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Man Nov 3
Each emination,
Hot as an inferno.
The breath I let escape
Burns before it boils,
Serpent, tongue coil.
The way you worked me;
Nailed the coffin, spread the soil.
Rene Arreola Apr 14
Sinister Omens.
The ocean runs blood
As our trees burn into the ground.
Evil is spiraling in gray clouds,
Starting the thundering of trumpets
In the city of the sky.

Nine levels are being climbed,
With fire and blood on their hands.
Plagues and curses
Were just the beginning.

As difficult as it is to say,
We are deserved of our sins,
People of the land.
KelvinG Feb 2022
No Virgil to guide in the viewing of my sins
Yet a devil indeed in the viewing of my cry’s

Of bloodied oiled bodies
A man riddled with sores
Oozing the cry’s
Of mad men sentenced to life
What a sickness inferno
Body’s twisted to nothing but flesh fragments
Scraped on the cliffs of a greater Everest
Men and women hurled indefinitely
Bones broken and powdered
With every cry of pulled apart flesh
Amanda Kay Burke Aug 2021
I'm watching my life go up in flames
Coughing lungfuls of smoke
Can't see around the glow from the blaze
Try to breathe but choke

I'm careful not to get too close
Keep a safe enough distance away
Helpless as I watch my home
Descend into a state of disarray

