Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I claw out of the grave like the phoenix
And for my 15 minute lifetime
I burn like the sun, the gas lamp, California, the Holocaust
Before fizzling out again
I live to die

Herr daddy, Dokter Death, make me your patient
Melt me like the dew on your grass
And the candle on your birthday cake
I'm Lady Lazarus, Queen of the Night
The big spender, the great pretender

I awaken on the production line
I breathe in the ash pouring from the apocalyptic clouds
Disappointed, I turn to my grey sarcophagus
The faceless, factory-made, invisible-as-Kether generation
Buried in the grocery store pyramid

Like Goya's dog, I peer blindly, so tiny
Upwards, into the infinite nothing that awaits
The afterlife, the void, Abraham's *****
Death, limbo, desolation row
The nihilistic emptiness from which I rise
Leave the inner world
for the world outside the walls,
procure supplies,
then, return again.
That's the plan, Stan.

Feet meet cement block.
You remember the last time
we took this walk?
As well as I do.

Insert a line I've used before,
commenting on the violet hues
of parting suns, painting the
skies above us as we go for bread.

Instead of hidden knives,
I pull a hand and offer it
as we cross the overpass.
If you're scared in day,
you're terrified at night.

Without a pause, you're reaching out,
grasping for a comfort, now.
Easy, is it? I'll bet it is.

If life has taught me anything,
the most important change
is that I learn to zip my mouth.

Joy equates to nothing more
than what others see in store,
and go on to demand of me.

Lamb's Bread from The CDC
replaces intensity
I've lost to love, with smoke.

Light it up, and let it go.
The rocks of ash around me.
Like after war destroyed trash.
The devastation. Nothing left.
Just fragments of the past.

They lied everywhere around me.
Dead bodies of broken love.
The ash was flying in the air.
Like bird of future's hopes.

A toxic smell impaled my
bronchi.
Fill lungs with memories.
The remnants of the past.
But moments no exists.

From ash revived a Phoenix.
Star Eyes Mar 14
The phoenix burned, once more returned, from fiery pyre aflame
With wings outstretched, soared o’er land wretch’d, seen, by the bird, as the same
old forests of past, which never could last 'gainst nature's violent outlashes
Yet in dreams surviving, defiant, and thriving; though the air still reeked of ashes

The scorching sunset cast its melting gold net o’er the equally, if not more scorched earth
Night's moon and day's star hung above the earth's scar; two eyes judging the wasteland's worth
They deemed it as decent, though the charring of recent corrupted their judgement in part
And through the cloud's pain, the celestial rain cascaded down to the wood's heart

The tears of the sky rinsed the aching dirt dry, and quenched its desperate dreams
The caked floor, satiated, filled up and inflated with life bursting at its seams
Beneath vanished leaves, under wire canopies, green shoots had begun to grow
The Phoenix, all seeing, saw the passionate being of the young plants below.

The forest will burn as time’s wheels turn, evermore reaching its end
Everything dies, yet The Phoenix still flies, watching all birthed again.
This is sort of a first draft...? I might rewrite the poem and make it better one day but at the moment it's also technically a finished poem.

I guess it's about humanity, sort of- with the Phoenix as humanity, burning the forest down itself and then blaming it on nature; then regaining inspiration as the world is reborn.

I liked the idea of the sun and the moon acting as eyes which weep when it rains, so I kept it in- for now, at least.
This bird gave me his music
and every song I listened to
dropped a piece of his heart in my lap
Lay there with the music surrounding my head,
in the middle of a cloud,
tears trembling, every hope
pinned on these lyrics
His songs
His heart
My hands cover my ears,
forcing the sounds deep into my brain
Bouncing and sparking,
beautiful words in the night
And I only wanted him
Joel M Frye Mar 1
There was no quiet desperation
in the riotous years of youth,
the grasping search for love and truth.
No, in those days there was no patience
for the faintest scent of dull
routine or rut.  It's just with age
that comfort's found in gilded cage,
no fires to set, and belly full.

Should a technicolor sunrise
strike a quickened spark of phoenix
from the ash of youthful pyres,
hopeful drops for jaded eyes
which, once refreshed, will then be fixed
upon millennial birds of fire.
Grist for the mill, Wisdom.
Aalhad Raut Feb 9
377
I am trapped;
Shut in a dark room where I have forgotten the brightness of light.
I live in this darkness in eternal fear.
I am afraid of predation; a fat snake coils around me.
It stiffens my body, and I can barely breath in comfort.

As its leathery skin chills my bare back,
The snake whispers in my ear
Its serpentine truths with forked tongues and forked beliefs.
The snake whispers to me my inevitable demise.
The snake nibbles at my ear, drawing blood and injecting venom.

In the darkness,
Where two's a crowd, and yet I'm alone,
I question my own existence.
Why was I born to see
The black of this rustic veil.
The snake tells me the fictitious truth
Of the sinful anomaly of my existence.

I cry,
But tear up only the toxicity
Of this serpentine society.
I smile,
And I promise that this smile is true
For just the image of freedom
Is a euphoric drug to fix the pain.

But today is a momentous day.
A door has opened in the shapeless darkness
That reared me into my beautiful self.
The blind snake cringes aback,
Dragging me further from the bright shine.
But its reach isn't far enough to shut that door.

I may die of asphyxia,
But I won't die blind.
I may die in the darkness,
But I won't die alone.
For the door let in not only light,
But a ray of dazzling hope.

The snake may **** me,
Heck, it can eat me up.
Because I have seen light and I have seen fire.
This bird has tasted freedom,
And I'll burst into flames.

I am a phoenix of seven colours.
This poem was written when Article 377 was abolished in India, legalising consensual homosexual *** in the country.
Leia Spencer Feb 6
Head up
My little Phoenix
You’ve just begun!
You can’t burn out quite yet
-you’ll come back stronger than before, I promise
It’s not the end quite yet.
c Feb 1
Anyone’s a phoenix
Until they lose
Their fire
In the ashes
Of who they were
Matthew Jan 31
A fire
burning
the old me.

Memories
of times
no longer
my own.

The crackling
is melting my soul
soul.
Ashes, are all that is left of me
And from them
The New Me emerges.
A poems of fire
Next page