carved by apollo himself
aphrodite envied all he had

the gods couldn't comprehend him

questioned by athena he
caused doubts to imprint in her mind
with the flicker of his fingertips
zeus's bolts seemed like mere sparks

the gods wouln't believe him

nothing more invincible than death
yet hades watched as he awakens the dead
and deceased the living
greater creator than prometheus
the old obeyed him and the new was nothing but divine

even the titan was helpless

conqured the immortals
ruling the earthlings
controling the elements

he became the new god
a girl fell in love for an angel not because of the,
wings she saw,
but for the eyes that is filled with..
such emotions,
nothing that ever belonged.
to a demon.

the touch of his hand and his soft voice,
filled with.
in the darkness, where
she lit,
and a baby that shall be born.
Laura Mar 13
These days you regard me solely as
another brick in the wall.
Acknowledged only as the one
who cripples the foundation when it counts.
I swallowed all the blame, and I've been them all-
every detrimental name synonymous with whore.

And would look at me now-
hair tangled with serpent spit and
despised by the others you keep on call.
Wretched writhing snakes and eyes
as portenous as the dull aches
that mock me,
only ever seeming to appal.

I think it’s best that I send you
back under the rock from whence you came.
Or, at best, perhaps with time you will become it:
the first statue in my gallery, of all the men
that did me wrong.
Lou Mar 6
I over heard a man say,
In all tone tailored misogyny.

"Women only write to gain sympathy;
trauma is the only word that they know to write in their tear stained diary's.
And the only "gentle-man"
kind enough to wash their emotions down,
chasing fire with gasoline.
Secretly wished he drank his filtered water silently..."

In all the heights of talks at the bar.
Shots being set off
like battles to march.
Blitzkreig novelty in subtle exchanged gazes.
Awkward waives of air strikes,
cued me to infiltrate with a statement.

If we could rewind back a bit:

We as men,

we got paper in that social economy.

We've cornered the market with deep pockets,
and I'm personally buying up property.
if you have any trauma on this street
all the way to the corner of Fuckitall and defeat,
your words pay indulgences
to my agony.

We as men sank the dollar down with women walking away thinking we are just crazy.

We convinced ourselves we are rich and strong...
we are rich and strong... with strong anxiety.

Too bad an ego doesn't have a mirror to flex in proudly.

When things start looking good,
We question everything-
until we ruin the quality.
We wish we could start
handing out apologies
that could clean ourselves off
of guilt and second guessing
while we simultaneously
call out to every hot body we see.

That isn't boys being boys, that's mania.
We beg for a monetary insanity.
We pay for Electro lobotomies
And we take it like a man!

Like a homeless man...
shaking his can empty,
the only reflection
that's relevant of me.

I am the Can filled empty,
emotionally starving for change.

You can invest into our dick measuring moments ,
and track how many times quarterly we lose inches to self-pity,
we trade reason and go all in for compensation!

If we had a board of executives,
they would think for...
Ehh maybe a second; (meh)
Who needs to be invested?
when hair gel and resentment are certified and cost effective?

Blame, shame,
dick displayed disco games.

These are the tools we need as men,

Oppression, projection, beard cream, soggy dreams

We stuff our pants big
With a little tragedy.

All to have this conversation.
When the dollars weak
print out sexist paper statements
to inflate insecurities.

We men, we no speak.
Cause our fathers didn't put money into a pussy.
We buck up or pay up.
the only men we can hear talking
Washington, Franklin,
and Lincoln penny's.
We raped ourselves
And waited 30 days for warranty.
And took one for the team!
One more for someone else's American dopamine !

Kronos out of this time.
the statue we built of Atlas, crumbling.
Can man no longer lift the globe and say he needs nothing?
Has Gaia come home demanding her sons to reap what is printed on a receipt?!

Men who don't talk about trauma are traumatic.
If diaries are more soaked in women tears than ink,
why do we rub their faces into their single word dictionaries?

Is it so they cannot breathe the possibilities
that their tears and ink have formed other words
WORDS that could create sentences
SENTENCES on those stained pages
and all over those PAGES
She would explain it all;

and INK


Trauma bets against us all and leaves no sex or races.

Write trauma.
Right trauma,
By writing trauma away.

sexism in poetry
Aaron LA Lux Mar 3
Feeling like Diogenes,
exhausted from extensively searching for an honest man,
a Cynic Philosopher,
with an astonishment for that which is the common man,
which has him hiding way all disgruntled and,
trying to find a way to rewrite regrets and make amends,

by writing amends,
because I’m not fooled by the Commoners sins,
see the opulence on display doesn’t fool me a bit,
opulence  is actually a not so thinly disguised belligerence,

actually opulence is belligerence,
most modern day luxuries are all worthless,
most people are too thick to admit this,
but we all know there may not be a higher purpose,

luckily the lethargics are too lazy for skullduggery,
that’s why to this literature I’m in service,
only two I’m loyal to are Legits an literature,
because honestly I don’t feel anyone else deserves bliss,

especially when all these luxuries are actually worthless,
while poems are praised and paintings are appraised priceless,
and when I receive acclaim and praise for these verses,
I often get awkwardly shy & don't reply because I don’t think I’m worth it,

makes me want to flee and retreat to the words,
or go live in a barrel like Diogenes,
because we all die that can’t be denied,
but we don’t all really live life let God be my witness,

we all die,
but we all don’t live again,
though from what I write,
I live forever through this pen,
and until then I will ponder,
as I wander in wonder on the streets I am in,
searching likely fruitlessly,
for that mythical creature, The Honest Man.

