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Rhys Hebbs Oct 8
Why is it,
the best of mankind’s minds all dwell
on the tortured side of hell?
For those within their high ivory towers,
far from the tortured toiling
of the boiling broth below
hold the keys to change
but fail to unlock that
which the doors of hope bestow.
Granted,
not all those that survive the swell of the Devils ****** spell
become patron Saints
through their pain,
but the very act of survival
means that their miraculous revival
can put life into those long dead
with that earned wisdom
birthed from the dungeons within their heads.
For Dantes rocky road
is for those alone
whose abodes
are bestowed
within the land of no mans code,
who bare the weight of tomorrow’s load,
until they don’t
Love borne in briers of a lonely heart
May bloom eternally on heaven's stage
So sweet the lustre that lovers impart
Like ink from a poet's pen on a page

When eternity comes bouquets decay
And letters of love fade into the night
Then mourning comes like a worn out cliche
Uncertainty grow to strangle you tight

Shudder not now my friend the end of love
When its curtains fall; take your final bow
free it of corpus chains to fly above
the empty trails of bards feet left on snow

When the last sonnet can't mend love's sorrow
Toss in Dante's burning heart your arrow
For lovers and haters alike
Samara Reddy May 22
Quiet in my velvet dreams
gleaming with beauty queens
ultraviolet veneers
under crystal clear chandeliers

Awake. Never quite getting the reckoning.
Instead you're beckoning
me to your charade of promise
but I'm stuck in the forest
where you're my Charon
following me to the limestone,
dragging me back to the gates
and I know you mean well, but it doesn't resonate.

I've abandoned all hope and entered
Feeling like I've surrendered
What is it I will remember
when we get to November?
Biting my arm
in moments of harm
or
braiding my hair
with you just being unaware?

It all seems silly
like a grand facade really
where I can't see why anyone
can buy into becoming a chameleon.
Why take it so serious
when it just feels delirious?
What is it we're racing to
at the end, it's the same view.
Who is it for?
I really must make sure.

Waiting for my Virgil
To guide me through the hurdles.
He's no where to be seen
as I choke on my amphetamines.
Religion is the ****** of the people.—Karl Marx
Religion is the dopiate of the sheeple.—Michael R. Burch

Raise your words, not their volume.
Rain grows flowers, not thunder.
—Rumi, translation by Michael R. Burch

To write an epigram, cram.
If you lack wit, scram!
—Michael R. Burch

Once fanaticism has gangrened brains
the incurable malady invariably remains.
—Voltaire, translation by Michael R. Burch

Little sparks may ignite great flames.
—Dante, translation by Michael R. Burch

Hypocrisy may deceive the most perceptive adult, but the dullest child recognizes and is revolted by it, however ingeniously disguised.
—Leo Tolstoy, translation by Michael R. Burch

Just as I select a ship when it's time to travel,
or a house when it's time to change residences,
even so I will choose when it's time to depart from life.
—Seneca, speaking about the right to euthanasia in the first century AD, translation by Michael R. Burch
Em MacKenzie Oct 2019
Please don’t mind me,
I’m just a splinter of the past.
Wandering blindly,
and hands are tied so I can’t grasp.
Just like the thought,
of giving up after giving all I’ve got,
I admit that it wasn’t a lot.

Now it’s too late to pretend
that I’m not broken; could be so easy to mend,
I’ll hide the shatter point where you made me bend.
I’ll return to my other fix,
it succeeds in dulling my heart with it’s mind tricks,
a perfect combination just mix and blend.

Nightly I lay awake
sketching scenarios involving us,
where you give and I take,
I return equal amounts; a benefit of respect & trust.
When it’s time to fill in each word,
I admit I’m aware I’m not what she deserves,
someone better who won’t lose their nerve.

‘Cause it’s too late to pretend
that it’s not plagued in every thought I spend,
should be thankful that I’m important enough to still be called friend.
And there’ll always be somebody else,
completely oblivious to a heart’s wealth,
and too focused on their self to ever expend.

We can’t fix the mistake
but we can make a new one;
drain each ocean and lake,
and completely block out the sun.

