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Robert Cayne Jul 2017
Reminiscent of a dream:
    (The mirror, the ghostly figure,
    The long, loving grass.)

    The infinity mirror, for all its fury
    To Smooth over the untamed roughess
    Of Humanity's core,
    Draws blood with shaving blades,
    And magnanimity in masquerades.

    And still the pallor of blush,
    And the discoloration of adoration,
    Are but servile to anticipation.
 
    The reflector of infinity
    The eery promise
    Reaching towards divinity
    Or a torturous, blind ****-bent path

    The blind mirror promises
    Infinity, duality
    The shattered, puerile ghost caught between
    The Ubiquitous, sterile host of magisterial illusion

    The fragmented stone beneath him
    Like a altar on a monestary
    Grounding him to the magestic illusion
    Of groundless deceit, Of Boston's conceit

    Reverse that curse! Oh arrow-bent skies
    Of intrepid, oblique, malleable time
    That bends about paths through human hearts
    To human marrows, to decay, to remorse

    The skin, like a cage like a gibbet upholding the body
    Knows not the force of infinity's grasp
    Until it overtakes him in a moment of intrepid deceit.

    In these hallowed halls ghostly particles dance,
    Ghostly bodies collide and recombine into once visible
    Charades of macabre cavemen.

    Once, always visible in the mirror, unknowable is the heart.
    In this illusory rebirth, is the ghost in the machine,
    In deed through imprints the duality of despair's duplicity
    Onto a parched heart's never-fingerprint

    Identity is unknown to the mirror (clearly)
    Vanity is unknown to the self
    How transparent the mirror makes
    Blood-meat of a man!

    Gushing listlessly, he retraces the mirror's arrows
    Onto the lines on the page.
    He retraces the chalk on the lines.
    He becomes just the vane words on the page.

    Words, and the mirror of language
    The potency lost to fragmented duplication.
    The mosaic is born,
    Unseen, to vague, blurred visions of a fragmented nation.

    But language outcasts him,
    Him tangled deeply within its moat,
    Its dubbed deeply embedded within him,
    Ah, again the duality!


    His mirror-image, the words
    Against the page, untold sillhoutes
    Of a dark, flickering, menacing display
    Of brash omens.

    The words, his craft of silence's
    Burrow, of despair's unlaundry,
    Of an empty room without
    Any charge at all.

    The words, against the words.
    But that he sees not.
    The words against the self.
    He sees not.

    Blinded by narcissism, by that mirror.
In this poem the mirror is personified as an artist. As a reader, the quest is to evaluate him/her/it (the mirror) and discover your relationship with her.
Von White Feb 11
Alcoholic bulimia.
Empty out your insides.
Hardly anything within you.  
Still purge all of it out.
Leave a synthetic stomach As Barren as the lost at sea.
Puking until  weakened by vicious dry heaves.
exhausted and now pleased
Tile rubbing raw the knees.

Alcoholic bulimia.
Put cold fingers down your throat. Alcoholic bulimia.
Laughing as one chokes.
Alcoholic bulimia.
Bronze hair in ***** soaked.
Put cold ******* fingers.
Down your cut up throat.
Put cold ******* fingers.
Down your cut up throat.
Put cold ******* fingers.
Down your cut up throat.
Alcoholic bulimia.
Alcoholic bulimia.

Finger nails cutting the asofogis.
Head in toilet stains with
Poetry/lyrics
All his senses
hyperactive.
Eyes open, fixed on a light, blue chair.
The black-coated people, silent companions to him
in the office.
He is half inside
full of flesh on the outside,
believes he is undestructable.

The words, that fly out of his mouth
chewed up, broken  like his soul,
broken down to mgs of clozapine.

Lack of sleep, the benzos failed to work.
REM cycles are out of stock
and alternatives are unavailable.

The living nightmares are his companions;
in his eyes a blank stare of someone
lost.

He looks around for a couple of
seconds as if he does not listen to
the questions, he is being asked.
He open-closes his orbits
rapidly in a mors-code fashion
to someone out of sight.

The family he never had,
he created in his mind.
From loneliness they protect him,
the voices never leave his
side.

Phone rings, the alienist answers.
I leave my notes to the side and
observe his movements.
For a moment
he turns towards me,
appearing emotionless,
then looks back.


Rain pouring on thirsty soil,
cats meowing free
outside the white-walled cages.
'The building (opposite this white hole we are in)
is it a new build?' he asked looking through the
window.

