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stopdoopy Oct 2018
The air, saturated with a putrid smell.

Foul, like a dumpster in summertime.

They're monsters, skulking around in the Dead of Night.

Leaving, a sickness in their wake.

You're revolting.

The way you take.

Gnashing your teeth.

Trying, to pluck out little hearts.

Attempting, to creep up thighs.

Don't touch me, with those slimy fingers.

Go before you die, rotting beast.

We are not a cemetery.
A piece about how horrible men can be, also partially based off the Depeche Mode song "The Dead of Night" because I absolutely love it and thought it was about something completely different than what it's actually about.
Stacks of currencies are littered everywhere, his affluence depicts his personality
Stationed at the highest echelon of the society, mischievous premier of the economy
The youths are tools for his snap, going down the lane of delinquency
He tosses them at will, giant explorer of the weak willed
The hangman hanging their destiny
Thrall, underprivileged class of the society
Walled up in oblivion, depreciating hope of a better tomorrow
Dressed in shreds, hunger and death our daily meal
At dusk we feed rats of the street, our slums is the garbage bin for tomorrow
The horror of the morning is waking to find a dead kid wash offshore
Living in fear of the unknown seconds sustaining each day
Lying in the most of coziness
In fluffy beds, wired machines life leaves him
Blaring ambulance conveys him to the morgue, still attended to as the high priest
Embalmed with costly myrrh, he is taken for internment
Amidst tears and wails he's gently lowered into that dark room
The one room he never had
Beings scattered with crawled limbs and infested mouth
He passes on from the forlorn to yonder, lying in gutter, under bridges
The privileged of us get to have our relatives, others are found in cemeteries fed on vultures
No mourners at our graveside, forgotten before dawn
Still the one room we never had
Society gapped our lives with class
Death humbles us breaking the tags of importance
We are equalised, affluence and poverty disperses
The dark room of solace our abode, putrid we become.
Death humbles a man and society defines a man. Life isn't easy to live and the societies difference tag fails to make it easier. In any class you exist, be you, be good and be true.
Lana May 2018
Steer clear of malice;
To speak of arrows tipped in actuality and respond justly toward malignity.
Lest I fall under the gaze of malice becoming putrid within.

Heavenly Father above.
You paved the way to a damaged youth yet,
Almost commonplace to allow surrogate protectors,
Crawl inside my flesh only to be spat back out once again.

I realise I am not but the woman I thought myself to be;
Only an interchangeable piece in the mechanism.

A piece in the mechanism,
Intertwined between countless souls on the way of my path.

By Lana
Pauline Russell May 2016
Your soul's obscene
The worst I've seen
Your soul's to putrid
It's been polluted
Your soul's turned rancid
It's stagnant and placid

You are a travesty
An unforgivable tragedy
Stick that needle in your arm
Anything that harms
Pop those pills
You have no self will

Continue doing what you do
But you can count on this, I'm through
The smell of death surrounds you
Your choices are growing few
I'm tired of being on the wall, the fly
Just sitting here watching you die
scar Jun 2015
Chamomile lines
In a cup filled with sorrow
As they swirl, rise and burst your eyes burn on.
Ice-blue, yet warm
As the morning in winter
Feels like I'm breathing dragons and walking through fields of silver.
Spider web catches
The rays of the sun
Rising on the horizon, is it called a horizon because of the rising?
Hawks drop and whirl
It's all so romantic
And it makes me feel sick to my stomach because I'm just a wandering girl...

You're a beast in the den
You're a wolf in the lair
You're the wood for my fire
You're the breeze in my hair

But I never asked for a den
And I wanted the lair for myself
And my fire should be burning with coal not wood.

And the breeze in my hair? Well that's just annoying
The affection you lavish on me feels like cloying
Reproaches from some kind of horrible clown
All lathered and slathered in wet eiderdown
It's leering towards me, its horrible face
Lifts into a smile, an **** grimace

And I realise suddenly
That my mind is painting grotesque scenes
Over the beauty of the one that I love

But then how do I stop it?
How do I stop it?
How do I stop it?

You make me feel putrid
We laughed when he said that
Yet love lies niggling at my insides like a blister
That I don't want
And yet it's mine
Mine
All mine
And I want to keep it
Forever.
I need to write a happy song
Something to break through this
Grey fog of emotion
This putrid state of
"Meh"
This perpetual cycle of internal mental apathy
After all

Complacency kills.
Apathy, complacency, and monotony are among the deadliest of poisons
Aubrey Aug 2014
I
see
nothing
staring into the gaping maw of this relationship.
No teeth.
No dangling tonsil.
No lolling tongue.
Just empty space
... and a foul smell.
Putrid
like the teeth left holes
ripped out root and all
and festered.
Hot and wet
and fogging up my glasses
bringing tears to my eyes.
I wrinkle my face in confusion,
frustration.
I am not going to just
sit back..
but that is what you are expecting...
and maybe
what you want.
So, I will sit agape
at the mouth we've rendered toothless;
a union unable
to speak
or eat
or grow.
Just watch
and wait
even in agony
or anger.
I've got time enough to decide
if we can heal this
or put it down...
like a lame horse
a dog with a twisted stomach
a bad habit.
I'm more patient,
more able,
more changed.
I'm more
than you realize.
4/8/13
Poetic T Jul 2014
You were like a cigarette,
I breathed you in,
But you left a putrid taste in my mouth,
So I never inhaled you again..

— The End —