Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Cup Noodles Mar 2016
H4
I fear the silence
The days turn to months to years
Not a word I said
the Sandman Mar 2016
rewind; replay
    we're standing in a canopy of sunlight
    and laughing, constantly.
    our faces are tired of moving up
    but our eyes are used to crinkling;
    they fold, and shut, and open like buds
    with the spread and shrink of our grins, in
    and out, with our lungs.
Pauze. Zoom.
    Your nails are chipping now, but
    You're really a halfwit,
    So that doesn't deter you the least bit
    From scratch-scratch-scratching at their shook ends:
    They fall apart as we fall out.
    We're spinning, we're dizzyingly quick,
    Hurtling at the speed of 28,800 kilometres an hour; we're brisk
    At best. (Inconceivable at worst.)
    And I can feel, already, you slipping away.
    You're outside of my grasp; you're far out.
rewind; replay.
    We're ripping at the seams;
    Our faces are like bad make-up
    That doesn't move with our smiles;
    Our eyes stay impassive,
    Uninterested at best. Incensed at worst.
    The crinkles in their corners are crusted
    And new folds form on the frowns of our foreheads.
    We're smothering each other in pillow talk and blankets.
Flash-forward, play.
    We're bathed in rain, we're in a
    Canyon, in a chasm.
    We don't know salt from wound
    Or snake from bite. We
    Bring out the worst in our best selves.
    We're drowning in suitcases and bedding.
    We let it fill our lungs and we
    Don't look back.
JR Rhine Mar 2016
The vultures swarmed above me,
and I wondered if it was I
who lay before their narrowing gaze.

If they were fallen angels,
Lucifer's harbingers,

they'd have harvested on the soul
I'd left to decay.
Kyle Kulseth Mar 2016
Ticking off the time
while the ticks and the flies
creep and crawl across my face,
burrow into my eyes.
And I think my swarming friends
               are feeling hungry tonight.
So I guess it's only etiquette
for me to oblige.

When the fiddler's tune
starts to slow down and waver,
I cling tightly to youth.
But I ain't getting no braver.
And the steps to this dance
still feel foreign to me,
even if I know the words like a fish does
               the stream.

Now this empty dance hall
is quickly filling up
               with ghosts wearing tap shoes;
guess this jig is up. My cup runneth over
with tired clichés. And I'm knee deep in *******
               but I ain't afraid.
          Not afraid to be alone
          not afraid to be alive.
          Never been scared to die
             or to ignore signs.

But I must be

scared of something...

Sunlight so bright
think I'm halfway blind.
Squinting through the days and
sacrificing all sight.
I'm still hanging with the bugs
               while they scratch and they buzz
before I finally pinpoint just
what I have become.

Lay it down, black it out
while water sinks into ground.
Break it up, break me out
and we'll drive into town,
alright?
Nico Reznick Mar 2016
Some days you surface into,
and there's no distracting yourself from
that irrefutable inevitability that
- ultimately -
entropy will win.
No quantity of
authentic artisan coffee or online memes
or juicing can
pull you out of the
black hole gravity
of that one truth.
The evidence is everywhere:
the spiteful confusion of electrical cables
your sleep-stupid fingers
fumble and fail to untangle;
the mold on the bread you
swore would keep a few more days;
the putrid, burst-open remains of
a pink armchair, left to rot in a
stranger's front garden;
the scavenging army of crows that loiters,
waiting for you to die and, in the
meantime, walks ****** little footprints
around your eyes;
the oxidation of
so many dreams.

It's inescapable.
Might as well root for the winner.
Embrace the decay.
Take photographs of
rust, smashed glass, peeling paint, dead flowers.
Learn to love faded colours and the feel
of broken things.
Catalogue your most
interesting scars and mutilations.
And, while you can,
write poetry.
Loveless Mar 2016
With eyes like obsidian stones,
She watched the fallen empire from her crumbled throne.
She knew not how much time had passed,
The fallen soldiers decaying all around her.
She waited for her lover to return to her side,
What once had been an oasis, had turned into a prison.
So as the crimson rain poured down on her, she fell to her knees.
Her white robes turned to ash, she prayed to the sky,
She screamed at the gods to send her to oblivion,
For her beloved had forsaken her here,
Choking on the memories of him..
Skin much too pale, lifeless eyes, rigor mortis sets in,
Her soul transcended, from the decaying realm,
Drifting eternally trying to find what was lost..
Pauline Morris Mar 2016
The warmth came to you one day
And it really wanted to stay
But you pushed it away
You where to use to the gray
There was nothing the warmth could say
To make you even a little bit sway
So it tried to spread a warming ray
But you looked at in disgust and let it lay
And so it simply, painfully and slowly decayed
Cody Haag Mar 2016
Everything turns to dust someday.
We learn to hang from a thread.
Everything will fall apart someday.
We stifle tears when we lie in bed.

If you believe in the Christian God,
Then he made us from dust.
Science declares the same thing,
That we were made from dust.

From dust we came,
And dust again we will be.
That is the truth,
One day you will see.

There will be little left,
Of you or me.
Our bodies will come to rest,
Our souls finally free.
Noah A Baker Mar 2016
So there I was, and there you were, all of us,
everyone, dangling their feet off the rooftop.
Four distinctly different artists caught in the same painting
yet, none of us holding the paintbrush to our passions, yet.

Ambitious, yes, focused, not so much, motivated? Most definitely.

Dedicated to manipulation,
to making a masterpiece for the masses,
a decision to "form a more perfect union".  
To map a new demographic before our deaths.

If our desire was to make a mark, well,
we'd be done already.
The mark's been made, but not engraved,
and for it to stay we need to stomp on it until our own foot decays.

And these days, most pictures will fade,
So as us four sat there, dancing with the devil,
we dared to begin drafting on our canvas.
With no brush, but our own fingers,
our own blood, sweat, tears, and elbow grease,
finally finding the paintbrush to be figurative,
that we were manipulated ourselves.

We learned to picture the paintbrush as our pointer,
our palms the palettes, our pinkies the varnish,
a promise our piece would never be vandalized.

The world is your oyster, they say,
and the city was our canvas,
where we painted nothing but pearls,
rare commodities for the communities to cherish
until our masterpiece, the indefinite work in progress, is completed.
background:
we always struggle with pursuing what we want to do due to us believing we can't, or lack of resources, that we don't have what it takes, etc. And that's more or less fear making you think that. Once you let go of the fear in your head you can chase your dreams and passions. Once you realize that it's just a mental block, and you remove it, the world is yours to do what you want. Enjoy!
Pauline Morris Mar 2016
It's Sunday morning
I'm in mourning
My "give a ****" died last night
Amongst your words "you're just a blight"
You said it, not in anger
But with the disconnect of a stranger

.........SO.........

I no longer give a ****
Killed with your hit
I'll just lay
I'll just decay
I no longer give a ****
I'll never again throw a fit
Pushed to far
Drowning in tar
I no longer give a ****
My heart you just ripped
Casted aside
Feelings died
I no longer give a ****
Your love was counterfeit
Next page