Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Steve Page May 21
The next time I killed her
it felt forced
too practiced, rehearsed.
And whilst the movement
and the blood
still flowed
I wasn't able to feel
the same spurt
of the joy of completion
and whilst the execution,
was in essence still 'killing',
it was kinda dull, like a boring drilling.

I'll have to try again.

The next time he killed me
I was ready for it
so I lent into it.
And whilst it still stung
I was able to ride the trauma
kept my good side to the camera
and whilst the transition
was in essence still 'dying'
it was kinda arousing, exciting.

I think the third time
might be even better
by some measure.

I'll have to wait
and see.
Killing, like dying, takes practice
Raven Feels Apr 19
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, once upon a long time ago there was too much to take:-)


once saw a scene

so mystical for the eyes to charm to sweep

got back after the longs after the years

looked again with a hope of an appeal

lips dried for the moment not the same

close my eyes escapes don't want more shame

breeze so cold for the fog to ****

the thing that made my heart on thrill

never come back no matter how brilliant

them those of the hunters stole old tastes to a different


                                                                                     ------ravenfeels
J J Mar 19
Diffident huffs meet,
Kissing up the uncharted
Maps that blemish her
Body. Skeletons press
Together and softly
Spin along the fabric
That weaves dreams.

Seeking rest you offered
Me peace. Falling up
Between the ceiling
And a stranger's wall. You
Caught and held me
Close, as we both sat
Breathing in the heat of

A new morning.
Turn the light off for I cannot bare to watch this scene
I never knew that romance could end up so **** ugly
the scene of romance turned ugly
John Darnielle Nov 2020
We broke the doorknob off of the door  
The door swung open easily
We sauntered into the poorly lit store
and looked around lazily
We stole every bit of candy they had inside
Gobbled it all up greedily on our 3 month ride
I'm gonna miss you when you're gone
I'm gonna miss you when you're gone

You headed out to the getaway car
And hit the open road
I saw something written in tall clear letters on your face
but I could not break the code
We had hot caramel sticking to our teeth
and the only love I've ever known burning underneath
I'm gonna miss you when you're gone
I'm gonna miss you when you're gone

I'm gonna miss you when you're gone
I'm gonna miss you when you're gone
Andy Chunn Jul 2020
Overgrowths of arm-post life
Lift upward as my steam-breath
Vanishes thinly into the sky.

Cool sweat drips deliberately
As the stacks grow larger
And the sawdust smells and sticks.

The wagon-load will wallow obediently
As the frost bites cleanly
Through the still winter dusk.

Ash white smoke curls softly
From the cut-stone chimney
Where a portrait of simplicity
Sleeps eternally in my mind.
J J Oct 2020
Mothlet-like owl midges fizzling in and out of the waves
   that shuffle the moon's shed reflection,
hovering and imitating like a wettened rorschach--

with disembodied tiny teeth for feet
suckling from the scurvy gums
where shadows are allowed to be kings.

Kings that observe a godess body that spans the whole sky with ******* made of crinkled ash dripping latex that falls
then cuts into the grass to
                                        spread life--perfection spares no time for the impatient.

Glistening stream,mucky dewlap of the mountain carving a caricature of someone  praying for rain and dreaming of a metamorphoses into ice.

With the night comes tide. Comes time. Comes death. Comes life.

If you were to sit down in one spot
anywhere in the world and not move
for another second of yor life

from there on in--
you would see so much beauty and pain
You'd wonder what you ever did to be

as lucky as you had been.
J J Oct 2020
Flowers are the earth's fruit
    Which await the sun's permission
         To beautify and ripen

And at night may serve
   As guiding lanterns floating atop
          Their mother thorns

To gently lead the moon oceanward.
rgz Oct 2020
Every bar looks the same
when you live in a cage,
every round rounds out
with a shot and dry snout.

A cold night out
without snow on the pavement,
as truth slowly trickles through the fickle adoration,
and the empty, impatient crowd
is waiting.

The spotlight hits
a white tie on white shirt,
his smile is perfection,
perfected from dirt
through years of tears and blood and lies,
pompous prattle pasteurised.

The spotlight lingers like cheap perfume
from the back of the room
on a white tie and shirt,
handsome as a groom,
he talks with his hands,
his nails, neatly clipped,
are still lined with dirt.

He holds on to hope
for something like bliss,
not quite convinced it even exists,
outside of an incidental kiss,
but the build-up is crucial
to a master crafter,
and the crowd is rapt,
from the floor to the rafters
awaiting their happily ever after.
Hussein Dekmak Sep 2020
Poetry is capturing a scene, an event, or a deed with your eyes,
Processing it in your mind,
Feeling it in your heart,
Letting go, and
Expressing it with your words.

Hussein Dekmak
Edited 2
Next page