Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
monique ezeh Jun 2023
days crawl by
and humidity stills the air.
the black flies are late this season,
though around here, most things are.
below the gnat line, girls like me
seldom get to die easily,
perfumed powders
masking the scent of illness,
flushed cheeks and damp foreheads donned
as our feeble bodies recline on fainting couches
to delicately languish away. we know that
there’s a certain beauty to decomposition,
to fungus gnats invading potted soil,
to fruit flies nesting in sink drains. we know that
rotting is a clock that never stops,
tallying each unflinching, humid second while the
days crawl by.
Monique Pereda Aug 2022
Kahoy na inaanay
Barko na butas
Lumulubog ng marahan
Kinakain ng dagat

Sugat na nagnanaknak
Balat na inaagnas
Nauubos na dugo
Sinisipsip ng linta

Prutas na nabubulok
Nabubulok ang lamang loob
Malansang amoy na umaalingasaw
Uod na lumalamon sa laman
Tahimik na pumapatay
Ngumunguya ng palihim
Sinisira ang malusog na anyo
Ang anyo ng huwad na katotohanan

Nakasusuklam, nakasusuya
Nakasusuka, mapait na lasa sa labi
Ngunit walang luhang itatangis
Hindi maghihinagpis
Hahayaang mabulok
Hahayaang mamatay
Petrichor May 2021
         You've turned into dirt.

Twisted away in fragile positions,
You've turned into dirt.
          How does it feel to be this vulnerable?

To be plucked from your home, and bought with dirt to be sold off to the husband who forgot his wife's birthday?

To be called 'beautiful', only to be left rotting away?
To sit beside a bed of 'beautiful' red roses, who think they'll be safe forever. To know they'll turn into you, you who has moulded into dirt.

These eyes fall on you now,
   they feel guilt,
      they feel remorse,
(they feel happy?)
          they feel like a murderer.

They run to drench you with water.

                           The poor white tulips,
                                              and the poor pink roses
                     will you be fixed from this phase of dirt?
Here is to those bouquets of flowers the lucky ones received.
Perhaps, you were lucky,
perhaps the flowers were not.

PS. I've written a poem after a year so it's definitely not my best work, not even close. Perhaps as I continue, it may get better?
Mark Wanless Jan 2021
politics,,,,, start out
something alive,,,,, ****,,,,, processe
sell the rotting flesh
Kerstin Oct 2020
Rotting flesh
Something isn't right
Troubling smell
Aching heart
Darkness closing in
Silence echoing loudly
Shadows claw their way through your heart
You're breathing stops
It's inching closer every second
The emptiness
iamgone Sep 2020
the walls
I am stuck
in the place
I can relate to the most
this house doesn't get much bigger
Serendipity Sep 2020
She stood at the edge of a deep rock
leashed to the side of the sea
with foam biting at her feet
and waves barking at her.

She breathes a salt stenched air
and watches its jaws open
only to see a sailor
rotting between its teeth.

She swallows air whole,
call it courage or stupidity
but she takes a step towards it.

Now the hound named
became full
once more.
Tasha Sep 2020
Rotting means having your brain
collapse in on itself in a grey gooey heap.
It means your eyes
falling apart and your tongue swelling up
and bursting
under the weight of a thousand maggots.
It's cutting your stomach into ribbons
and letting it shrivel into nothing.
It's letting your bones wither and crack
and your hair fall out
and it means curling up into a
I think I'm rotting.
Please help me.
Please help me,
I'm rotting.
Cattatonicat Jul 2020
Poetic T Mar 2020
Cradled by there eyes
as they convulsed me
                  in to oblivion,

with every downfall I was
closer to

Pools of crimson collected in
   my fractured sockets and
my tears
                       drowned within.

They mourned my silence,
       inscribing one last syllable
upon my stomach...
As blood flourished forward from
                                  my dead lips.

Droplets were like rain descending,
as I painted the surrounding
                                           with death.
They were covered also,
for they were close to the cradle
                          when it fell silent.

I kissed each one with claret,
     my mark was upon there façade.

Wild flowers drank upon me,
       seeding them with my last breath.
Where beauty once flourished,
Now blushed roses grow.

I'm a garden of remembrance
to what was,
                    what never shall be.

But my death has sweet aromas to it,
       for all one at a time came to see
What had befallen me.
              Guilt, remorse or curiosity..

To hide a truth, others may fall upon.

But where they expected death,
                                     they saw,
a sight of maroon beauty.

"Curiosity is a  live wire in water,
            with a please read note floating
above it

           "*You know there going to read it,

And with that, they picked a rose pricking
there finger upon my vengeance.
I could ******* aura that I kissed upon
there last actions
                             so long ago.

There was no scream, just like you can't hear
             a tree fall in a silent forest.

I now feed upon them, for there all here, in
my garden of eternity rotting slowly..
   But there still alive under the surface..
my thorns negating there vocals.

       I'm there cradle and I'm rocking it,
                                      oh so slowly...
Next page