Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
SF Couture Dec 2021
The staining aroma we so avidly inhaled in the reign of night
At tables made of glass that reflet the moonlight
The faint white illumination lit our misdeeds of younger
Keeps me reminiscent of days of simpler

Plagued & blessed by lack of consideration
No respect for damnation
We lived without hesitation to be free
To feel we truly needed to be

I sit alone now inhaling what was once shared and sought-after
Feeling but trying not to think-of those days of before
Watching storms roll through, making me feel spectator to memories of more
I retreat into myself, knowing those days are over

I could never imagine I'd look back on those days and call them simpler.
I keep running from what i can't see and it's lead me in circles
Cycle through the times to get to the next
A person watches a passing storm and reminisces over then and now
David Plantinga Nov 2021
The boy-king wanted to incinerate
A fell and meretricious thryrus.  
His grandfather would venerate
The same staff, terrified of curses.  
His mother’d slandered the drunk god,
But regretting feckless blasphemy
She counseled them to spare the rod,
Until they heard the divine decree.  
Once the summoned prophet had appeared,  
Blind, and clad in a frayed, goatskin cloak,  
The monarch sputtered “It’s cursed, weird,
And wrong, burn it down to ash and smoke!”
The former monarch begged, “Appease
Bromius with primeval rite,  
A lord who smites his enemies
A lord too terrible to fight.”
The daughter next, “His worshipers
Run mad, and slaughter their own kin,
Even children.   The god massacres
Those who dispute his origin”
The prophet lifted up the staff
And tore the ivy from its tip.  
“Rites, massacres, don’t make me laugh,
And immolation’s sponsorship.”
He swung the staff to test its heft,
And said, “I need a walking stick,  
The drunkard has no bacchics left,
****** the goatish lunatic.”
At this, the grandfather turned pale,
And the repentant mother winced.  
Matched severity cannot avail
If fear and butchery convinced.  
A proverb soothes the quondam king
And the dowager, “He frightens you,  
But moderation in each thing,
And that in moderation too.”
From Euripides' The Bacchae
TheWitheredSoul Apr 2020
Uncorrupted fondness and care is one of the rarest things that you will ever find in your life when you find it make sure you hold on to it unlike you wanna turn out to be people who write sob stories and poems....
Thomas W Case Feb 2020
Debauched nights, destruction waning,
There is a twisted pull to the underbelly.
Chaos is ****, like silk stockings and
Bonnie an Clyde.
I can smell it a mile away,
like a dog in heat.
It lures me from the
safety of my sweet calm life.
There is an existence beyond
the bridge, but it's boring and soulless.
I want to ****** the light, and
the routine.  Dredge the marrow
from the bone
As I wrote this, I thought about Charles Bukowski, and the pull to the wild side of life.
V Aug 2019
All that money, and yet, still so cheap.
Based upon deep pain and resentment I have had forever regarding being cheated on and compared to *******/cam models.
Sad how loyalty is nothing but a casual game now and people only want/look for "temporary bliss"...but to each their own I suppose.
Marla Apr 2019
Not unlike the monster for which it was named,
With debaucherous whims that divide foreign lands;
Here at the briny, gilded portal to our home now stands
A hollow woman with a torch, whose warmth
Has become faded and disheartening, and her name
Mother of Philistines. From her once guiding hand
Emerges world-wide distaste; deranged eyes ransack
The smog-filled harbor that dystopias fame.
“Keep, other lands, your progressive pomp!” shrieks she
With welded lips. “Take our tired, our poor,
Our huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of our teeming shore.
Take these, the homeless, tempest-tost from me,
Lift your lamp as a guide and take them all!”
An adaptation of "A New Colossus" by Emma Lazarus, the poem inscribed at the base of America's Statue of Liberty.
Joe Baldwin Apr 2018
“Just relax”

She says, as I picture her kissing the
Neck of a female coworker
With whom she had recently started
A flirtatious friendship

“We’ll play it by ear”

Scratches on the cluttered chalkboard
That is my anxious mind
Riddled with equations of what ifs
And ramblings of aftermaths

“It’ll work out”

Isn’t as reassuring as it might seem
When I want nothing more than to witness a fantasy
That is scribbled in a weekly calendar
And only committed to by word of mouth

“what else could I say”

Is a fair point,
but one that falls silent on my lust
which seems to be manifesting as a smoky devil
with obsessive compulsive disorder

“And if it doesn’t happen, oh well”

Are easy words for her to say
Considering the amount of fantasies she has fulfilled
Since we have started this journey
Of debauchery, and self-esteem adjustments

“At least we have each other”

The most comforting thing she has said on the topic,
Yet I wonder
Am I enough for you…

And you for me?
Next page