Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Dacy Maly Nov 2015
The darkness crept into her parted lips one night
A midnight intruder
Uninvited and unnoticed
The darkness spread its tar-black fingers
Through her veins and capillaries
It filled her lungs with soot
It was the heaviness behind her eyes
And the steel bar across her chest
Finally, the darkness slithered into her mind
And by the time she realized it was there
She could no longer remember
How to let the light in
Pep Sep 2015
My confusion could be simplified
through careless exemption
in the sense of letting a deep cut heal
save the stitches
a curious thing left open beneath
a layer of textured, delicate skin
my topical treatment
of words from others full
of hopeless affection
and their eventual happy endings
and alcohol
**** the pattern of young humanity
I’m afraid even in the arms of
new friends
I would still remember old warmth
I would still hold myself closed
and fall open to infection.
Posting some stuff that was removed by accident.
K Marie May 2015
I never had much of an ability to be anything except an emotional disaster. I didn’t spend a lot of time outside of my head, and when I did it was usually to dive headfirst into the head of someone else. I spent the vast majority of my daily life in a broken-down shell of myself masquerading as someone that had their **** together. For some reason, people accepted the facade. That’s what they usually ended up liking.
    I always regarded myself as a disease. I had an incubation period that was relative to how long it took someone to get me to trust them. After that, the cells of my disease would rapidly multiply and explode, permeating the membranes of all of their senses and rationalities. My disease would break through the double-helix of their DNA and integrate itself in the fragile bridges of their nitrogenous bases, reflecting adenine for their thymine, cytosine for their guanine until finally the helix reunited, delicately interconnecting the chromosomes as I spilled out all the worst sides of myself.
    The infectious agents of my toxicity would then slowly descend the ladders of hydrogen bridges and filter back out through the phospholipid bilayer to swim freely into their bloodstream, swimming through their veins to seek out the nervous system. Freely hopping along synapses, my disease gently touches neurons and triggers proteins buried deep inside their nuclei, causing the slow degradation and eventual apoptosis, killing off the ability to recognize that I am not a normal person.
    The electrical impulses spread from axon to axon, igniting a ridiculous idea that I am no disease. The toxins follow the impulses, riding along the shockwaves. The toxins arrive in the mind and slide off the branches of electricity to hold fast to brain proteins, forcing them to take on the shape of the toxins and eroding holes in all the neural processing centers that govern reason and logic, robbing the person of the ability to detect all the red flags I wave frantically in front of their faces.
    The toxins slide into the erosions and stand upon the corpus callosum, the delicate connection between the cerebral hemispheres, and wonder at the magnitude of the destruction they cause. They take a running start and leap from hemisphere to hemisphere and back again, skipping between the associative areas and primary cortices so the immune system cannot ever catch them.
They settle in the prefrontal cortex, the seat of neural power, the orchestra of complex thought. The toxins settle deep into the gyri and sulci, wedge themselves into the folds of all the grey matter.
Once infection is over, once I have eroded the very cytoskeletons that hold their cells together, they breathe, “I love you.”
Geena Wise Mar 2015
I’m always waiting for perfection
But when something shows direction
I look past the connection
And make up an objection
I can’t handle rejection
If I’m not your selection
I can’t look at my reflection
So instead of showing you affection
I make a projection
That has a defection
Love is an infection
No matter my introspection
I need protection
I wish there was an injection
That causes more circumspection
Because you can see in my complexion
The result is my subjection
Which leads to eventual dejection
Micah Feb 2015
Hey guys,
I think this is more of a notice than a poem,
But I got let out of the hospital last night after three hours of being on a respiratory machine because I was seriously struggling to breathe without any aid.
All this because I had a severe throat infection that spreaded into my chest and effected my lungs.
All thus just to tell you guys that this could either cause one of two different things.
I could either:
A) be soon taken back into intensive care where the WiFi is horrendous and not be able to make it back on here for the next...while (I don't for sure how long it's going to take for recovery, to be perfectly honest x)

OR

B) I'm going to recover enough to stay at home with several antibiotics to keep the pain bearable and have a nebulizer by my side 24/7 whilst still having a good WiFi signal so I can keep in touch with you guys.

I'm really hoping that optionB will be the one that takes shape because you guys are part of my internet famalam and not being able to hear your lovely work day-to-day will tear me apart the most **

Have a blessed Sunday everyone, love you lots **
Prince of Spring Jan 2015
The night is here,
a deeper hue.
I'm in your veins,
my host is you.

The forests howl
and seep into
your lungs to me,
my host is you.
This has been in my head for a while, or at least I've been pondering about this idea of infection or affection. I had to get it out!
Ham Aloufi Dec 2014
Don’t you cry you fragile heart for that love was an infection
There is no cure and you won’t be healed by injections
So many minds were lost in love coming from one direction
In the end you are going to forget it and it won’t be ever mentioned
So don’t write a poem about it and give it its own section
Don’t be sorry and prove it with actions
Love is a gift given to a few people without exception
When some people leave there is no sorrow nor tension
When some people leave there will always be a connection
So keep on living and keep on loving for it is the sweetest reaction
ty Dec 2014
the sweetest perfection
to call my own
the slightest correction
couldn't finely hone
the sweetest infection
of body and mind
sweetest injection
of any kind
aviisevil Dec 2014
Tim wasn't the only one infected,
But he was the only one who wasn't turning into a duck.
It had been more than two years of horror,
And almost every part of the world had been struck.

This new disease was carried through the shiny electronic devices,
That had gripped the world in a photogenic way.
Every wall and post reeked of the self centeredness,
And all that led to this last man standing scenario today.

Tim was resisting his fate by throwing away all the devices he could find,
But his hope was slowly degrading, as they were scattered everywhere.
He was experiencing what scientists called as a celebrity syndrome,
The last stage before he would give in, it was almost too hard to bear.

His soul was being crushed within his hundred dollar shirt,
But he was far more inclined to break the mirror in front of his eyes.
The disease was spreading through his arms and hands now,
And in sometime there would be no place left to hide.

Everyone at his school had turned into a duck the other day,
He had seen it from his own eyes, as all his friends got stuck on the web.
Scientists were baffled how it spread impervious of one's religion or faith,
They said the only part recognizable after the infection spreads is the head.

He found his moms name last night too, posted on the wall of lost people.
Tim could only rub his eyes, she was only fifty -five.
He had no clue of what to do, he was already feeling so miserable,
His father had already died, lost sister at twenty-five.

Tim was growing restless by the second, wrestling with his own arms,
But it was too much to handle and finally his hands got free,
He flashed the electronic device at the mirror, it felt warm,
And that's how Tim became the last casualty on earth to catch a selfie.
Notes (optional)
Tamara Rice Aug 2014
So bored
and so dead
that little monster I fed
and now she's fat,
full, and a little brat
she starves me
content on watching me bleed
making sure i drown in need
she burns and chokes me
I can't stop embracing her
the only piece of me I have
can't lose her in the cure
and I need to be so sure
so sure, My Love, you are
i'm kissing the killer
clutching my demise
keeping her close to my heart
she's with me always
my only company
she listens always
always, always, more always
she's killing me
i'm gonna cuddle her close
cause if I'm going down
I'm taking her along for the ride
"....Dead house of love! house of madness and sin, crumbled! crush’d!   15
House of life—erewhile talking and laughing—but ah, poor house! dead, even then;
Months, years, an echoing, garnish’d house—but dead, dead, dead."

Walt Whitman
Next page