I try to escape the inferno
But the doorway is blocked by fire
I have no choice but to burn along with it
A victim to consequences of my selfish desires
Everything just seems to be going to ****
Hamna Jun 2021
πΌπ‘›π‘‘π‘œπ‘₯π‘–π‘π‘Žπ‘‘π‘’π‘‘ π‘€π‘–π‘‘β„Ž π‘šπ‘Žπ‘‘π‘’π‘Ÿπ‘–π‘Žπ‘™π‘–π‘ π‘š,
𝐼 β„Žπ‘Žπ‘£π‘’ π‘π‘œπ‘šπ‘π‘™π‘’π‘‘π‘’π‘™π‘¦ π‘ π‘’π‘›π‘˜ π‘–π‘›π‘‘π‘œ π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑑𝑖𝑣𝑒 π‘ π‘’π‘Žπ‘  π‘œπ‘“ 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑠.
𝐼 π‘ π‘€π‘–π‘š π‘‘π‘œ π‘šπ‘Žπ‘›π‘’π‘’π‘£π‘’π‘Ÿ π‘šπ‘¦ π‘€π‘Žπ‘¦ π‘‘β„Žπ‘Ÿπ‘œπ‘’π‘”β„Ž π‘Žπ‘™π‘™ π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘‘π‘Žπ‘Ÿπ‘˜π‘›π‘’π‘ π‘ ,
𝐡𝑒𝑑 β„Žπ‘œπ‘€?
π·π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘›π‘˜ 𝑖𝑠 π‘€β„Žπ‘Žπ‘‘ 𝐼’𝑣𝑒 π‘π‘’π‘π‘œπ‘šπ‘’.
πΉπ‘œπ‘Ÿ 𝐼’𝑣𝑒 π‘“π‘œπ‘Ÿπ‘”π‘œπ‘‘π‘‘π‘’π‘› π‘‘β„Žπ‘Žπ‘‘ π‘Ž π‘”π‘Ÿπ‘Žπ‘£π‘’ 𝑖𝑠 π‘Žπ‘›π‘₯π‘–π‘œπ‘’π‘ π‘™π‘¦ π‘€π‘Žπ‘–π‘‘π‘–π‘›π‘” π‘“π‘œπ‘Ÿ π‘šπ‘’.
𝐴𝑛𝑑 π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ 𝑀𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑠 π‘œπ‘“ π‘‘π‘’π‘Žπ‘‘β„Ž π‘Žπ‘Ÿπ‘’ π‘π‘™π‘œπ‘€π‘–π‘›π‘”.
𝐡𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑑𝑖𝑙𝑙, π‘šπ‘¦ π‘π‘Ÿπ‘Žπ‘£π‘–π‘›π‘”π‘  π‘“π‘œπ‘Ÿ π‘“π‘Žπ‘šπ‘’ π‘Žπ‘Ÿπ‘’ π‘“π‘™π‘œπ‘€π‘–π‘›π‘”.
π‘Œπ‘Ž π‘…π‘Žπ‘ π‘’π‘™π‘™π‘’π‘™π‘Žβ„Ž Ψ΅Ω„Ω‰ Ψ§Ω„Ω„Ω‡ ΨΉΩ„ΩŠΩ‡ ΩˆΨ³Ω„Ω…
𝐻𝑒𝑙𝑝 π‘šπ‘’ 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑 π‘šπ‘¦ π‘€π‘Žπ‘¦!
π‘‡β„Žπ‘’ π‘ π‘–π‘”β„Žπ‘‘ π‘œπ‘“ π‘Ž π‘Ÿπ‘–π‘”β„Žπ‘‘π‘’π‘œπ‘’π‘  π‘π‘Žπ‘‘β„Ž β„Žπ‘Žπ‘  π‘‘π‘–π‘šπ‘–π‘›π‘–π‘ β„Žπ‘’π‘‘.
𝑀𝑦 β„Žπ‘’π‘Žπ‘Ÿπ‘‘ 𝑖𝑠 π‘’π‘›π‘π‘Žπ‘”π‘’π‘‘ π‘€π‘–π‘‘β„Ž π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ 𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑙 π‘™π‘Žπ‘’π‘”β„Žπ‘‘π‘’π‘Ÿ π‘œπ‘“ π‘’π‘”π‘œπ‘ .
π‘ƒπ‘™π‘’π‘Žπ‘ π‘’ π‘œπ‘π‘™π‘–π‘‘π‘’π‘Ÿπ‘Žπ‘‘π‘’ π‘‘β„Žπ‘Žπ‘‘ π‘π‘™π‘Žπ‘π‘˜π‘›π‘’π‘ π‘  π‘€π‘–π‘‘β„Ž π‘¦π‘œπ‘’π‘Ÿ π‘šπ‘œπ‘œπ‘›π‘™π‘–π‘˜π‘’ π‘Ÿπ‘Žπ‘‘π‘–π‘Žπ‘›π‘π‘’.
πΉπ‘œπ‘Ÿ 𝑖𝑑’𝑠 π‘‘π‘Ÿπ‘Žπ‘”π‘”π‘–π‘›π‘” π‘šπ‘’ π‘šπ‘’ π‘–π‘›π‘‘π‘œ π‘Žπ‘› π‘–π‘›π‘“π‘’π‘Ÿπ‘›π‘œ π‘œπ‘“ π‘–π‘šπ‘šπ‘œπ‘‘π‘’π‘ π‘‘π‘¦.
Pia V May 2021
He peeled away time, like dead skin on fingertips
An irritant needing of disposal like all wasted things
Each layer increasingly painful to touch, but demanding an attention too strong to protest
Not knowing what exactly lies at the end, but tightly grasping the edges of his mind’s ferry as it lurched deeper in
Scraping into the recesses of inferno, past showy flames
Stopping only at the bottom, hitting solid ground, still and cold
A modest ghost land, non-boasting
Completely justified by its own barrenness
Indisputably, the first instance
There he laid himself to rest a while
Coddled in the dirt
A sense of security reminiscent of the womb where it started, back to the beginning
And while lying there, seeking comfort through this fever chill of a journey, looking up he saw it
What it must have been all along
A childhood memory, living only in the mind, but living all the same
A defining moment
Something simple, whose significance couldn’t be challenged, but whose existence was something uncertain
A mystery only partially figured out
But enough to know when to stop
Just a reverie, he reassured himself
And with that piled on each layer again and again until he reached the surface once more
Back to a familiar setting, cool and breathable
Maybe suggestive of a lower level
But probably not.
Jade Bartlett Apr 2021
The fire in my soul
has started to die.

