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Mark Wanless Aug 17
knock and the door
   shall be opened
my knuckles are ******

what is felt but
   not spoken
my knuckles are ******
heard it  before
my knuckles are a sandpaper
stained with cherry wine
a muddied grape metacarpal
as talented as the devil,
yet naive like a child
Alex Nov 2017
Her hair messy, plastered over her face by tears.
Her eyes red and puffy.
Her mouth open and screaming.
Her voice raw with pain.
Her throat dry and on fire.
Her arms feel anchored to her sides.
Her knuckles are ****** and swollen.
Her heart and her mind are bleeding with hope.
Her stomach feels like a can that's been crushed.
Her legs--think they're still there, she can't feel them.
This girl is broken but not in a sense that she needs to be put back together, no, this girl is broken in a way where she can't give up. She can't stop having hope. This girl is cursed.
erin Jun 2017
with your hands before they ever touched me
i want to kiss your knuckles and thank them for their strength
i'll hold your fingers for the art that they create
i'll ask so kindly for them to press against mine
you'll look at me as if i were crazy
but i'll kiss them all the same
because hands tell a lot about a person
and yours told me enough to make
Sasha Nov 2016
Have you ever wished your hands didn't belong to you?
That they weren't connected to your heavy arms,
That your knuckles weren't red from punching the wall.

Have you ever wished your throat wasn't yours?
That your voice didn't burn through your vocal chords,
That your croaking scream wasn't tearing you up, inside and out.
******* for making me feel this way...
Tehreem Apr 2016
Cold crusted on the outside
Boiling agony folded in
Twisting, turning and squirming
On the verge of spitting flames
Withholding the hunger for demolition
To raze the idols of perfection
Fuming with each punishing breath
Throwing up the grey smoke in skies
Ashening the way to thoughts
That red heart is on fire
The hard knuckle are pale
Soft lips caging venomous eruption
Eyes searing suns of combustion
Virulent brain going haywire
Grumbling of the lethal unsaid  words
Fervid fluid of darkness filling the veins
Liam C Calhoun Aug 2015
I have a secret, something sour, and something
deep, deep, and deeper that I try to keep from you –
The fury that I can’t rid nor come “real,”
real me, the “he,” who stands not more than an
arms-length your side.

I may smile, wink, and speak of sunny days,
but there are the hours, sometimes,
where I can taste the, “vicious,”
the blood of both survival,
and all that’d threatened prior –
the “red” that flows from the past and
meanders “now,” the “red” of a
thousand yesterdays wrought dust,
wrangled bruise,
the “red” born in back-alleys
and buried in whiskey,
the “red” that never seems to rest.

This war-drum, I can feel It” climbing up
and crawling out through my nostrils
singing songs for –
Split teeth on split knuckles, breathing,
steady and suddenly, uphill,
the flare of the maddened bull,
an eye for only anger and beyond tether –

I dare not tell my newest friends that a part of
“Him” is still in “Me.”
He’s always “there,” hunting, haunting,
and will always be.
They’d surely run if they knew,
and I’d run too, if I could, but wouldn’t get far,
as he’d be running right there and with me;
Like the shadow always yearned for
and the same that’d scare come the movement not my own.
Older piece, about ten years to approximate; I Loved to fight, at least the fight was just - but now my nose tends to the left as opposed "straight on 'til morning."
C E Harrington Jun 2015
If I could steal another's words,
I swear I would have said,
"Be sure to kiss your knuckles,
before you punch me in the face."
If I would have had the guts,
I would have long before said stop.
I swear I would have said,
"Please stop your words
before they reach my ears."
I'd rather you have punched me in the face
Because I can forget the knuckle prints
But I can't let go of the word fits.
Liam C Calhoun Jun 2015
Sinking in bed,
Can’t quite find the floor
And my right foot’s
Still covered sheet,
With lonely, “lefty,”
Somewhere south a star.

I’d swallowed my tooth,
Earlier, an added topping,
And down went the slice –
To ever remember the,
“CRUNCH!” of pepperoni, so
Reminded, a right hook’s sting.

And she’d left the ice bucket
Atop counter,
The tenth time this week,
But I’d only smelled her, “note,”
The last I guessed
And the last it ever’d be.
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