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Isaac Nov 2
you think that flowers are pretty and the forest
smells fresh and they are all made for you
just for you. you think that the green grass is soft
and the seas and skies and sand are all for you.
you think that nature is generous and kind
and good and pure just like you

i also wonder about humanity’s ever-increasing
records of stupidity, their eyes blind with anger
entitlement suspicion frustration the heat of rage
miniature suns burning and blistering and
destroying everything they see touch anything
in reach, thinking that all is theirs and theirs is all

they don’t see the blood on the floor and the
bodies lying all around. they step on them like
pillows on a road, rolling over them like the stones
they are, don’t see the teeth and eyes and edges
lying all around, all the traps biding their time,
waiting to crush a few pebbles

the true monster has yet to show, eyes shut
but not asleep, dormant but not oblivious
waiting in the shadows of the air and the black
days that the humans pass by like the stones they
are, blood pooling bodies rotting, and the humans
can’t care won’t care couldn’t care less as they
continue to fall

time is ticking and so is their patience, a silent
bomb waiting to be free of the grasps of dirt
and soil soiling its body, when finally nature strikes
back, strikes hard, as the humans fall ten by ten,
grass blades flying and petals dying, when nature
reclaims what has been stolen

nature will come back, and erase humanity like
moss on a stone, eating and destroying and
poisoning their already heavy hearts and souls,
dragging them over down into the earth, till
their blood has replaced theirs and their bones
have melted back where they came from,
and humans finally realise the moment just before
they fall from the earth, that it was all in their minds

they never owned nature, they were the ones that
needed her

nature never needed humans

they’re just mouldy stones at the bottom of a
fish tank long forgotten
This is the fifth poem of the set of eight.

We won’t expect the grass blade through our hearts.
Megan Jones Sep 20
"A child may not be
considered a piece of property-
only the child possesses genuine rights
the Right to be respected as a person
from the moment of his conception"
He was born in the year 1964
A world on the brink of splitting open,
On the edge of revolution, progress, protest

The stained glass windows speckled from the rain
Incense and old wood covered in fingernail imprints
Matching those on the sides of his arms
A small choir singing hymns of Salvation and Praise
His mother nudges him "stand up straight, eyes forward"
A mind wandering from the homily on Sacrifice
To the images of bombings in Hamburg

Adorned with black and white collars
Gripping an unlabeled wine bottle
The children sprinted through the wooded trails
Mud spattering across their legs and dress shoes
The others spun in circles, as if trapped in jewelry boxes
Their ankles dressed in pink ribbons
This was no place for innocence and imagination
But one of penance and prayer

He kept his toy cars and trains in a green metal box under his bed
It wasn't much, but they were his
Through them locking him in the closet for hours
And being told to not speak unless spoken to
The times of self expression, of emotion, feeling
Shamed and forced suppression - turned to repression
These cars and trains, they were his

Mental illness is a myth
Suicide is a mortal sin
We decide who you are
You cannot feel
Kneel down
Be quiet
Say your prayers
I'm writing a series about control. The ways in which people manipulate time, memories, feelings etc. as a means of determining and predicting what free-thinking individuals do/feel/say... All, supposedly, in the name of love or as a means to preemptively protect themselves from being subjected to the uncontrollable.
Darryl M May 9
In opulence.
Beauty be the sophistication of a lady,
The intimidation of her very being.
Beauty is about the innocence in a lady’s texture.
The string of temptation and nobility,
Something that hits the heart.

I can see the dark along the lustre coins of the sky.
I wanna find my favourite spots on your body.
Are there any?
Can’t really tell without ******* you on my own.

Pure.
No man can ever sail to the oceans of desire.
The very oceans, we’ll sink in.
Don’t judge me, face to face,
Self-control is not what I aim for,
When I’m close to you.

****** colours of ribbons,
Ribbons of lust and passion.
The untidy strings of Desire.

Allow me to pull you closer to the signal of moans,
Allow me to hear the echoes of your warm breath escaping in passion.
Bounded by the prisons of ****** desire.

I love how your body moves when I’m in it.
The chorus of pleasure sounded by your moan.
Oops, suspension in hallucination.
Completed: 19th August 2018 [13:58 PM]
Winsome
Darryl M May 6
don't ghosts lose direction...
Where the heck do they find the GPS?

Love be a phantom
forever haunting abandoned hearts.

She loves it when held close,
As she shivers in his arms.
For she wants the love,
But not just any.
She wants the love she considers hers,
And if unto her, it is given,
Then unto her, it truly belongs.

Grim reaping moments of truth;
Where you look at her
and don't see her undraped body,
But your naked psyche.
                 -****** of Love.
Kitt Mar 11
Dolly, Dolly, play with me
let's braid your curly hair
dress you up and take you out
where everyone can see

Dolly, Dolly, sleep with me
let's curl up here in bed
I'll be your warmth if you lie still
and give in to my every dream

Dolly, Dolly, look at me
why do you not respond?
I'm calling you, Dolly, dear
why aren't you returning?

Dolly, Dolly, I'm sorry, dear
I haven't time to wait
my fingers ache, my body breaks
I must be leaving here

Dolly, Dolly, buried there
six feet under my creation
Here Lies Dolly, Beloved Plaything
played to death by strangulation.
Chicken Jan 30
Neckless
Hunched over
Grief streaming across your face

Some one
Some where
Having a party in your disgrace

So pick yourself up
and,
Dust yourself off

Pick yourself up
and,
Dust yourself off

Let it be a lesson,

Do not feed the vultures.
Owners mess is an expensive little dessert filled with two battling persons, fighting bitterly, served over a copyright issue. Finished with a garnish of mint.

I wrote this a while ago, found it in the drafts.
CLARYT Nov 2018
Foam and froth
Ebb and flow
Moon and sun
To and fro

You and I
Yes and no
You said yes
She said no

You blamed me
I blamed you
When you left
I pulled through

When I fell
I fell hard
You felt bad
Sent a card

I forgave
Took you back
All the guilt
Broke your back

You proposed
I said yes
You designed
Your best dress

Honeymoon, of your choosing
Saw you watch teenage floosy

Catered to your every need
Watched as I got on my knees

Taking care of someone else
While you watched, and pleased yourself

Now I'm taking care of me
Feeling fine and feeling free

Taking care of whom I please
On my back, or on my knees

Wistful sea or waning wave
I fulfill that which I crave....
A work of fiction.  [email protected] 2018
Violet Bliss Aug 2018
You. Are. Mine.
You punctuate each word with a ******
Words you need not say
But knew you must
Engulfing me, owning
Your warmth, your caress
Like dusk devouring the day

You. Are. Mine.
I want your words inside me
Drowning me, owning
Like waltz between my thighs
Keeping a pace
Like saying goodbyes

You. Are. Mine.
Marking every inch of my precipice
For one last time
Before you relinquish me
Like loving you was a crime
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