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Lying in wait
Prone to stagnate
Unfulfilled dreams
It's never too late

I sleep not
For I am awake
Immersed in frustration
Time to create
Not procrastinate

With eyes open
Feeling deflated
Hardly elated  
Don't hesitate
To Reevaluate

Rise up from bed
Set the engine to rev
Idle instead?
It's all in your head

Lying in wait
To Regurgitate
The ideas in your brain
Manifest to inflate
The cognitive state
Invent a gimmick, solution, or trait

Should I reiterate
For the duration
Due to inflation?

Remember this date
No time to debate

Today is a gift
Isn't that great?
Not a moment too soon
Must have been fate.
This seems to pretty much sum it up for me, I don't know about you. I took a strange roller coaster ride to the finish on this one.
SE Nummenpää Nov 2015
Taken, this only route to the back of something blacker.
I left my fingernails to protest in the floorboard,
stuck, sticking still
white headstones for things I cannot remember.
Pale ghosts of my
tenacity
before it strode cross the threshold into a gentle night.

I piled like garbage in the corner,
an anthill
phenomenally empty.
This, my house of skin,
ice dispensers and salt,
brewing something foul,
I inflate, churning charcoal

in the corner,
out the door,
heaving hell.
Graff1980 Sep 2015
The wizen winds whispered
Let him go
So you can grow
Let your roots settle as they may
Or tare up the earth so
You can stray to find a new way

So slowly she seized upon the pain
Clawed at the ground
Hands bloodied and bruised
Nails push backed to the point
Of unbearable pain
She ripped her roots
Out of the earth
Ready to move on

And he came back
With just a glimmer up hope
She replanted her seed
Bent down on her knees
Begging him please
Promising she would change
Contorting herself to his demands
While he stayed the same
What a shame
She was a lovely tree
Free as the wind
And ready to be
Something better
A new butterfly
Now the butterfly dies

If she reads this
She will despise me
Say, I do not understand
I’d say that the person
Woven in to the pattern
Cannot see the design
Cannot cut fates golden line
When they do not know
How the story goes
Oh, well it’s not my hell to bare
Vlarken Hvyrmtor Jul 2015
All is same, sudden, and fast

Life is taken

I don't want something that can be taken

Love is life
*** is life

Life is irresistible because it's not death

Death is always
Death is unchanging

A blanket soaked in chloroform that you may
wrap about your body to suffocate in stale comfort

Throw it off to ****
Throw it off to lose yourself in burning
clarity in the flesh of another

But that can be taken
it's auto Jul 2015
in a heat like this you forget you have a stomach, patina’d as it is with shame. the junction of thigh and hip is a bear-trap. what do you and bears have in common? a bracelet of red dents at the wrist and no escape. anyways, keep trying. the four-by-four cube of yourself gives slowly, like a mattress or lung, something to be punctured. there, the air is water-soft. the walls are cream, not pink, but still you wait for threshold to meet threshold, for the mandala-fold of ribs to fall away. come winter this womb of cream will expel you a reborn thing, with fur.
10 minute poem #3. idk.
Frank DeRose Apr 2015
I felt like writing something.
I had an idea.
It slipped away.
I had the words,
But they were washed out to sea.
And now I'm here.
Grasping,
Reaching,
Clawing,
At smoke in the air.
I smell the tendrils,
But can't encompass everything.
The smoke envelopes,
Suffocates.
And now I'm drowning in thoughts.
Can't sort.
Can't process.
Too much.
Now the smoke clears,
And so does my head.
The smoke becomes a candle,
Holding all my thoughts,
All my words.
I clutch the candle;
Hold it with all my strength.
It is my sanity.
One of my personal favorites
Evening Ways Feb 2015
Serenity my impractical refrain
What oceans I have seen could not contain you
Still from long ago
You sleep with sediment in caves of night
Aiding my excuse not to come rescue

While only you could rescue me
And iron out my body crumpled
To let us sleep with tidy sheets
Relived of grime and filth that has compiled upon my years
Believing I can live with out
A single decent peace of mind
Oppression now has swam up stream
And lurks between resembled shadows
Of the memories adhering only to your name

