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Kiss me
                
                           Take me to bed

Then,
                                    punch me in the nose
                            ****** my mind with your rage

                                                                   and forgive me nothing
Hold me tenderly
                       as your friend
                                                        and      keep      my secrets
          
                          Interlock your fingers         into mine

show me your eyes
                                  allow me the depth of your soul
               or
                            the chance to kindle
                                              your intricate loveliness

Feel something         &
     allow yourself to feel it first
                                                        before tearing it apart for answers
Phi
K 3d
Blue are my organs,
Blue is my blood,
Blue are my eyes,
Like a flood,
Of rainwater,
Rushing through the gutter of my soul.
Both living and dying,
Awake and asleep,
Eyes opened wide and still so blind.

Ears to listen, a voice to share,
A mind to wander and a heart to feel.
Rarely used, taught to shut.
A technicolor being in a noir world,
A vessel of which the whole universe choose to reside.

The divine in the flesh.
Who believes these are two separate entities.
Or is it not?

Forever a question with no answers,
it is an abstract infinite loop with no alpha nor omega.
Existence itself is a rational paradox
and a corrupted masterpiece.

As we learn that there is no creator without its creations,
and no creations without its creator,

Are we able to exist without the ego or the soul?
To truly live with no purpose? Or is that in itself, a purpose?
Faded as that 90’s graffiti on the train station walls,
Old locomotives, their engines cease to spin and sputter.
Little mice, too famished in their task, caress cogs and messages,
From places, too dark to read, the notes pile up.
Some, I think, may be blank.
Some, I could not read, as I scribbled those promises too fast.
A great mound of empty words made from a tree now dead.
The cogs move no more, I doubt they were ever connected before…


In line for a one-way ticket out of this grave land,
My baggage gripped tight with both hands- makes it difficult to keep in check,
I try to hide it with a smile, no one offers to help.
Surprisingly sullen, my every movement seems to echo from bold, cold walls,
The insignia behind the ticket master’s house is sprayed in red and it reads:
‘This was always a one-way trip’
I bite my lip, try to understand how to turn menace into sand,
This station is run by ghosts. I can feel them watching from holes in the wall.


I was asked by a stranger, “why did you come here”,
My staggered recoil from justice and reason must have been enough,
When I looked back, my persecutor was lost to an empty hall,
And the bones of this room can be seen when it breathes,
So clear, not seen the sun shine in a long time,
Startled like a bird falling into a pool, I wonder why I came here at all.


I talk to the ticket officer, this hat worn low, talking from a dark place,
I want to know, “the time of the next train please”,
But the man only holds my gaze, from beneath his low cap
Motionless, the spindly man holds all the cards, then blows away into the wind.
Left his own station in search of tracks. Somewhere remote
The sun is shining, and life is dead upon this new day.


Perhaps it is too early, I sit and wait for someone to talk to,
“You know that bag must be awfully heavy, please let me carry it for you”,
I shake my head and grip what is mine a little tighter,
“Don’t be afraid to let me in, I only want to help you free your light”,
But I don’t care for skin or bones, I set down my bag and watch,
The man of bones, with dreams larger than his stake,
Perhaps, if you were not so far away, you would have the strength to exist,
I look up to see the man who tried so frugally,
Met by dead air, perfectly comfortable- without a friend in the world.


I take a stroll down the decrepit tracks, cold air grasps at skin and sense,
Just to see the colour of the rust, and what the reaction was,
The trains and tracks are turning bitter-brown and discoloured purple,
Holes are manifesting themselves into the carriage, much less comfortable than I ever knew.
I step on the dead cartridge, much less comfortable than I ever-
Reliving a time when the carriage was bright, and laughter echoed the halls,
Far down the musky, dark-grey scope, I can hear the faint sobs of a child,
Inevitably, I find the kid, small and frail, sobbing into his hands from under his hat.


