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joren's Jan 27
I'm gonna crash
I'm switching lanes
Like a spinning fan
I osalate
And I'm in danger
I'm testing fate
My life in peril
There's no debate
My chance of survival
My chance is slim
And I am on
My last whim
I'm hanging by
A single limb
I'm bleeding out
I need a stim
Like a med pack
I need a chopper
For an evac
I need to run
And not look back
life in peril is about recognizing and identifying a negative state of mind and making a concious decision to escape it asap
when north
weird hep
exactly danced
grassy knoll
she'd wake
in bed
there then
flee Bondi
thereafter that
dramatize her
skin tan
with splash
of coconut
thus vacation
only hinder
her stay
here again
A vacation downunder
Daniel Z Mamza Sep 2017
The teary rain could not hold back, nor
Hold in the torrent of tears
Just as the sound of the sea roaring
He wept

Enmeshed in the ever so scary black clouds
Imagining life beneath the earth
He raged on without mercy
Outpouring, crying, with no reservation;

In his rage, he looks on
To see small; little rather, creatures
Running helter skelter,
An evil grimace sits on his face
As he sends terror on Mankind

In his glory
Peril awaits, dooms days, no mercy
Painting the heart of Daniel
Carl Velasco Sep 2017
somewhere in there
sounds like a kid
searching for another permuta-
tion of himself, some
semblance of a would-be he won’t hate.
that’s me, I’ll never run out of pain.
this genteel ache,
this conclusion, has nothing to do with choice.
there are some who’re born broken,
those unobtrusives with chapped lips, glancing up for
drones that might pick them up
then throw them to another Earth,
those who like getting into strangers’ cars, laying their head on the
dashboard that’s softer than their bed.
they on cold nights like to whisper to God: ‘we
don’t like this experiment.’ we are more
than warning signs of civilization in peril.
dead and gone.
don’t refuse exploitation; that’s how we still feel useful.
don’t the characters in some books make rooves out of leaves? too
dogged to prioritize shelter, though. too
drugged to maintain another thing
doomed to crack and crumble. just never enough time.
days flow by like silk into a sawmill. In the
dark we try to see if we still stand on strong ground, or surface tension.

such is
the rhythm. feet damp with cakemud. in
darkness we see stoplights turn red, sometimes yellow.
Michael Briefs Aug 2017
The black ruin exploded
on that cold night,
A drenching rain hid a peril,
With lighting strikes
a thunderous white,
we drove in that hour late,
lost and wandering.
The dark road
stretched like a tight rope,
with twisted, wooded boughs
cloaked around.  
We searched the thick shadows
and kept hope,
but chaos is all we found.
Praying for safe passage,
clutching the wheel in fear,  
clinging to the way forward,
but the way was still unclear…
the elements flashed a
dagger of jagged disaster --  
we veered violently,
with vertiginous swerve and swallow.
sheer horror revealed
a visage, eviscerated –
eyes of deep pitch
and bone, hollow.  
Broke and black marrow, portends
no tomorrow;
shattering glass,
splintering wood,
shredding tires,
spilling blood.
Both of us cast into crushing trauma.
…I faded into a murk of the mind,
of Stygian sentience,
slipping beyond, resigned…

Emerging back from a
wild twilight,
where I lingered,
drifting in a diffuse dusk
of a subconscious
with a flood
of shock sensations!
I awoke to a world of
twisted metal and wicked pain,
…“This is really happening?!”
flashed across my mind,
as I struggled to free myself from
the maw of debris.
I could not tell the time or location
of place or friend, but there came
flashing lights and helpful
souls, rushing to attend.
In and out of temporal existence,
my eyes dreary --
heart beat shallow,
impressions of
people and rooms
were bleary.
Numb in my safety,
skating on the surface of an
induced calm, I thought,
“I am in their care.  I can only let go and
let someone else steer.”  
But I waver to explore
the depths of the well
in which I fell;
I can’t yet grasp what transpired,
and I recoil from the traps --
I resist,
I deny,
I withdraw,
I collapse.  

The wet, dark, twisted
walls rise,
reaching high
and ringed around.
she sheltering shock
subsides, and in this
well of pain I drown.
It was only after many hours,
from the moment of
the difficult work
finally began.
To try to come to terms with
the meaning of this hard fact,
to wash the fear from my heart
and the blood from my hands.
With bracing clarity
I realized
how close to death
I had wandered.
All that my life stood for
and meant was crystallized,
and yet
there was so much weakness
and Fear I had not
…And the tears rained down,
drenching my face…
I reeled in despair, clutching
in anguish at the reality,
my mind was white
with grief.
My short life had conceived no honor,
no art,
no lasting vitality!
A legacy of wisdom and
love was imperiled,
nearly stolen by that
phantasmal and cloaked thief.  

Reaching out through the tears,
calling on my savior for help,
I cried out for a way through
the shadow, clinging to
a hope.
Through the blur
of hot sadness came
a human face, with eyes
sending love, healing, empathy, and care…
Her voice and presence was
as an angel from above.
Her tender heart
struck like a thunderbolt
of compassion.  
I was instantly drawn out
from the deathly well,
and the darkness was
I was saved from Hell.  
this Motherly embrace
came and whispered soft
words of consolation,
as she held my soul aloft.  
I felt my hope
returning, I saw my
life revived.
This dawn,
I was thankful that
from black ruin
I survived.
This is auto-biographical.
aviisevil Dec 2015
the wind blew
through an eastern sky
the land was barren
thirsty and dry
there they stood
in the meadows eye
bearing the same colour
as you and I
men were savage
one could hear them cry
wearing voice of the devil
about the world in peril
Sin Dec 2015
good, so good
that's what they say about it-
but when I peer down at the scrawl
led-dragged, so heavily
I know it can never be enough.

bokeh lights and smoke streams
an insignificant metaphor-
just as Love is an understatement.
bullet wounds don't match
how hard You hurt.

discontent gets old
and eight months of displeasure
of dead static psychosis
have rendered me useless;
defined me as dead
to whatever connection I held
with beauty, glory,

so good, they say
as the pictures piece together
in the minds hungry eye,
starving to relate,
unknown to the fact
it can never catch the passion;
the poetry is powerless.
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