Seema Aug 7

You're silently killing me with an unknown weapon
I know it, because I've seen this happen
I've noticed this from your reflection
And it's not some kind of dramatic action

Nor it is a dream that suddenly becomes alive
It is you, and it starts as soon as you arrive
You say, that I am sick and too stressed
But it's nothing like that, am not depressed

What wrong have I done, that you want to hurt me
You've asked me, several times for my car key
Hang on! Do I know you? "HELLO"
Hey!!! Where? Where did she go?


ViiHunniD Jul 14

Left, right, upside down accommodation
Of her beauty took place
Within my eye into
My yellow spot of visualizing
Sight but that's all hallucination...


He set himself free out of the confines
he was in, after much misery and suffering.
To free his mind  out of jail's jagged logic
was, an exorcism of many kinds, for long.

But the rudest shock came when he found out
that the so called jail didn't have any lock at all!
Who then was the renegade, in the first place
that made him believe, he was a prisoner of life?

A pointer on " how to look" for all of us who deviate,
hallucinate and take it as  truth,without  any question!
How many still are locked up,in the dark confine of minds,
thinking there is no way out and the key is lost for ever.

Pagan Paul Jun 4

The menace emerges from the shadows,
a barked order, but unintelligible.
Then the soft steel kiss
slicing through flesh into entrails.
A fist connects with a crunching face,
legs buckle with pain and blood-loss.
And the Darkness of Death takes me,
like a comfort blanket of soft wool.
My Temple violated and de-sanctified,
the blade withdraws with a whisper.
The Darkness cuddles
and welcomes me with a smile.

The morphine haze
keeps me inert and motionless,
but makes my mind giggle.
It wanders aimless
through psychedelic chapters …

This place is sterile, white, drab.
My eyes move slowly left.
There is something in a doorway.
The door.

… my head flies to a Poets Banquet,
where I am the bones thrown to the dogs.
And the wood grain in the door moves,
a cascading chocolate fountain,
over and over again,
flowing, melting like molten lava.
They taught me to write,
then cut off my hands.
Obscurity is purity;
fame is pain.
So I penned a letter to the dead.

My eyeballs are all that move,
floating in mid-air,
but still connected and transmitting
drug induced images.
I remember the mugger, the blade,
the darkness, the sirens, but no pain.
Images but no feeling.
They move right to a cold bedside table,
and then I think I cried.
Someone Knows me.
No chocolates, no flowers.
Someone Knows me.
No fruit. No magazines.
Just …
a pen and a pad.
Someone Knows me.
I did cry, someone remembers me.
And each teardrop contained a thousand images,
a thousand stories, a thousand poems.
Inspiration. Illusion. Insight.
And the Darkness of Sleep takes me
like a comfort blanket of soft wool.
The morphine haze retreats
further into my mind and I dream …

of ambulances and white walls
of green gowns and bright lights
of scalpels and scissors and surgery
of needles and nurses and nightmares

… I dream of Poetry
in colour.
I see worlds in the sky
and words painted on clouds.
A kaleidoscope of teardrops
dripping images into my mind.
A fountain of mist cascading,
seeping into a memory sponge.
And I feel; someone who Knows me
gently wipe away the tears.

© Pagan Paul (04/06/17)

Brett Palmero May 17

I wake up to shadows
My body unable to move
Panic begins to set in
These visions inhuman

My eyes are barely open
I can see them moving
I'm awake it seems
Yet I'm still in a dream

The shadows move closer
They shift and whisper
I wonder what they say
As I panic where I lay

Here I realize something
How good it feels to choose
What happens around me
And how I shape my reality

What it feels like to have had sleep paralysis and hallucinations. This used to happen and when it did, I was in between reality and dreams.
mehh Mar 2

With gaps between each other, so slim that only essentials
Pass through unquestioned, dunes develop before the shoreline.
Scenic transformations containing apparitions of Gaia. An
Unaccompanied portrait. Ultraviolet, not claret or tangerine,
Actively grays the skeleton beneath salinized feet. All sizes and shapes
Continue on, north or south. Sometimes pausing in place to
View courting gulls, klee-ew klee-ew, initiating aeronautic affairs.
Ballets of gusting lust; then continue on, north, or south.

Our feet pay no mind to the calcified construction; we know
Without knowledge how delicate it remains. Seasons whisper
Motherly instincts, natural as Picasso's Spanish brush, tangibly
Colorful. Cerulean and further from known sensual perception, the Distant shoreline witnesses tides climb and fall with the moon. Carrying Foreign bodies, forgotten treasures, and newer apparitions, She stood
Naked between pillars of limestone and ash. Unwavering in her gaze,
Seductive with her emerging gait. Certain on death; certain on life.

Birthed Atlantic body, unabashedly nude and rightfully so. She held life, She held death, above the frothing coast, beneath the graying skeleton of Unquestioning gaps. Her eyes remained agreeably blue, contrasted by the Objective red, dripping from her left and right. Remaining motionless, her Outstretched hands offered the reddest rose with thorns and cleanest Blade of stainless steel, sharpened with her kiss. She had no words or
Need to use them. I reached for her bloody rose and sniffed its tempting
Scent, leaving our fates in her hand. Certain with life; certain with death.

