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Ylzm Apr 13
Death begins the day the newborn cries
Not its choice, grew up believing
Clinging to futility on death's bed
As if another life brings the dead to life

Affirmed as gods, life stroked, seduced
Painful dissonance yet believing
Chance is king but Will supreme
Striving to the death for one more chance

Failures chastised, pride conceals, boastfully
Offering ashes, gods obliged, believing
Truly only Money matters, Chance *******
Life ransomed too, not today, surely tomorrow

Love or transactional ***, legal or not
Life's answer or preachers' lies believing
Perhaps only masturbatory self love is true
Justified indulgence entirely in one's own hands

Meaninglessness, life’s honest and brave end
Else denial and delusion, make believing
This moment till death has despair to work
Alas many flail cowardly, ironic futility grasping

Will strong, flesh betrays, in hypocrisy
Peter wept, shamelessness hardens believing
Death discerns not its own stench
Life's fragrance repulsive and offends

Life imposed freely from the beginning
Conned and chose to pay for believing
A shadow of what will be but tempted to be
And the Accuser justified and God ******
CarolineSD Dec 2020
I remember letting my fingers trail through the cool
Surface of the water,
While the canoe
Skimmed and skimmed
Across the inky stillness of the lake.

Quiet and the sun not yet fully risen

Patterns on the water drawn with my fingertips
And then quickly receding
Back to glass

The world above all dawning blue
And the loons
Begin to call

The stars fall back last,
Giving up one by one to the gentle brightening
Of the Adirondack sun.

Still now, I walk with my fingers gliding through the lake,
Grazing the hidden veil.

There is something deeper here.

I reach one hand for the depths and the other holds the shore,
And I am somewhere aching along the surface
In-between them both.
Initially inspired by a memory of when I was very small, canoeing with my dad on one of the lakes in New Hampshire.
Raghu Pratap Oct 2020
Why does it take long to write a poem?
are months consumed into few fleeting feelings?
a poem is severed.
Of feelings that need to be let go of,
a delusion of a listen,
poem doesn’t listen,
what does it do?
An appearance for
no purpose,
but to be outside
is like braving the wind
to tell the wind you have braved it,
is this a poem?
None of us know yet.
Mounting feelings in an abandon,
a poem deceives,
and leaves them for dead,
for forgetfulness is eternal,
and the rest rot in several lifetimes,
but the burden?
Unburden, eventually?
The poem is ******,
Can we let go of it at all?
It persists.
We let them know we were there,
to come face to face with selves of us,
that we have avoided,
does the poem really look out for you?
And asks, pretending you know?
Do we need no end?
We are here to while away time
and tell them
we whiled the time away.
fray narte Mar 2020
tell me,
if i tear my way out of this skin —
bash it, cut it all open
until all that's left
is a hollow beneath
a veiled sculpture,
if i peel these wound scabs raw
and adorn them with buttercups:
an offering to the god of death,
if i scratch on these wrists
hard enough,
long enough,

deep enough, they won't heal,
creating an outlet —
a crevice, nonetheless,
tell me,
can i finally escape myself?

can i finally escape myself?
CarolineSD Oct 2019
And when the butterflies returned,
They fluttered down from
Hidden caverns draped in verdant moss.
Trailing dark tendrils of apocalyptic dusk,
They settled on the fragrant grass,
And like recessed memories,


And when the butterflies returned,
They flapped their harlequin wings,
Like Ashanti dancers in the wind,
Clothed in Kente cloth,
Alighting on graveyard moss,
And like the faded wording on a wooden cross,


And when the butterflies returned, they skimmed like vibrant gems
Across the sea,
And gathered like scattered drops of multicolored rain  
Across the fallowed fields,
And rivers that had healed,
And where man’s touch had once disfigured,

Now all forgot.

And so it is in life and death.

All that was once fire and depth
Breaks from the body

Like falling wings and

We are left

Forgotten things,

Each new day reborn
In glorious colors

Like a swarm of Monarchs across
The yellow of the dawn


Forever on

Without us.
Mae Jul 2019
My home ran way
Now I sit were glass meets the frame at the window and wait.
How long has it been
I'm not sure I care.. I'm not sure I don't

The mountabank came round again
Selling me a fictitious love.
His love.
You see, sense he travels so much selling the good oils
Rosemary tilled out of our toilet, Powders that
I personally
made from the stalagmites that grow in the southwest corner of my dwelling,
Teeth whitener
scraped from off only the finest ingredients
Feets calus, the kind aquired after walking long enough to no longer need shoes.

No he had no time for me and besides, he wasn't my home.

I'd have my fun but... He could never hold my love.

Yesterday I passed away
The cold nothing
Became a greater threat this time
I didn't have my home
Nor my love
I wasn't ready to go.
In a dank cave somewhere in the Philippines
After the hair on my head grew from fire red
To silver white.
Still sitting where the glass meets the frame.
Pablo Saborío Nov 2018
I understand.
That you are frustrated.
Alone like a dot.
In the puzzle of your routine.
I know.
How thoughts can become clocks.
The terrifying performance of repeat.
I share it.
Your idea of total estrangement.
Blonde avenues without a silver soul.
I believe you.
Those sharp ideas to break free.
To be ruled by pure impulse.
I’ve got your back.
That plan to draw meaning.
To assist others to pleasure.
I realize that too.
That you’re at the edge of the night.
That you’ve got goosebumps as stars on your skin.
I do not deny it.
The vastness of every unused minute.
Cold, the cold bored instant.
I share your opposition.
To the lake of doubt that drowns the hope.
To the ache of death that drives the howl.
I understand.
How small a part of life can sting.
I know.
That you are frustrated.
Alone like a dot  .
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