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Ileana Amara Jul 31
my pen was made
to bleed the words of grief;

"there's something so beautiful
and profound in grief
when you start to see it
for what it truly is."

past the barriers
and stretching distance,
i caressed my aching soul;
this grief of mine grew out of love

for grief, in what it truly is,
is a love that endures
and suffers willingly.

07.31.21.| i'm so human.
Mystic Ink Plus Nov 2020
I read
Every word

First, like everyone does
Second, for their intention
Third, for my comfort zone

A kind remind
Genre: Abstract
Theme: Let it be
Norman Crane Oct 2020
If I grew wings
would you stab them
with pins
and add me
to your collection?

If I grew fins
would your interest
in me
culminate in a classroom

If I grew muscle
would a vivisection
or would you first crush my strength
within an iron vise?
Inspired by Sandra Wyllie's poem If I Grew Wings ( ), whose title and idea I shamelessly stole because I thought it was interesting how two minds could take those starting points and go in completely different directions!
Marri Oct 2019
I touch your chest.
Scraping your skin off with my fingernails,
Layer by layer.

I reach in.
Slowly snapping the bones back,
Rib by rib.

I watch you breathe.

This is the part I love,
Feeling your heartbeat.
It keeps perfect time.
The blood gushing, it's poetic even.

I take my finger, slightly pressed to the beat.
You're gorgeous like this.
Under the smallest push of my finger.

This won't be clean.
I wrap my hand around the source of it all.
I twist, tug, and pull.    You love it.

I take you in the palm of my hand.
Still beating, still vibrant, so beautiful.

I bring you to my lips, and I kiss you one last time.
I swear I can taste you in between my teeth, raw still.
And this time you stain my lips red.
Em MacKenzie Jan 2019
Is there room for context at this table?
We can move some dishes and shuffle chairs.
I’ve checked all four legs and they seem stable,
but choosing a placemat is like splitting hairs.
I notice the candle’s flame is getting dim,
and my fingers pirouette in the puddles of wax,
my hair needs a cut but I settled for a trim,
and I’m donating my salary and spending my tax.

I’ve told you every thought in my head,
except the ones that matter the most,
the facts that scald my cheeks to red,
now they’re burning up like charred toast.
I’d promise you whatever you ask for,
and I’d drag myself to deliver each time,
but I’m ignoring the truth at my core,
and I’m confessing to you in mime.

Sit across from me with crossed legs,
see magnets becomes our eyes,
“come closer together” both begs,
but we’re determined and polarized.
There’s no world existing around us,
and there certainly is no group,
you listen while I ramble and make a fuss,
over the death of Lipton’s Alligator Soup.

We turned Heaven into a Hell,
we took a skeleton and made a shell,
We dragged our nails down the walls
scribbled ephiphanies on bathroom stalls,
and silenced a story we could never tell.

And all the things that have driven us apart,
in truth have only made us stronger.
and my love you are actually my heart,
I won’t question it’s beating any longer.

If you’re stuck with a choice
you should flip a coin in the air,
then listen to your mind’s voice,
‘cause your answer will be there.
When it comes to heads or tails,
you already know your favourite side,
you’ll pray for it as the coin sails,
ignore the outcome but absorb the ride.
Breon Nov 2018
Splayed out atop the the table, stupefied,
Etherized, dreaming anything but excision,
Witness the specimen's unnatural habitat.
Life stains the whole of its existence -
See the sacrament of its entirety, its divinity,
Its flesh made manifest and merely flesh.
It mocks this menagerie with every breath
And, aping its peers, struggles, strives, dies
For the pittance this world lends it.
Confronted with the end, it spits derision.
Confronted with the start, it cries in awe!
What a nonsense of a creature we see here,
This enigma we recognize in ourselves:
The human, being.
If life is nothing but what we make of it, maybe we'll make something interesting for the next thing in like.
empty seas Apr 2018
my skin is peeled off
muscles dragging on the floor
my organs are exposed
my nerves cut and burned
my broken ribs
scattered on the floor

i've been dissected
eyeball lenses popped out
and my beating heart
is right out
in the open
sometimes anxiety makes me feel so exposed
Waking up into the world
Foul words burn holes in my ears
Truths so raw they rot my young flesh
The instant they leave your lips
Kisses of death and decay
A power play that never ends
My personal hells undying fire
Pulverizing my mortal soul
Crazed thoughts meander in my head
I make my own meals
Milk and crunchy glass shards
Topped with freshly ground chillies
What a tantalizing trinity
The perfect homemade breakfast
To accompany our charming little pad
Savour our eclectic interior
Forget the artfully bloodied rooms
Someone's stiffened liver in our dining
Torn muscles stashed in a corner
A punctured heart in the kitchen sink
Some ground up bones in pepper shakers
Fractured ribs on my study desk
The brain sitting on the couch
Our latest wallpaper from centuries ago
News of our deaths on the headlines
Your acidic kindness
A raptured spleen in your bed
I belief that belongs to me
I'd give anything for your brutal love
I wouldn’t like this.

A class full of uncomfortable individualised strangers.
An over head projector,
prodding, obvious questions,
trying to ascertain the exact purpose or meaning.
The space for ambiguity is closed up like a canon eclipsed by an earthquake.
Highlighter and underlining of a spontaneous experience.
They are trying to make water into concrete.
I just want it be able to bubble and foam and languish
but they want to pin it down.
I would be sad and disgusted if I saw my floaty feelings
pin boarded up onto the wall for dissection
Do not treat my insides in this way
poetry classes hurt me
blushing prince Jun 2017
I act dumb in the dirt
In the soil, in the middle of the flies
that lick their wings, bat their tongues
in the dirt
I act dumb
for all the reasons that I’ve had to keep my back straight
at dinner tables
with narrow chairs that clip at the side of my thighs
for the party tricks that leave through the door
I become the punch line
in the muck, in the slime
I behave grotesquely
for the crowded silences in rooms
the friends that mistook my alienation
as a stab wound to laugh at
all the fireworks that exploded inside
this head, this brain, this basket of fruit
nothing like retaliation with a kiss
In the grime, in the earth’s decay
I act like panicked swords under anesthesia
drowsy summer swarm for
the times I’ve had to be a mother instead of a child
where walking down the street meant carrying
your weapons close to your chest
but remember enemies closer
I act dumb in the dirt

In the dirt everything is sublime
*******, i'll do what I wanna do
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