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Em MacKenzie Oct 8
Please don’t mind me,
I’m just a splinter of the past.
Wandering blindly,
and hands are tied so I can’t grasp.
Just like the thought,
of giving up after giving all I’ve got,
I admit that it wasn’t a lot.

Now it’s too late to pretend
that I’m not broken; could be so easy to mend,
I’ll hide the shatter point where you made me bend.
I’ll return to my other fix,
it succeeds in dulling my heart with it’s mind tricks,
a perfect combination just mix and blend.

Nightly I lay awake
sketching scenarios involving us,
where you give and I take,
I return equal amounts; a benefit of respect & trust.
When it’s time to fill in each word,
I admit I’m aware I’m not what she deserves,
someone better who won’t lose their nerve.

‘Cause it’s too late to pretend
that it’s not plagued in every thought I spend,
should be thankful that I’m important enough to still be called friend.
And there’ll always be somebody else,
completely oblivious to a heart’s wealth,
and too focused on their self to ever expend.

We can’t fix the mistake
but we can make a new one;
drain each ocean and lake,
and completely block out the sun.

Yes it’s too late too pretend
that you’re not draped in every word I’ve penned,
even with the lowest odds I’ll still contend.
And do you see each blow and broken bone,
wishing that I’d just leave and find a home?
On me you can depend to not be alone,
do you think the same you could lend?
we find ways to steal moments together, knowing our time is running out. clinging to each other like inmates on death row, facing the realisation that soon we will no longer exist. each time your eyes find mine my heart breaks. you move the stars in my sky and send fireworks through my soul. the ghost of you stays with me, the feeling of your body against mine and of my lips finding yours in the dark are infused in my very being. in those moments we were immortal. i'd give anything for one more night to surrender to you, to fully explore what was robbed from us the first time. **** i'd even take 10 minutes. just you & i hidden from the world, left to speak in the only language our souls understand. i dream that we got that. that somehow, somewhere we got a real goodbye. they say at the end you see it all infront of you, now you're all i see and i'm terrified of a life without you in it. you are my inferno.
- please don't make me say goodbye to you.
Tommy Randell May 11
Fire is thing of flame
And so we play the burning game
Though Love of course is most to blame
Inferno

We dream that passion can be tamed
But such hunger has another aim
To be our ruin and our shame
Inferno

Each kiss a link that makes a chain
To bind the body & the brain
Spill the blood to make a stain
Inferno

The risk is we are entertained
By what brings Joy and what brings Pain
And selfies captured frame by frame
Inferno

Writ large our future inhumane
Our bones entwined, our flesh disdained
The fate of Man, by any other name
Inferno
Louis Verata Apr 12
Hellken arrived at contemplation
What if he had sided with Heaven?
A few ****** wraiths stood among the flames
Yet they did not express pain.

He awoke from his absurd folly
Went forth to the poor spirits
Therein one said:
"The ages to come no one knows but us wraiths!"

The second with a trace of solace stated:
"Life always coincides . . . you have to search and remember not to
   strain over a day. For what is a day since there is no freedom only
   restrain."

The third among them finally broke his silence:
"I was a just man, but let us not quibble in such matters.
   . . . Wanting to believe that I couldn't be deceived! But let me
   tell you Hellken, you wretched among devils, you a witness
   and participant to the first war ever conceived. Who like us three
   wraiths? Who among men in this dreadful place will stand tall like
   pagan gods and not cower at the very sight of eternal shade."

Hellken perplexed finally spoke:
"If only you three had taken up the pen even if it were at the end
   of thy mental decay, in the world today, you would be praised
   'but let us not quibble in such matters' as the third wraith just
   addressed. Many a man have been here, they elsewhere abide
   in a different labyrinth, their only consolation is their earthly
   fame."
Inspired by The Inferno by Dante Alighieri, especially the ideal that the inhabitants of the Inferno know the future and the character Hellken.
Luna Jay Mar 27
She came with a face and a name,
But no soul.
She replaced it with all of the
Hearts she stole.
Kept them in  the freezer-
So they wouldn’t mold.
She silently stalked
The world.
She came with
No man to hold-
But she let her own
Story unfold.
And truth be told?
I don’t think she
Liked men in that way,
Regardless.
She came with figure
Not pulled from a
Mold.
She was the black sheep
Society would try
And scold.
They all thought
She was ******
And cold-
But my baby
Is a burning inferno.
Scarlett Mar 25
I obsess over what it must feel like
to have the earth's veins beneath your feet
roots flowing like a lightning strike
your soil is mother nature's meat

do blades of grass encase your feet
when taking your slice of heaven for granted
pretending the honey doesn't taste as sweet
as the sprouts from the seeds love planted