It shrinks down
the trellis of my ribs
like sun-burned flower petals;

wanes itself
to but a simmer

until it is
blue in the flames

Fire needs oxygen
to burn


My lungs thin
into icicles

frost congeals
around my chapped

veins freeze over

(and so does this inferno)
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Jade Bartlett Apr 2021
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicide and self-harm⚠️

I am the prodigal daughter
of Hestia,
Goddess of the hearth.

But this time,
I will not be returning

Don't you get it?

I've burned it down

Perhaps there shall exist no
for my incendiarism.

Perhaps there is no saving
a pyromaniac


her pyromantic sins

from getting drunk
off molotov cocktails

to baptizing her
melancholic fingers
in candle wax

to thrusting her head
in the oven,
where carbon monoxide
steals away her remaining
strands of breath.

Tell me is it still arson
if it is yourself you are
setting on fire?--

I wear lighter fluid
atop my collar bone
like it is fragrance

rouge my lips
with gunpowder,
every word an angry bullet
ricocheting off my teeth
and back down my throat.

I am circus act of a girl,
swallowing my own fire
just to survive

Ironic, isn't it?

Because for me,
survival entails
burning myself alive.

I will have no teeth left
to bite these bullets:

This sadness.

This anger

rises from the
chasms of my soul
like bile.


I always thought
myself to be the
of darkness.

Perhaps I simply
the darkness towards me
like an eclipse of moths--

and you know
what everyone says about
moths & flames,
don't you?

It's funny now
that I think about it:

how the stars also
inhabit darkness,

how when I wish upon them,
I am really only wishing on

And where there is fire,
destruction is sure to

It is no wonder
all of my dreams--

those of




have shuddered to

I make snow angels
in these ashes,
stretching my tongue out,
the remnants of
scorching my tastebuds.

Here I lie,
like an extinguished
my use fulfilled and discarded.

But the stars
aren't too fond of

even though
the very atoms
that comprise my essence
contain the stuff of galaxies.

But, oh , how these galaxies have
my brooding grasp.

When my fire
begins to dwindle,
I do whatever it takes
to re-ignite what has been

lap at the iridescent
gasoline puddles
that wade along
street corners;

sear campfire stories
across my palm lines
(I try to read
my future,
but the smoke
hangs too heavy);

strike matches across
my petrified wrists

just to feel something.

After all,
what am I without
my hellfire--

they could not
save me from it;

they could not
save me
from burning.

But perhaps the
true peril
was never in burning,
but in

burning out.
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Jade Bartlett Mar 2021
Trial i: Crimson

By: The Mad Poetess


I shall birth
a new colour.

Sprung from the womb
of passion & rage--


The name of the labour:
The Crimsoning

after the spawn:



from the quill
baptized in crimson ink

to the torn parchment

poetry shall hail down

like a meteor shower.


- Sewing needle
- Blood
- Berries harvested from the Belladonna plant (devil's cherry)
- Teardrops
- Artist's palette
- Inkwell
- Bunsen burner
- Quill pen
- Parchment


1. With the needle, ***** finger; remove needle at the first dewdrop of blood
2.  Crush and mix devil's cherries with teardrops upon artist's palette
3. Add dewdrop and rest of concoction on to palette and mix using whatever is convenient (fingers, paint brush, hair, etc)
4. Transfer Crimson to inkwell
5. Place in well above bunsen burner
6. Burn for 40 days and 40 nights until Crimson is matured
7. Dip quill into ink
5. Press quill to parchment
6. Write poetry


The parchment kindles
beneath the ink

pages curl up
at the corners
like Medusa’s hissing serpents

every gawking
a petrification of
what could have been

every lowercase t

every serif
a burning branch.

Is this the context
of a self-fulfilling prophecy?

To write poems about forest fires
and then



My poems and I:

on the cusp of extinction.

I throw my head back
at a ghastly angle

like the ancient
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