Flight of unlinked thoughts;
from electromagnetic fields
to dealthlessness.
No gun can **** him,
no family there for him.
The brother, he forgot
and no recollection of
the court order that put him
behind bars.

The TV box inside his head
always on, playing a movie on repeat.
A medicated, anhedonic protagonist
on a road of no return.
Bettlejuice Jan 21
Once was enough
Twice that was tough
Three times it try’s
Fourth times a deadly compromise
The psych ward
mars Oct 2018
Old memories and dizzy songs from her childhood dance across the roof of her brain eyelashes dripping tears and hiccuping painful sobs. Hiding in the school bathroom not from bullies but her own fears. Blinking at the reflective yellow tiles she pushes away the yellow bathroom.

Water drips into the rusty ***** porcelain and the mirrors fog from humidity. Gasping for air and resemblance looking down to see that his hands aren’t there.

Fingers trembling and stepping out of the stall, one among over the sink washing the tears from her face and praying for a vacation, vacation from ****, mania, and psychosis infested cranial cavity and fog swirling swarming her.

Worrying about her fate again that a small breeze of nostalgia fluttered in her heart. Thinking a moment past she had someone in her room that she loved. A person of flesh to talk and hug.

She is lonely now. She could not be more different and she has lost the memory-self that come to the state of reality where she is in the high room alone.
ai Oct 2018
Ladders and highs
And purples and crazies
Burning under the stars
Looking through the uneven stairs
Passing through open walls and
Broken windows
Hallowed and cut bleeding through
The darkened streets
Glowing into their skin
Death as a form of retreat
From their civilian madness
Holing into sewers and breathing waste
Hurting themselves on barbwire fences and needles
Digging holes into flesh and filling with temporary satiety
For those sleeping in alleys high and immobile
Choirs of  phantoms and squirrels and birds
Greet with unremarkable pitch
Verse says the end has come
But is just unfolding
mars Oct 2018
You were letters of a time away and floating on my air as rain pelted our windows and soaked my hair.

Cold with our own ambition and the sky swarmed by grey clouds ridden with my nightmares, dreams, essays that i turned in past the due date and wine you took from the back of your mothers liquor cabinet.

Your car sneezed and coughed cancer cells perpetuating when you turned the key. from the dents on the side and the tobacco scent on the seats i knew you took this from the junkyard on the south side of the boulevard.

You thought you were the problem but I was the one snacking on empty prescription bottles and then chewing glass for dessert blood running down my chin and giggling at the hopelessness that I felt in my soul.

I swallowed broken vases and cut up my esophagus as you spoon fed me unrequited love. i thought we were going to
make it but we only got to the gas station before the car broke down and i went home.
Tøast Aug 2018
Cleaning out old files in my mind.
Sweeping away rot and decay,
To make way for new mess.
This endless paradox of insanity.

Pushing the chair away,
Waiting for someone new to fill your space.
This table was once full,
A family of people.
Now it's just me. My poems,
Yet somehow it feels crowded.

An empty room with no air to breathe,
Suffocated in my minds inabilities.
Indecisiveness, breaking news!
"Hey look, everyone. This kid is insane."
In truth I don't know what I am,
Who I'll be or where I'm heading...

Terrified of behind left behind by my mind,
Stuck in a moment that happened years ago,
Clawing with every cigarette he smokes and bottle he drinks.
But the climb is never easy with whiskey stained hands and ash covered feet.
Lion Chaser Aug 2018
It's all fun and games until u get stuck
With ur future, bare, trapped by lady luck
And the Russians, as u bleed water slow.
How low can you go?

It's all fun and games until friends become ur end.
With my end in ICU, I C's to follow U
trends.
All alone the end seems full of sorrow.
How low can you go?

It's all fun and games until u realise
That it's the one in the mirror who you truly despise
Changes on changes but ur still broke.
How low can you go?

It's all fun and games until you disappoint
The only thing you passed was a ******* joint
1 pull, 2 pull, hold in blow
How low can you ******* go?

It's all fun and games until you fail
Making mistakes like you're just a day old
Excuses the same old "I didn't know"
How low can you go?

It's all fun and games until you go psychotic
Actions and movements start to seem robotic
When you say it nobody seems to understand though.
How low can you go?

It's all fun and games until you free your mind
From the bliss in ignorance you will find
Frost bite from ignorance like a blissard of snow.
How low can you go?

It's all fun and games until you can't pay the bills
It feels like never-ending steep hills.
Sleep pills make these feels go
How low can you go?
Confessions
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