“Dear Michael, this carcass is the last place that I expected to find you”,
I kneel down beside the boy and tell him what comes from inside”
“You didn’t spend much time here when we were alive, I am leaving you Michael, your world is cold and dead”.
The boy trembles before sobbing turns to cold laughter,
He lifts his head and I peer into two dark and empty sockets,
Pristine, white bones contrast the encroaching darkness,
Michael tells me: “There is no leaving this place”.


The skeleton child’s words are empty.


A little while down the track, darkness pours from every crack,
Each train looks as dead as the one that was mine,
I follow a trail of disfunction to the end of the line,
Where I find a train, most unlike the rest, its silky black skin has been kept intact,
Monstrous, foreboding and intimidating, the conductor keeps the fire stoked,
Red mist puffs from the window, horror stagnant beauty feels and flows.


The walls of the carriage are meticulously decorated,
Framed pictures resting on crimson silk, a life frozen in time,
I am not welcome here,
Presently, a feral scream from far away- the engine room,
A mad man armed with fire eyed fury,
Jackal Rushes through moment and memory in fear and panic,
The first thing in this nightmare clad in skin,
The man stands still, full height, coloured in… I look into his eyes:


I fall back through twisted carriages.
Light.
Butterflies protecting fire from rain.
I sleep safe knowing that no one thinks of me.
I am writing a book. One day a character wanted to say something...
Alexis 4d
all these poems I write
start with I,
I swear I’m not self centered
but they say write what you know.
So in a desperate attempt
to learn this soul of mine
All I write about
is me.
And you,
Yes, I write about you.
I write about the beauty of you.
Of how I would love to leave fingerprints on your heart and caress your soul .
I mean if you would allow me
To love you
Freely.
Simon 4d
A conundrum that can't be tested, even how hard you try to exercise every specific. Just ail parts on a spinning axis with no conclusion! The conclusion to test the bewildered expression of pieces without there own thoughts. Feelings resort to compassion. Excluding the taste all together. It’s messy how something exists, which has no theme to what they are, and how one is tested. Tested to take your parts and find some commonality with more existing parts that urge the taste of compassion. A taste with its sense of propriety. Justification to mount moral terms with oneself. Oneself can’t tell itself apart. Only pieces trying to organize itself while spinning their connections down the rut! Permanent desire to fetch them out of the phase that’s established its original premise. Originality has no qualms with the likes of compassion. Setting up without any discernible corrections. Meant for outsiders within themselves to judge, plan, and exercise, without mercy to anything but oneself. Spinning axis burns desires upon urges that breakdown over time. The spinning pace doesn’t stop, until you stop and learn what truly is happening. Pieces remain in the rut. The rut full of many spread out phases too much to take in all at once. Plans don’t go to your agreement. Something outside oneself has yet to appreciate yourself, and what you have to offer. Except how does one do that when many pieces are too spread out for one to notice? Every specific is already radiating like a charged particle. Charging too much friction between one another. Trying not to lose one another in the constant spin of irony. Irony devoted without practice. Practice makes time for oneself to finally notice the originality of its premise isn’t truly spinning on its axis. It’s actually strolling for one’s interpretations to finally notice its static charge. The different pieces are holding on. Fetching the obvious back into circulation. Circulation outmatched not by itself. But by perception of a fully established sense of self.
Pieces aren't social by themselves. There social when spread out radiuses can't discern the label of what one has to express. Lagging out transmissions to judgeable by pace alone.
Nicole 5d
It is not that I don't want you
I think as you undress me and
Kiss my wrists.
It's that my soul is being chipped away
And I'd rather not die
A little in these satin sheets
Again.
love is a lifetime of examples of how we can overcome our fears, worries, and doubts.
It is invisible but can be seen, it is intangible but can be felt,
it is inaudible but you know it when you hear it.
at times it can seem to be extinct, and others make you as euphoric as the most powerful drug.
in the end it is only you who can choose to let it in, push it away, or accept it
Strang thing called love, none can point to it but it is all around but it is deadly as beautiful
sometimes she is hard to love and makes you question yourself. she can be a riddle talking of the future, but only living for today. she is amazing in so many ways unexpected and beautiful. with all of that she sets my heart a blaze and captures my soul.
This confusing thing called love
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