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Andrew Jan 28
I'm rotting.
I don't know what happened.
I just feel like god
like fire burns in my fingers
and I can rip out your tongue.

she left because I got too
a n g r y
she decided that 'we should not date anymore.'
but now I want to burn the house down and
fall fall fall like
I C A R U S (for her.)
she is the sun; she is apollo
and I am the wax wings

I hit the ground
but
I AM STILL GOD
I'm rotting.
The house doesn't burn.
Laura G Jan 27
Body is giving up
‪Feel death knocking everyday‬
‪But every breath means you’re alive ‬
  To everyone else you’re okay ‬
Sara Kellie Dec 2018
Under the birthstones
in the carcass yard
is where the flesh tombs lie.
Decomposing for three long years.
Eradicating memories,
dreams and fears.
Becoming next, the black gloop
treacle of putrification.
Now bones, just old bones
is the remain of what was once,
a spirit with a name.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Birthstones = gravestones
Carcass yard = graveyard
Flesh tomb = a body (alive or dead)
starchild Oct 2018
i imagine you rotting. rotting and melting. flesh becomes matter as it falls to the floor. we wear our hearts on our sleeves and the floor wears our skins and muscle. that’s how it always goes, right?

why are you looking at me like that? you know that we’re the same (we’re the sane).

getting back on track, you’re falling apart as i watch (you made sure i did; i couldn’t ever take my eyes off you). you’re completely exposed now, bones and all. you say to me “its like i’m looking in a mirror”. at least, you said with your eyes. your lips are on the floor, sinking into the stained carpet (believe me when i say this because if they were still attached i would have kissed you right then and there).

suddenly, there are tears in my eyes. you try to wipe them away, but they don’t stop. you pick up some of your muscle to try to soak them up, and i tell you that’s not the kind of tissue i need. you laugh, but nothing comes out (your lungs have already decomposed. it seems you’ve already forgotten).

and then i look away. my tears dry, and, as i look back, you’ve reformed. good as new. not for long though, as soon as a minute goes by you start this cycle again. you’re rotting. i look away, you’re back. rot, return, rot, reform,

don’t you ever get tired? (i do.)
i guess you could say i’m “back” but was i ever really gone?
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.
celeste fuma Jul 2018
blue lilies
now;wilted and zapped
petals of hibiscuses;
frosting and drooping
pressed between our pages
stenching and staining
them edges
bleeding


the flesh stenches
the putrid blooms
carve squealing wounds
the blood engulfs the heart
that deliquesces


the crevices are graved
then the heart deliquesces
and falls into two
down/a rotting corpse
it oozes into


the disgust of existence
creeping through shredded layers
of shroud
covering the withering bones,
mass
and
emotions


searing
it melts eventually-the shroud
until it reaches the bones
crashes them there
spilling the liquids/
all that is left bare
is already atrophying


and i guess that's the difference between dying and rotting
dying at least leaves you
the voids to hold onto
to be nostalgic for what was held
dying-paints,hues from the ashes that blew


but rotting
eats away all that existed
and snaps leaving
detritus,stinking
odor that i need  


the craft of us
all worn out
the fragments dis plumed through holocausts
the rebellion in ruination  
and the twitched cold feet
each breath i've took,now smothering
you,me,and everything



the reflections,contradictions
intoxicating,caging charcoal abstracts
punctured and ruptured
all constituents consuming and decaying now
every treble
so heavy


freezing not frozen
perishing not lighter


maybe these moments
-they never stop
cause right there in the midst
everything rots.
-/and we let it

~d
Just Maria Jul 2018
Zombies are the walking dead
To **** them shoot them in the head
Your flesh is their favorite treat
If you see one be fast on your feet

If you look at them all you'll see
Is a disgusting flesh eating disease
I don't want to meet one that's for sure
For the walking dead there is no cure

Let's hope there's never an invation
That we stay a zombie free nation
Because there's one thing I don't want to be
That's a walking rotting zombie
Another themed poem
gabriela Jul 2018
I started going to counseling this week
because my plants started dying

the roots are all rotted
and the leaves are just slowly eating away at themselves

maybe my roots are rotten too
and I need to fix them before I start eating myself up
celeste fuma Jun 2018
And we trod paths
crushing detritus
of heart prints
that yet remain//
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