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fray narte Oct 4
i wish i’d bled enough;
my wrists — sore from scratching,
from trying to crawl
out of this treacherous skin
my lungs — dry from screaming.
my lips — chapped from chanting prayers;

one for each gravestone in my brain —

different dates
for a single name.

and i wish i’d bled enough —
died an enough number
to never die again,

but my wrists, they still have spaces for my wounds
and my mind, it still has spaces for my tombs

and tonight, i will hold funerals
for the parts of me that bled to death,
for the parts of me that in the caskets lie
and for those that still
are yet to die.
J J Aug 12
My mother said they say the dead are blessed
but i don't think so,

i wake to my dream's afterimage overlaying
the ceiling;i stay laid in place
envisioning myself
gorged in holy water, purging away any memory
hitherto

but that's just not the way it goes;
Sat here as the vinyl needle scratches the same
  scabs,as a tired revolver—

leaks **** of sound,thick repitidous clouds which
  lead to nowhere and nothing—

a bored, ambient crackle,

  
In the poetic spirit, it reeks of home
  but reminds me I am I, alone

And in the conversing-sense
  it gives me a ******* migraine,

it was one of W—’s favourites
when it's tune was still entact

But alas, it is what it is, outside is a world
i've grown too sore to mingle in
(dare i say a multiform delirium where
  it's both too typical and too unpredictable
((daren't i blame another reason?)))
Regardless,i'll stay inside another day
  
and skim and retrace the life that brought us here
   to **** the time.


If nothing else.
Lyra Saros Jul 3
Death is the thing which withers
The tale that is all told -
And is the moon the world obscures -
And never stops - at all -

And slowest - from the veil - is stirred -
Her new and ancient form -
That holds through night and day interred
Within the heavy storm -

I’ve held her in the grimmest hands -
And yet she spoke to me -
I’ll - never - in eternity
And more than life - of thee
Obviously, I wrote this poem using the rhythm and rhyme pattern of Emily Dickinson's famous "Hope is the Thing with Feathers". I hope that isn't cheating.
stokes Jun 12
dear painted mask slipping off my face,
wet mildewed socks clinging to weary feet,
molasses on my hands shrouded in gloves of lace –
you in the cracked mirror, you rotten, rancid, discarded piece of meat.

o, knotted wicked web of thread,
the faucet of my eye leaks.
emily’s funeral in her head –
it took three weeks

to admit the rot the plumber missed.
to cry when the evening light is dying –
to say that i’m sad – to say i’m ******.
to watch and feel my circuits frying.

blinded and fooled and beaten, i ran and crashed into not-love –
maybe i’m an idiot, because i still can’t tell a pigeon from a dove.
JV Beaupre Mar 7
i am that Fly--
the one that Crawled across the sheet--
her last sound and Sight
and i want You to know--
its not my fault, she Would have died-- Anyway

We flies get a bad rap--
we carry Germs- never met one myself--
Across food i tippy-toe-- i only take One bite-
from that little Bite--
she would not -- could not die

But let me set the record Straight--when
she finally went still-- was i Glad--
one less Swatting and shooing-- but
its not my Fault, she would have died-- anyway.
The fly's response to the narrator in Emily Dickinson's poem, "I heard a Fly buzz - when I died"
Jillian Jesser Oct 2018
Oh dear, she said
there comes a time
when all things
they cease to shine,
and looking up at frail moon's fade
she lost her way
she lost her way
ever toward an inner light
ever toward  a mundane night
you cannot ask for want of asking
ever toward the soils crashing

oh dear, she said
there comes a time
when all your dreams
will lose their rhyme

and so on past
the child at play
and past the girl
on bridal day
an further past
the humming hag
until she reached the grave at last

oh dear, she said
there comes a time
when all things, they cease to shine
and looking up a frail moon's fade
she lost her way
she lost her way
Sharon Talbot Jul 2018
"A blue and gold mistake",
Wrote Emily from inside her room,
A self-inflicted tomb,
About a path she could not take,
Into the month of June.

Let others stroll beneath its cerulean sky
And thank the sward, on which they lie,
A lunging into voluptuous play,
Yet blinded to the rushing by
Of sultry month and jovial day.

Did the poet’s being kept apart
From worldly joys well-made,
Or from crystal pools and glaucous glades,
From brilliant sun that fashions shade,
Embitter her admiring heart
To look askance at anything that fades?

Did she not care that
One month, though doomed to end,
Was also made to reappear
After the long march of winter’s year
As the sun came round again,
To loose us from our unlocked pens?
This was inspired by Emily Dickinson's assessment of June as a mistake in her poem "These are the days when the birds come back". I imagined I was writing to her, perhaps reading it outside her window, trying to cheer her up a bit by reminding her that changing seasons are not all bad--that the month of June is not only joyous, but reappears.
Breon Apr 2018
The azure sprawl of Alabama's sky,
Its cataract clouds wiped away, unstained, stares down like God's own eye.
There are no stars to guide us through the blue,

No landmarks for a stranger neck-deep
In the strangeness of a strange land
Where everyone looks back with
Affable suspicion, pleasant concern,

But home is where the heart is, so maybe
Part of home is here, this blessed mess,
Where under God's eye we toil away
Forging memories from spent time.

"The brain - is wider than the sky -"
But not here.
Easter weekend was spent basking in the curious radiation of Alabama. Considering some of the odd looks my wife and I got, I assume we weren't going to fit in anything soon.
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