Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
yosemite Oct 2018
i’m shock-collared at the gates of heaven
i’ve kicked the cairns and shot the bird
and now, an avian crucifix on my neck,
i **** my ship
i swear i’m a good man

i’m barking at my toes,
affixed and accused
mouth wide open
screaming for rain
holding back the blood flowing from my nose
and that wretched albatross mocks me
i swear i’m a good man
Martin Narrod Jan 2017
The cold is my commander, it taunts me, while it steals my sheaths of warmer cleaving skin sections exposed by its notions and collected conscious. The sounds are complicated, the moons azurean hue resembles the coldness of my cigarette's embers blue, and then the commander shucks my final breath away. It isn't something that I barely feel, but rather something that lightly see. It's hoarfrost births its fickle shell of hardrime on the last of those interstices I once called my fingers. And from this choke, this frozen voice is detained by the vox ice amplifier that steals each noise. Besides, in an interruption I hear our whorish neighbors score of shouting scripted shouts, and screaming scripted screams. Each day she becomes less and less like any real human being. It's hard to believe that behind these walls that shield me from the albicant and atrocious heraldry winter casts me through, these sounds are concentric like limited Earth words written in the prompts that some ill and wanton succubus would. If only to lure herself from the pains she gained while lying to those amidst her closest ties. I am further distressed, though fully dressed narrowly watching bits of frozen water interlace themselves beneath freezing in the corners of my mind. When until the shaking and commandeering of my mortal sounds, disperse amidst the ferocity that Spring white snow absconds. The tremulent vocal chords are hailed by a hard-rimed ****, who ensuingly rips the cantering spirit from each last place it stood. Only those who know this wind could speak about the way it genuflects and obsesses on these rules. This freezing genuflection hails to every servant of its rein, I can barely exhale the inspiration that rises from the head, until any skin exposed to air is reclaimed by my commander for good. Then each neighbor's head may lilt upon the piste, and pray for something more balmy than negative eleven degrees.
AmyKatrinaSmith Oct 2015
Come in, come in and enjoy the fun, the fun will begin when it is done.
My dream was all in rime. There were no breaks at any time.
If you couldn't think of a rime, you would sing or mime.

There was this tall colourful clown
as I entered the show he sat me down.
His name was something I couldn't pronounce
but being his friend is what counts.

He was very mad and very sad,
he reminded me of the mad hatter,
but crazier with his chatter.

I have a fear of polka dots, But Even more of forget me NOTS!*

I loved my dream, I wish I could have it again
that's why I wrote it down with this book and pen.
so ill always remember my crazy friend.
Äŧül Sep 2015
There shalt cometh a time,
Kindled will be every rime,
Those who dislike them be pauper,
Those who like them will earn a zillion dime!

There shalt cometh a time,
Sailed will be every rime,
Those who sabotage shalt meet the reaper,
Those who help them will earn a lifetime!

There shalt cometh a time,
Loving will not be a crime,
Those who loved will be keeper,
Those who won't will repent after lifetime!
My HP Poem #901
©Atul Kaushal

— The End —