Yes it’s too late too pretend
that you’re not draped in every word I’ve penned,
even with the lowest odds I’ll still contend.
And do you see each blow and broken bone,
wishing that I’d just leave and find a home?
On me you can depend to not be alone,
do you think the same you could lend?
Starry Sep 2019
Gharsheeelish to hell
Where everything is dark
And seems like an endless halloween
The flames are everywhere
Making candles out of pots and trees talk
This will be emotional young Dante
Qharsheeeiilesh means welcome in uyger
Starry Sep 2019
In the Ninth circle
Of Hell
I ealk
The frozen path of
The ****** until I see a cold
Yes cold pit of flames
Where the resttry to
Get warm
With no success
Nigdaw Jul 2019
No fiery fate awaits my ****** soul
In Dante’s infernal inferno, on Level Five
I will swim beneath the wrathful
To permanently drown, with bulging eyes
Gasping for a breath I can never take
The River Styx, the embodiment of my sorrow
Liquified unhappiness, stagnant sadness
My sin? To live my life with a glass half empty
Having found no joy in man, nor God, nor the world
Which has already left me feeling punished.
I wonder if I’ll get a break down there,
Or will I still have to work my ******* lunch hour!
stylesclash Mar 2019
a Disney Land including all attractions, where satisfaction is
the only price of admission, for you may not enjoy your stay;
lines that are based on your circle of Hell: cheaters, invisible to
everyone and vice versa, riding in no time flat—just like real life;
behind them the corpulent, occupying two spaces, experiencing
time as multiplied by their weight, a minute as several hours;

hoarders, keeping too much, failing to keep to themselves;
confessions with the legs of Usain Bolt: finish lines of thought
that move opposite of you, forcing you to sweat out more secrets
to no "Father"--for now, like an orphan, Daddy is just the man
next to you, changing time and again; once you catch up, another
run on sentence running over your sense of self-restraint;

angry souls who cannot remove an ear implant that finds
their pain points; one, for instance, features Al Franken narrating
himself only groping your *******; his verbiage, as elegant

as epic, recalls a troubadour reciting Homer’s Iliad, lasting about
eight hours; looped infinitely, the hysteria here approximates
that driving his resignation; the cartoon anger of vigilante justice:
vigilante because, post-******* Clinton continued sitting as
president (or standing, depending on how he likes his *******).

amusement rides incorporating sin; a Small World where ego
grasps the size of the universe: one's sense of self overlayed
to its very edges; a sense of hollowness, always larger, upon exit;
a Toy Story for the ****** who, tallying high his rub register,
has funded a **** star's spank bank; her body digitized, he does

not see himself as purchasing prostitution; he inserts—filling
now his own spank bank—ever larger toys on himself, to which
his audience remarks, in support, “wow, what an *******”;
a Mad Tea Party where we, in our first world bougieness,
must drink the psychosis of our prisoners who play ballgames
with their own ****, and then pitch our own; for it is rather
****** that we place ourselves willfully in solitary confinement
and complain: we will never suffer as do the truly alone.

a Barnstormer, where gluttons are *****, like cattle, on-rack
in the commodification of their reproductive organs; machines
that milk their **** to the point of mastitis; slaughter as life:
all ground, ultimately, into SoyLent Green, to feed the others;
Monsters Ink for the new journalists, the Twitterati, who are
transfigured into the shade they’ve thrown; grotesque shadows,
their life-force is generated by bearing themselves to rejection—
what was visited upon others, now themselves—for, otherwise,
they must die slowly; Tomorrowland for procrastinators who

must mime, daily, the movements of Shia LaBeouf in a sunrise
to sunset Tai Chi class; they sleep only to discover, at wake,
they daydreamed about sleeping; delusional insomniacs—
awake eternal, they cannot bring themselves to “Just Do It”;
Under the Sea for rich and poor; underwater in unnecessary
debt, they thirst no matter how they quench themselves;
drinking only by drowning, they beg to choke on their desire.

Frontierland Shootin’ Arcade for politicians who put in
crosshairs everything except war; they must be murdered
collaterally—innocent as they are—for sport; a ******
shooting from his helicopter and laughing megaphonically:
for the fact that their lives do not matter should echo
as distinctly as it has in Mai Lai, where “**** Anything

That Moves” is an actual order; the women in their family
will be *****, the babies will have their heads smashed in
with the butts of rifles in a lust for body count; and then,
like Prometheus’ liver, they will be resurrected to live again.

a Shootin’ Arcade where those who cheered Trayvon's
death replace him: transported, they are homunculi:
adults in children form, they are shot for walking home
with a "parent"--and mistaken identity is irrelevant--
a dependent child, in this world, is so suspicious that
one may be snuffed-out for bearing only his likeness;
victory isn't less real when symbolic, than when real.

Goofy as the only mascot that you may take a picture with;
a mirror that, upon asking ‘who’s the fairest one of all?’,
turns you into an albino; gold diggers who are accompanied,
always, by dwarfs singing “heigh-**, heigh-**”; a Mini
Mouse, shrinking to inscrutability, when you want to log out;
you may want to leave—but pleasure and self-annihilation,
as in addiction, are the same; so you must destroy yourself.
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