Oh serenity my impractical refrain
Through fault, from which I’ve been delivered
A bitter place I’ve built around my self
Know that amends are only spoken towards your name
Depleted, torn and strewn I simmer
Swept a ‘withered, for oppression now lies within

Arise a faint acknowledge towards me
If ever you wish to return
And I will tend my bed so rightly
For our sound sleep, together, healing burns
Kevis Seymore Jan 2015
Rise in the morning,
Fall back without a fight,
Right back into the night,
Falling 'till the mourning,

As the emptiness grows,
Time simply slips into the void,
The endless repetitions only shows,
Please the people, please the android,

The rain has been pouring,
Yet, the glass hasn't filled,
Though, never has it spilled,
And the answer they are ignoring,

No one knows,
Oh, the hollowness that exists,
The endless repetitions only shows,
These the worlds, these the cysts,

There has been given a warning,
Of this their creations of great sleight,
To achieve such false height,
But, still their hearts they are adorning,

And so it goes and goes,
While they raise their fists,
Right until the final throws,
The world fades into mists,

Meaningless is this warring,
Of a world that remains untilled,
Of dreams that remain unfulfilled,
Look on vacuous, look on abhorring,

As the emptiness grows,
Time simply slips into the void,
The endless repetitions only shows,
Please the people, please the android,

Rise in the morning,
Fall back without a fight,
Right back into the night,
Falling 'till the mourning.
I avoid utilizing any real skill.
The person,
the human,
that I am is wasting away.
We can find ourselves inspired in the midst of tragedy.
We take the pain of others,
their mistakes,  
graft them into our own lives to relate.
Am I still whole?
Am I still mine?
In my heart,
at the core of my animal
*** is vital.
I want to write about it,
how it makes me feel.
but it is the me that sits alone in her floor that needs to empassioned.
I sit with all the tools at my fingertips.
Volumes of empty books to fill.
I'm not who I want to be.
Simpler obsessions fill the void that they used to exploit.
Fits of writing about how I cannot write.
Dig
Disect
Nothing replies.
Stare into the void.
Load my pipe again & again.
I don't feel myself.
The one who could pour her heart & mind into pages.
I am just like everyone else.
Boring & monotonous.
I am in a cycle of comfortable survival.
I do not create.
I do not expand.
I do not contribute.
I only consume.
I dug myself out of a hole only to become planted there.
Foreign to this reality.
I don't want to waste away.
Constantly entertained.
I want to find madness.
Lost in the worlds inside my head made real on paper.
The pleasure in staring at the emotions painted on a canvas.
Breed the life force of every morsel I intake.
Burn for the next physical limit to be broken.
Speak languages that make me weak.
God beneath the tree tops.
In love with all the life that came before me,
full of the things I love so dearly.
Where is Satan
while fighting this war of doubt & inaction.
This stagnant misery should be ammunition enough
to break down Heaven's gate
& turn the tide against the luxury I've entombed myself in.
But I must claw,
enraged,
& labor to bring life into this wraith.
Great demons be my muse.
Ancient disease doth stir & demand nourishment
from control & fear.
Abandon my world of weakness to become
of new things.
Kyle Kulseth Dec 2014
9:13 p.m. on Wednesday
sitting, bolted to this bar,
next to tired tropes and worn out jokes
I've met a million times or more.
And the drinks all swirl together
and they start to taste the same
               going down
               or coming up.
          It really doesn't matter much.

If the streets looked any different,
they'd still bear familiar names:
trees and states and Presidents--
Left turn, snowfall, sitting fences,
               walking home
and getting old. These towns all
look alike, with weeks spent walking
                in the cold.

And the salt on the sidewalks
might season your footsteps--
                                       sure--
a steady, frigid cadence
carried through like a threat:
shallow and petty, from downtown to home.
Alone on the sidewalk,
               it's 7 below.
And I don't know
               what that is in Celsius,
but I know there's no home
              
               for at least
               another block or 2.

I came clean in muddy puddles,
***** slush and snowbound streets,
     in towns that looked alike.
Tonight, I'm headed for clean sheets.
So close the doors, unbolt the patrons
          Thursday morning, 2 a.m.
And it never feels like half an answer
when I push my front door
                                                shut again.
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