∆ LaLux ∆

New Book FREE Here:
New Book FREE Here:
A Bridgwood Mar 2
She was borne in ocean spray,
A goddess before the gods, and when
I look in the mirror and curse my image,
It is to her I unwittingly pray.

Aphrodite, our saviour, in lipstick
Sipping red wine at a table no one
Is good enough for, and yet
We can’t take our eyes off her.

The goddess of love is blood, to me
Her image comes with the taste
Of metal, chewing on my lip
Instead of looking him in the eyes.
Aphrodite’s image is not one for
Photography, each man seeing
A different, better woman, and I
See nothing, I laugh halfheartedly.

I can’t imagine love as a being, nor
Can I see beauty as a form,
Both are quite beyond my fingertips,
I suppose a goddess can be sea foam.
small note- my favorite painting is Botticelli's 'The Birth of Venus.'
Nahida Mar 2
a new therapist,
can you pinpoint when you started to feel like this?
a party four years ago with a boy with sun-bleached hair and blue eyes
got pinned on a couch and, sure, kissed him with tongue but wasn't drunk enough to
fool herself into sleeping with him, into regretting him, so she walked away
with a mouthful of his curses.
his, i made you what you are. his, you broke your promise.
the sky is always falling for her because the sun beat heavy on her neck.
you should get that mole checked, cassandra said, instead.

she takes the day off and thinks
drinks eight glasses of water and eats a full meal
deals with her frizzed hair and aching head
dreads seeing the sun rise the next morning
but still wakes early to see it anyways.

greece burns and she watches
it isn't the first time and it won't be the last time
her sister helen calls her on the phone
drones on and on about a new boy
and she asks her, she begs her, do you not remember troy?

her therapist says, we can't fix the problem if you don't talk.
but she does and she does and she wonders when she doesn't
she tells her the sun is falling out of the sky, greece is burning in bright lights,
how do you deal with a trauma reborn like a slice of something
taken from her parents, a splice of hatred from a lover scorned?
cassandra finds it hard to find a part of her that hasn't been left burned
her words like a cyclical epitaph.

she turns on the news and watches the sky fall again.
how long you have been speaking. how little they hear.
Nahida Mar 2
he sculpts his perfect woman out of marble
drapes her in silks and jewels
fits his hands around her waist and kisses her cold lips

venus blesses their union and one day
she is warm underneath him and naked and afraid
he asks her why- she was created by him
for him
why does she shy away from the hands that formed her?

she puts the distance of a city-state between them
"you created me to love you
but you kissed me when i had no voice
you dressed me when i had no choice
you loved me, but never asked if you were lovable."

and this was the hand of venus, then.
love is not love when it has to be carved out of stone.
all women are perfection, but your idea of perfection is conditional.
Rose L Feb 25
Oh, son
lost boy
neck crack
eyes dry and
look at me!
your skin seems to shiver
to shimmer
are you cold?
Or do my eyes wish
a touch of life
- a kiss!
Or do my eyes wish?
I wonder if the years have hardened your lips.
Nick Stiltner Feb 21
Words of honey and liquor would flow,
At temples along the rolling hills,
they would grow and ripen and
be uttered at sacrificial flame
If I was born in the vein of Apollo.

Words would meet paper
with crackling energy loaded, ready to burst,
robust in power and accompanied by crashes of thunder
If I were bred of the mighty Zeus.

My speech could flow like lapping tide
and slam against the sterns of braving ships
If I carried within,
the flowing will of Poseidon.

Perfectly forged syllables struck on metals
passionately burning. Resounding clangs
and crashes from my shop would ring,
If the strength of Hephaestus guided
my hammer swing.

But as portraits are painted and
are gone to wind,
Their light touch fleeting pass,
Remorse not felt but only desire
to express and to deliver,
to paint, drop off, and be gone.
My words dance with winged feet
and then exit in retreat, with a bow
and a dashing leap,
Disappearing down the street.

Caduceus snakes wrap about my pen
and whisper rhymes softly in my ear.
Rising laughs echo down the trail,
a man dashing to his next delivery.

Light feet dancing forward,
hand whirring from line to line
and his eyes posted firmly to
the nights sky,
The stars singing his Siren song.
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