Our fortunes sealed, her life or mine, gulls klee-ewed with defining Knowledge. They know her Atlantic, the tide, the current, the cresting Waves. She does not answer for her actions or apologize for what she is. She remains unpredictable and weaponized. I have scars as proof.
Beneath the greyest skeleton, aside the bloody shore, lies knowledge of
Delicate ends. Where lusting gusts blow apparitions and courting calls.
North or South, we continue on above the dunes. Splintering planks
Kiss our salinized souls, reminding us of our mother's whisper,

"these bones do not crack with ease".

Tim Peetz Jan 26

Between the conception and the creation
                                                        ­                Falls the Shadow.
Blinding lights, a crowded terrace,
Flickers, music, ballroom dance
Suddenly, the image shatters -
Darkness, rest from unknown lands.
S-spiralling-ing down to nimbus
Infinity yet to explore
Commotion woke me from my dreams
and left me yearning for ____

Hypnagogia is the experience of the transitional state from wakefulness to sleep: the hypnagogic state of consciousness, during the onset of sleep. Mental phenomena that occur during this "threshold consciousness" phase include lucid thought, lucid dreaming, hallucinations and sleep paralysis.

Etymology: late 19th ct., from French "hypnagogique", from Greek "hupnos" - sleep + "agōgos" - leading.

This poem was inspired by Viki Bennett's short film "The Big Sleep" (2014).

Drunk and violent
I am stumbling over the civil dead
And my toe is caught in their quilt of twisted limbs
There are mother necks
Daughter legs
And fat infant heads
Their skin is a flesh ceramic
That is smooth appearing
Icy cool against my feet
Ceramic soon to be sculpted by scavengers’ ravenous jaws
Into disfigured cradles for writhing spawn of bug

With force I free my toe
I have no time to idle
I am late to my brother’s home

We are in his garden
Backyard desert earth
Clods of clotted dirt
His hands are watering the tangled vines at their pinkish roots
Solemnly he waters with copper tears and spit
To the east I am staring
At the white wall of brick
I wonder what lives inside these spongy chunks

When he finishes watering
He turns his neck
His head
He faces me
Killing my gaze with the porous wall

The lips beneath his compound eye swing wide and fully apart  
He mournfully breathes
Words with sharpened vowels
The letters are sallow blond

My wife
She left
My wife
I slit her throat
My wife
I beat her
Beat her dead
She’s buried by child oak
You smell like whiskey
You smell like musky goat
You smell like the civil dead that line the path to my wealthy home

SofScoli Dec 2016

I stand here with a bottle in my hands
I'm so phased I don't remember what's inside
I dump a few in my hand
And throw em back with gin
It's not enough
I'm still conscious
I need more
Find another bottle
I can't pronounce the name
I dump a few in my hand
And throw em back with gin
It's not enough
I don't wanna use the good stuff
I wanna use the good stuff
Anything to float away
I think I flew thru the floor
I'm in the clouds now
They're shades of pink and blue
I fly and fly until I can't see you
I see lakes and skies
I'm happy
I'm free
Free of you
And free of me
I think I'm falling now
Closer and closer to the ground
I don't wanna leave
I don't wanna go
Closer and closer to the ground
The ground bends up and around
Flipping upside down
Covering the sky
The city now above me I keep falling
Am I up or am I down
I can't tell
The more I fall
The darker it gets
Until I can't see anything at all
My head hurts
I feel my heart beating deep in me
Each beat hurts and is slow
It feels like I might explode
Each beat in then release
It hurts more and more every time
Then it stops all at once
I stop falling
I am still in the dark
Then I feel gravity take over
I open my eyes
I am on my bathroom floor
I try to push my self up and fall
I breathe in
It hurts
I flip myself over
I'm hyperventilating
I've been laying here for what feels like days
I stand up and look in the mirror
I am afraid of the man before me
I don't remember him
I smile at myself
But it quickly fades
I splash water on my face
I walk to my bed room
I stand there in the door frame for a few beats and then to my closet
I grab a green button down
And my grey slacks
I pick the black shoes
With golden little clasps
I take off my wet white shirt and replace it with blue
-- now donning my attire for the day I walk toward my front door and put on my face for the day
I open the door the cold hits my face
But the heat takes its place
I get in my car
Start the engine
Put on the ac
I'm sweaty and hot
Even in four degrees
Now in the parking lot of my job I sit and sip an old water
Open the glove compartment and see what's left
I have blue ones
And white ones
Some red ones
Some green ones
I think one of each will do
I throw back a rainbow
And shut my eyes
Waiting for them to take over
I feel good now as I walk into work
I see desk lady Sharon and janitor bill
I get in the elevator and press number three
I get out and see Tom from accounting floor three
I walk to my cubicle
Familiar and mine
I sit in my spinny black chair
And brush fingers thru my hair
It's wet
I look at my hands they're stained in blood
I feel it running down my head
I wipe and wipe at the rear of my brain
More and more it's gushing now
I look around and realize I'm not at work
I'm not in my cubicle
I'm not in my car
I'm not outside
But I am in my house
Still lying on the bathroom floor
My vision goes black
I don't know where I am
Or who I am at this point
There is nothing but black
There is no up nor down nor here nor there
Just black up black down black here and black there

i wrote this a long time ago after taking xans to get my bellybutton pierced and i realized how addicting that stuff was for people and why it is.
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