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the*
compliant
were
manacled
in
servitude
the overseer
not allowing them
any latitude

these
heavy
steel
loops
held
a
firm
grip
from their cuffs
none could
readily slip

he
who
had
the
status
of
boss
not ever
giving up the
controller's toss

in
fetters
he'd
keep
them
bolted
secure
never to be
released out of
*the inure
Jack Jenkins Jun 2016
A summer solace wind storm,
Blowing against my face, ripping against my clothes,
Out here, on the edge, thinking of you,
Imagining your face, in this abyss trying to swallow me.

It creeps against me, holding me to the ground,
I didn't want to move anyway.
But the shards of rain and ice pelting my skin,
Causes pain, causes me to tear up.

I hold your memories in my arms,
I hold your gentleness in my breath,
One last time, I hold you close to me,
Then I let you go.
The light of the television
dimly lit two
lovers,
but not really.
He stunk of wine
from the lips and
mauve teeth,
she stunk of wine
by proxy.
her legs, only slightly
unshaven, he stroked
gently, which they
both enjoyed, but
not really.

***** pots, plates, and
cutlery lay placid
in the sink.
They'll be washed
sometime soon,
and put away in  
cabinets of wasted
white wood, very soon,
but not really.

The floor, like them,
began growing clothing
like wild moss or ivy,
and claimed the room
& claimed them too.

The movie, he'd recall,
but, then, she would
not.
He watched the blood,
and conflict,
and at times laughed,
and she saw him,
and conflict,
and didn't laugh at all,
which he knew was strange,
but not really.

On the dim, small, screen,
The lean and hungry man had his
Nemesis on the
sepia-tone ground,
and finished it all,
with rage and mercy,
with a stomp
to the
heart.

They watched, her eyes wide,
for she knew this was
them, her on the ground,
and him in the air, and she gripped
him a bit tighter,
which he noticed,
but not really,
which she noticed,
but not really.
In the dimly lit room,
they could not see
they were alone,
and it was true,
only Bruce Lee & He,
and She.
Raven May 2016
His grip tight enough
to not let my fingers
slip through his
but also loose enough
to let me know
that i should always be ready
because at any moment
he could let go.
Liam C Calhoun Jan 2016
Cars,
Like coffee pots,
Break down,
And more so,
When you least want them to.

So imprisoned,
The frigid,
And with no power-windows,
We didn’t care about the heat,
Only the smoke
That now stung our eyes –

Two-fold
Atop already open wounds,
And the cancerous,
Lying in wait, most often,
Indiscriminately.

So enters the second urge,
And it controls me,
I don’t control “it;”

“It” being a mood frosted
Amnesia, free,
Like beer’s hiss,
At the crack of a can.

And like beer,
“It” runs out
When the money does;

All too quickly to be
Replaced by the
Haunts of –

Bill collectors, war
And the knife in the drawer.

Something beckons when
We spot a diner from within
The snowbound derelict
We reside.

Scraped change and reckonings,
We can afford a few,
Drinks.

Forgotten were the coats when
We abandon ship, abandon you,
Abandon me,
And more importantly,
The haunts;

Our chariot, a remain,
A wreck on shores unknown
With bodies, perhaps,
Left for the living come spring.
My addiction's grip is always around my neck. Luckily, I've found something healthier to love.
I am a leech
And I can feel myself ******* you dry
I can feel you getting dry
Or maybe I'm just losing grip
But one of us is dying
And I hope to god it's me.
ji Jul 2015
I want to hold your hand and feel its creases, the same that wrap around your pen. I want the immensity of your palm mantled on mine, its warmth that bruises my knuckles. I want to feel your fingers, and kiss the cold away its tips.

And if in every entanglement my touch could whisper, it would reassure,* "I love you. I'll forever hold your hand. I'll forever adore the solace I find in the tightness of your grip. I love you - and I am not letting go. So please don't."
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