Awaken me
         Shake me
                         From this febrile trance
                         Furtively pilfering my
                         Heart's old treasure
                         Once guarded by
                         Comforting spirits
                         Of warm hopes and
                         Beliefs held beyond
                                  Reason.

Never questioned by the minds tribunal--
                         The jurors seated
                         In the cranial court.
                         Knowing eyes silenced
                         By misguided faith's rhetoric.

Never minding the persuasive muzzle.
                        Always ignoring
                        The protractible tongue.
                        Always turning from
                        The dark corridors--
                        Light banished
                        By modern-day Pharisees

Cloaked in mantles of treason.
                       Patronisingly betraying
                       What can only remain pure.
                       Painted with pious platitudes.

Away  
          Away
                      I go from this folly--
                      An orphan
                      Of mystical doubt.
                      The frost and
                      Cold tempest I feel.

Cautious sensibilities a tenuous guide
                      Through these gray
                      Realms I traverse.
                      Trembling hands
                      Grasp transient hopes
                      Striving to shape
                      Deeper meaning.

Disciplining lazy traditional beliefs
                      That hang on like
                      Phosphorescent spiders
                      In the dusty
                      Lofty rafters of memory.

Absence of religious pop-culture faith eclipses peace.
                      I shudder at the
                      Prospect of this purge.
                      Preparing for burial
                      What must die--
                      The end of an age
                      Burned in effigy.

Deceptive iconic silhouettes
             Fading  
                           Misleading
Superimposed on a
                     Human-made landscape--
                     A beautiful picture
                     Gold frame and all.

A raging wilderness I now pass through.
                    I stumble by many
                    A familiar fane.
                    Longing to be clothed
                    With a mantle of peace.
                    A vulnerable yet
                    Strong spirit I guard--
                    Let not trivialised faith be
                    My misleading guide.

And if it is all meaningless--
                                     Alas! it may be--
                                     Still I must forge
                                     Ahead to the sea.
                                     Ever mindful that
                                     Rivers eventually return
                                     To where they have been
                                     Separated at birth.

I often hear faintly the water lapping--
But a body of water is not always the sea.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
mint Jan 6
choppy music consistent in my ears
water boiling in my chest
the steam makes my eyes water
the bubbles pop to the rhythm of a song
scalding
a reminder of how much the skin around my neck hurts when i think of you
mjad Nov 2017
everything moves too fast
the shelter of this bubble
is not slow enough
needles poking and prodding
it's about to pop
Alex Nov 2017
I
am
a bottle.
Have you ever
filled a bottle with
Pop so much that it over
flows and sprays everywhere?
Put that into an emotion. I am a bottle. Filled with emotions that
threaten to be spoken, Thoughts that when I try to speak all I taste is fizz. Pointless. When you shake the bottle, you're ruining the way I carefully avoid eye contact and cautiously choose certain words. Ask me what's wrong and you're now opening the bottle. Get ready,
I am going to explode.
Late night or early morning thoughts..

I tried making it into a pop bottle shape.. Lmao
Snap,Crackle, and Pop!



Lifting a spoonful of nutrition out of my cereal bowl

I swallow a moment’s fuel

To rush through a moment

Due to situation’s Blows.

The horn sounds the time when you must prepare

to run this “rat race”

or lose the prizes as you are left behind

due to taking a turtle’s pace.

Everyone is competing to finish above everyone else

in this world of life to the success of passing the finish line.

In life’s race

Life follows the clock which measures moments and breaths of life

just as quick

as the “snap ,crackle, and pop!”

To which your milk doused corn cereal sounds

Start again with each bite full which  you spoon

Fuel for just one quick moment

until in life

Our breaths shall stop.
Nickolas Niles Oct 2017
You were always the Courtney to this Cobain,
Drugged and messed up like the rest.  
Drugged and messed up to me at least,
Or maybe to someone else and you at best.
With empty sorrows in our stomachs,
Twisting all around.
Nothing in our souls to be cherished,
Or left to be found.
Left here now for you hungry for more…
Waiting for nothing…nothing else more…
So Love to this Kurt where are you when I’m hurt…
Somewhere away from me to be one.
Yet like a disease stuck right inside,
Damaging…left away for me to be done.
Do you even think of me when I’m in pain,
All the memories running over again?
So sick and twisted I wish all gone,
Slowly and surely fading away...one left…
And none left on…and none..left on.
In Dealing with a heated and reckless past love in comparison to pop culture's classic tale of of time.
willie Aug 2017
  o  p  !
goes the
eyes   of
a
goddess
when   in
her hand
laid    the
mirror.

