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Lovely 2d
Why did love disguise itself as a man?
Why did love put a gun in my hand?
In my bed, in my head, in my hand.
Was it for redemption?
Was it for revenge?
Was it for the bottle?
Was it for the ledge?
Was it for the thrill of pushing my hopes off the edge?
Why did love open up my scars?
Why did love put a knife in my heart?
In my bed, in my head, in my heart.
Was it for revenge?
Was it for the smokes?
Was it for the amends?
Was it for the sadness?
Was it for the thrill of watching all my madness?
Why did love put the gun in my hand?
Why did love put the knife in my heart?
In my bed, in my head...
8M 5d
Of the disposed
I give a rose
To all I see
Remind me of my beauty

But now, I know
How much you loved me so
The happiness I feel
Is sympathetic, synthetic

Golden threads
I spin every day
Why do you look for me
Can't you see

I'm not pure and fair
My eyes are dull and I am scared
Why do you love me so
When ****** is all I know?

Come, and know why
I feel this way
A sharp knife lands on your arm
Don't be shy and stay

Please don't run away
Do you know why you want me?
Open up your eyes and see
This elation I feel
French readers might understand the title better.
Daksh Nov 22
Still watering the dead
Left her seeds, deep
I can feel the roots digging

******* love, everything

Yesterday, I saw her
Tears, shimmered, harder than diamonds

Here are some words for you.

Remember us?
polka Nov 16
She wore a straitjacket.
It was a tight fit.
Writhing around, she begged for a knife, begged anyone who passed her by.
No one seemed to have more than one glance to throw her way.

This screaming, terrified woman, stumbling through streets and patches of grass,

She yelled for someone to free her. But the most intense emotion she's seen as of late was fear, and fear was an **** color. She couldn't help but reflect it back.

She found her situation... tragic.

But, one day, someone finally tries to help her.

Taking a knife, this kind stranger begins to cut into this restraint she's found herself in.

And, instead of looking relieved, this woman screams louder, and runs away on broken feet. She runs away as fast as her starving legs could take her.

Because this straitjacket was made of skin.

The pain of metal in her flesh restraint, was unbearable.

Maybe once she's aware of the cycle, she'll push through the pain, to see her arms again...

Ffimax Nov 15
I dream of a place that's not like this
I dream of a paradise
I dream of a little light, at least
And a room where no one cries

My soul is burning inside
Where words cut every bite
I've changed, denying that they were right.
Please, I need you tonight.

I can feel you moving through my body
I can feel you expanding and engulfing everything inside of me
Please, let me go and live a normal life
Without something who'll soon or later stub me with a knife

I am brave but I'm not strong to fight
Dear depression, leave at my sight
Just let me back to where I suppose to be
Jo Swan Nov 1
I stare at the Kettle:
Reflection of your vile face.
Has left me in aghast!
Oh, how I wish to erase
Flashback of grotesque past.
Heart seared by the venom
Of disturbing memories
Caused by antagonism.
This rage can’t be appease
Mind becomes murderous.

The Kettle begins to hiss:
The soul simmers with wrath-
Insanely dangerous,
Hungry for a blood bath!
Oh, I wish for a knife
And stab you many times
As you left me in strife
From your abusive crimes.
Wounded me as a child
And left me powerless.

Boiling Kettle rattles:
My madness is wild
Have I lost my saneness?
Many years I’ve been irate-
Tolerating in silence-
Blood boils with sinful hate!
My spirit seeks the thrill
For an eye for an eye-
As it **** for your ****
And to see you die!

Gas sparks, Kitchen ignites:
Body burnt into ashes-
Soul seethes in resentment.
Revenge sweetly slashes
You to my contentment.
Hands stained with red blood
Like trenches of war mud.
Eyes consumed and blind -
Peace of heart now confined
By rapacious rage.

Mind is a Murderer!
Am I a Murderer!
Will I ever surrender?
Will I ever surrender
And taste tranquility?
Or is my spirit cursed?
Or is my spirit cursed
To be trapped by the thirst
Of the boiling kettle
That will never settle
Until vengeance scorches!

(c)Jo Swan 2018
I wanted to explore the darkness of human nature. Recently, I had an incident at work where I saw a man who was consumed rage. I wanted to explore the darkness of his mind. There are moments in some people's lives where we are consumed with rage that we will **** for vengeance.
D Letwixt Oct 13
Laying in the lawn
On a boring day
Looking up at the plain blue
"How unimaginative"

I throw the little knife into the air
To see where it lands
sky Oct 10
can I feel so numb
Yet I feel so much
it's overwhelming

do you hold me tight
then you pull out a knife
from behind me

It's just a metaphor
I would prefer it more

It' just a metaphor
I'm not really sure
if you love me
heyli Oct 7
Knowing you
You'd cry all day and night
Lock yourself in  a room,
No light could be insight

I was there,
hiding behind the dark
peeking at you,
"I do care, please don't cry."

Knowing you
You'd grab a pen and knife
Once the ink was gone,
You'll use your blood to write

You're too busy dying
You can't even see me crying

Knowing you,
just doesn't feel so right.
standing there with my
feet planted on the ground
and my arms crossed;
my somber eyes are
resting heavily upon
the sounds of the
monotone voice
and teeth chattering
from my cohorts
mouth jabbering
in my tone-deaf ears.

he takes his red hot poker
and tries to brand
my brain with his
autobiography of dishonesty
as if I were livestock

but the mechanics of my
body can only take so
much as I tune him out
and escape to the attic
of my mind where I string
up lights, find and open
the trunks of creativity
and pull out a binding of
blank pages to begin
working the poem
as the extension cord
and the light socket begin
******* like crazy and the
lights light up the attic
so festively with ideas
until he’s approaching
the end of his fabricated
story and my psyche
hits me like a low blow
to Houdini and I
simply nod in silence,
shrug my shoulders
and keep my humor
dry and normal
as it appears to be.

how can I survive this
grueling way of life and
what will become of me?

if the choice was mine
to choose between
the most interesting knife
and the bullet of boredom…

I’d take the slow death any day.

poetry is floating all around us
in any situation,
some sit on mountainsides
and watch beautiful
to find it,
mine just happens to be
in a boiler room of
insufferable ****
and that’s why
when I write
I have to make
it count

but if your control is exerted
and your impulses are restrained
to keep reality and surrealism
separated while surrounded by
people in numbers like
winter snowflakes

then you’ve got more will power
than all the hookers on Rush St.
making easy money.
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