you wouldn't like the place I dwell
melting skin and bloodied hands
my head is every circle of hell
purgatory hath no sympathy for lambs
have you ever felt so distant you're not on earth itself?
welcome to my mind, the limbo between heaven and hell.
Emily Miller Mar 18
No matter which window I look out of,
the world is still on fire.
Upstairs,
Downstairs,
gleaming with the orange-gold of
indiscriminate destruction.
When I was young,
I thought the framed oil paintings were real,
and enjoyed the pleasant, static serenity-
but one day,
I noticed a shadow glance across the edges of the curtains,
and when I parted them,
the glass was aflame.
Every bay,
every aperture,
glowing hot and chaotic,
apathetic to my plight.
I scoured the halls,
reached high on the basement walls,
searched the attic,
but every window framed the same vision-
a fatal inferno.
It wasn't until I caught fire myself that I realized-
the world is not on fire.
My house is.
stylesclash Mar 8
a Disney Land including all attractions, where satisfaction is
the only price of admission, for you may not enjoy your stay;
lines that are based on your circle of Hell: cheaters, invisible to
everyone and vice versa, riding in no time flat—just like real life;
behind them the corpulent, occupying two spaces, experiencing
time as multiplied by their weight, a minute as several hours;

hoarders, keeping too much, failing to keep to themselves;
confessions with the legs of Usain Bolt: finish lines of thought
that move opposite of you, forcing you to sweat out more secrets
to no "Father"--for now, like an orphan, Daddy is just the man
next to you, changing time and again; once you catch up, another
run on sentence running over your sense of self-restraint;

angry souls who cannot remove an ear implant that finds
their pain points; one, for instance, features Al Franken narrating
himself only groping your *******; his verbiage, as elegant

as epic, recalls a troubadour reciting Homer’s Iliad, lasting about
eight hours; looped infinitely, the hysteria here approximates
that driving his resignation; the cartoon anger of vigilante justice:
vigilante because, post-******* Clinton continued sitting as
president (or standing, depending on how he likes his *******).

amusement rides incorporating sin; a Small World where ego
grasps the size of the universe: one's sense of self overlayed
to its very edges; a sense of hollowness, always larger, upon exit;
a Toy Story for the ****** who, tallying high his rub register,
has funded a **** star's spank bank; her body digitized, he does

not see himself as purchasing prostitution; he inserts—filling
now his own spank bank—ever larger toys on himself, to which
his audience remarks, in support, “wow, what an *******”;
a Mad Tea Party where we, in our first world bougieness,
must drink the psychosis of our prisoners who play ballgames
with their own ****, and then pitch our own; for it is rather
****** that we place ourselves willfully in solitary confinement
and complain: we will never suffer as do the truly alone.

a Barnstormer, where gluttons are *****, like cattle, on-rack
in the commodification of their reproductive organs; machines
that milk their **** to the point of mastitis; slaughter as life:
all ground, ultimately, into SoyLent Green, to feed the others;
Monsters Ink for the new journalists, the Twitterati, who are
transfigured into the shade they’ve thrown; grotesque shadows,
their life-force is generated by bearing themselves to rejection—
what was visited upon others, now themselves—for, otherwise,
they must die slowly; Tomorrowland for procrastinators who

must mime, daily, the movements of Shia LaBeouf in a sunrise
to sunset Tai Chi class; they sleep only to discover, at wake,
they daydreamed about sleeping; delusional insomniacs—
awake eternal, they cannot bring themselves to “Just Do It”;
Under the Sea for rich and poor; underwater in unnecessary
debt, they thirst no matter how they quench themselves;
drinking only by drowning, they beg to choke on their desire.

Frontierland Shootin’ Arcade for politicians who put in
crosshairs everything except war; they must be murdered
collaterally—innocent as they are—for sport; a ******
shooting from his helicopter and laughing megaphonically:
for the fact that their lives do not matter should echo
as distinctly as it has in Mai Lai, where “**** Anything

That Moves” is an actual order; the women in their family
will be *****, the babies will have their heads smashed in
with the butts of rifles in a lust for body count; and then,
like Prometheus’ liver, they will be resurrected to live again.

a Shootin’ Arcade where those who cheered Trayvon's
death replace him: transported, they are homunculi:
adults in children form, they are shot for walking home
with a "parent"--and mistaken identity is irrelevant--
a dependent child, in this world, is so suspicious that
one may be snuffed-out for bearing only his likeness;
victory isn't less real when symbolic, than when real.

Goofy as the only mascot that you may take a picture with;
a mirror that, upon asking ‘who’s the fairest one of all?’,
turns you into an albino; gold diggers who are accompanied,
always, by dwarfs singing “heigh-**, heigh-**”; a Mini
Mouse, shrinking to inscrutability, when you want to log out;
you may want to leave—but pleasure and self-annihilation,
as in addiction, are the same; so you must destroy yourself.
Wolf Dec 2018
Gather 'round the smouldering flames
Now those who wander lay frigid
Toss all your cares to the fire
The world is getting colder...
Nikos Kyriazis Oct 2018
Then gazed the sky and he whispered
Foggy shades in a lavender void

Gloomy glimpse on a cumulus sigh
I'll grief with you my old father

And by dusk's last glow i shalt follow
Lo your son neath your stature he stands

Thou who rules in the heavens great court
A plea to you by your earthling

Your stairway i most desire now
Let me come in the ***** i borned

Days on earth are the true flames of hell
The inferno's tales you've narrated

The eternal night of my lineage
Now i regret what i've done then my God

Overdue are these words and through shame
For evermore i will serve you

And nevermore the foul serpent
Touch my hand and revive me once more
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