no    such
reflection
she    had
looked­ at,
like a still
before her

where  is
the pearl
complex-
ion she'd
smooth-
ened out
f     o     r
herself  ?
where  is
the   eyes
she    had
s   e   e  n
herself th
rough for
the    past
century  ?


"what is
t   h  i  s
malfun-
ction ? "

s  h  e
asked.


"it  is  the
i m a g e
of  souls,
d  e  a  r
goddess.
it  shows
n  o  n  e
but    the
t r u t h,"

said   the
y o u n g
daedalus.


the    dear
goddess
laughed.
a       mere
m o r t a l,
pondered
the  immo-
rtal,    who
d  a  r  e  s
tell        me
who i am ?

she  took  an
other     look
at   her   own
i   m   a   g   e

the   too   pale
skin   and   it's
monotonous
effect   on   her
bland         face

and           then,
she     smashed
the       imagery
of      her    own

s                            l.
   o          u
Sam Anthony Jul 2017
Welcome to the stage on which
Life is lived as a performance
Welcome to the office in which
Every day is a job interview, where
Work is nothing more than being looked at
And admired
And despised
And envied

Welcome to a new bank account, with
More money than anyone needs, and
More pressure than anyone deserves, to
Spend it as tabloids demand

Welcome to criticism, for clothing choices –
Too last-year
Too slutty
Too creative
Too similar to someone else
Not flattering enough
Not slutty enough
Not daring enough

Welcome to scrutiny, over
Every romantic detail
Every baby’s name
Welcome to mockery

Welcome to an opportunity to
Use your voice
Take a stand
Make a change
Welcome to pressure to
Toe the line
Stay mainstream
Take no risks

Welcome to a new form of slavery, offering
Wealth and adoration
Freedom for some and shackles for others
Welcome to a ruined, wasted life lived short of its potential –
Relationships missed
Role in the home passing by, and
A tempting, all-you-can-eat buffet of mental health issues

Welcome to a new status, to be
Cool
The centre of attention
Off trend
Forgotten

Welcome to the celebrity contradiction
Attention-grabbers, with
Demands for privacy

Welcome to someone just like
Me –
And
You
There are more stinky love poems than anything else.

Even I have written too many
Even I have written 1, sometimes, 2 full pages
But soaking the paper with tears.
Some go different, go joyful
And why?
Because love is easy to write about
It is the most powerful emotion only equal to hatred
Yet the most boring;
Unless it comes with anything attached
I yawn at those pesky stanzas of repeating gibberish.

Those who vainly describe love itself are cowards
Those who read them morbidly curious
And those who enjoy weak of mind,
For inftuated poems are the equivalent to a pop song
                                  easy to construct
                                  easy to deconstruct
                                  easy to marvel
                                  easy to cry at
                                  easy easy easy
                                  nothing new nothing learned

'O the perfect skin', 'O the glittering eyes', 'O the cheeky smile',

If you want to write about love put some mustard into it
And make it real
Don't waste my time, all lovers are marvelous I get it,

But what scars do they have?
And how many do they leave us with?
july 3, 2017
12:43 a.m.
Itzel Hdz May 2017
Worn out soles dragging through the pavement
bare eyes set on your shabby hands
grin to the sweet smell of my cheap perfume
take a second, cold wind blowing
in between the distance , offer your hand to mine
you know it's been a thousand years honey
vague dreams drove me all the way here
unknown fantasies traced a map for you
the wait was worth it
I take a step closer
fingertips meet
we hold our breath
an infinite moment, and then
worlds collide
a million colours beneath my eyelids
you are everything
in the middle of the road
the sand aside your classy car
every molecule in this vast desert
disappears
it was worth it sweet rollercoaster
the wait was worth it
January 9/2014
This is my favorite from what I've written
I wrote it for the love of my life
Whoever that is
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