes I saved and kept them
in a box, I sealed it and
named it "Past".

The bubble of hope died and
my feelings vanished into thin air-
or I wished.

I took Past and I painstakingly
dug at hole, so deep
at the bottom of my heart.

That's where the Past shall stay,
where you shall be,
where this love strives to persist.
Noandy Oct 2014
To all the empty rooms
And trapeze windows
The tiles decomposed

Before the holes in bed,

We were in joy
In the name of death
And for death also,

We had fathomed
Each other

We have long known
Death and its embrace
Where we sheltered

But for the sake of
Morbid sanity and flooded colors
We have never been used

Of death

If all these sad songs rejoiced you instead
If all my ballads for you lead to ballistic
If all your weary hair untangle your tears
When will the sun droop
For the teapot heat of your dimmed heart
Will never cease like unclean dagger
Lathered by
Our blood-bound love

In the empty rooms
Before the trapeze windows
By the dirt you dwell in
Degraded by shallow affection of
Blood, coldly overflowing from
Earthly remains so cold
Getting blue forever more
And leaving me in
Hollow-soaked world
specifically for my friend whose dad passed away just some months ago.
pixels Jun 2014
And when I die,
surely from sin and dirt and living-

Do not bury me in white.
Do not brush my hair and paint my nails.
Do not shine my heels and iron my dress.
Do not speak of me so bittersweetly.

Bury me in lingerie with frayed lace.
Muss my hair and smear my lipstick.
Scuff my boots and rip my tights.
Speak of me with thinly-veiled vehemence.

Do not love me,
when I am dead.
For none did during life,
other than in the glow of a t.v.
that only played to hide the moans.

Do not bury an imposter
and spin tales of a sweet ******
who died too soon.
Bury a *****
and rage that you were not the one
to finally silence her.
Simon Obirek May 2014
if altitude
is determined by
attitude
I'm in my grave.

— The End —