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Annie Jan 15
Under sizzling and bleeping
The time runs nigh
Between heaven and ****
In a room, too bright
Runs a body deadly circles
Captured in pipes
While the fellowship falls silent
As the headman decides
To live and let die

Slow, but soon, the dying noise
Leaves a weakly beating heart
Fighting it's own pointless war
No men alive shall ever thwart
And lifes children turn quiet
As they face the final loss
The fact they can´t deny
They live and let die

Now, the silence bales and centers
Around the fallen prey
Slowly, death spreads, like a cancer
Drives the living away
Until only ease is lagging
In the minds that still stand by
Relief about the outcome
To live and let die
Written 2013, after a very, in a psychological way, exhausting day.
Star BG Jan 2018
As poet surgeon my hand
holds pen-like scalpel.
It perform surgery
carefully cutting away words
that don't fit body of verse.

  Sometimes I cut away
old membranes of thoughts
limiting mobility. 
Other times I shape a new concept
into a brains membrane. 

Words, like sutures are sewn
bringing new consciousness
to patent/reader.

I am a surgeon with services
at no cost just ones time
and willingness to
open heart
to heal
and be healthy.

Medicine for fast recovery,
many doses of self love
and patience.

StarBG © 2017
Inspired again by Francine Lynch
Allyssa Buenafe Jun 2017
What of that is me that is so beautifully splayed against the cold tin tray beneath the light of the surgeon who is splitting me open.
What of that is not me who is the nurse, helping remove the blemishes and tumors that make the unrecognizable body mangled.
What of that situation makes this so uncannily familiar that all I do is try to change the person I am to be when I hear God sigh once more at my attempt to, again, change myself.
I hear the words,
"Love yourself,"
As if I hadn't already tried but the parts that I have attempted to nurture already lay in the bin of flesh the surgeon has already removed.
I could tell you that I was the surgeon but really,
Self-consciously,
I could not.
I say I could not because of the way the surgeons eyes resembled of those who pick me apart,
Also known as society.
I am not happy with myself,
I am an ever changing chameleon to the people I choose to bring apart of my life as they chisel me down to who and what they prefer.
I am not the color blue any longer for that represented his eyes,
I am not the color pink as my friend used as a disguise,
I am not the color black for that I realize,
I was once that.
So I lay here splayed on this cold tin tray,
Picked apart by the vultures who deem worthy and those who do not.
Do not tell me to love myself when I all know is to be a sponge of the people who pour toxic waters into my skin and I wear it like plastic wrap covering me in all of the wrong places.
I am no longer in control of my own strings that hang me to this life like a noose wrapped around my throat as I struggle to breathe and dance for an audience who no longer enjoys my company but my suffering.
I am not who I once was before I learned what perfect was.
Jean Lin Jan 2017
Waiting on the list
To get cut open
And have your insides stirred up

There are dozens of names on the list every day
And behind every name, there are
Double or triple or even multiple hearts
Suspended

So please keep in mind that
There's nothing more precious than your body.
Trust me, you don't want your name to be on that list.

It's a waiting list on which you could be either
Waiting for salvation, or
Waiting to set your foot on that glorious "Stairway to Heaven"
Which you don't really want to climb
Cyrus Gold Jun 2016
The eyes of the luthier are fixated
on the degrading and poorly fitted Dejacques bridge,
a small piece of wood that arches
at the top of the damaged instrument -
a prized 18th century treasure
originating from Brescia, a city in Northern Italy.

With a napkin in hand lightly
soaked in an oily substance,
he unhooks the piece,
then takes a replacement bridge
perfectly fitted for it. He cracks a smile.

This viola d'amore has seen better days,
with usage and prolonged handling
wearing the value of the instrument down.

Only an expert can bring a worn-out bird
seeking its once gracious and hypnotic voice
back to life with care and precision.

This luthier is a* surgeon,
a master at installing a sound-post replacement,
without gouging or harming
the quality of the instrument in the process.

This luthier is a
 listener;
as he retrieves and dusts off a case
filled with a spare set of strings,
he installs and finely tunes them
but never over the desired pitch.

Tense and crucial,
like the rising crescendo of a string quartet,
he strums the new strings for evidence of life,
listening to and directing the cry of each one,
like a composer.

This luthier is a
 healer,
repairing the cracks of the violin
by implementing a tactic he learned
on his many trips to Crawley, England,
where his teacher had once trained him;

by using cubic, wooden studs and small clamps,
he gains better control at closing the cracks just enough
to lace the opening with an adhesive
with little to no force or pressure.

This luthier is an
 artist,
*repairing the instruments
that yearn for the sound of music,
their very raison d'être.

His string and wooden patients
scream in agony for healing and peace
with voices unheard to the people,
but deafening to him.

He leaves his signature on each new patient
as their once damaged and lifeless souls
dance to the tune of his work,
healing them, promising the advent
of a future performance.

Let them rejoice. Let the music soar once again.
I love music. LOVE it.
brixton bell Dec 2015
the night is worn thin from this viewpoint.

the river dances still; down the hill, under the rumbling bridge cluttered with people separate in their own circular worlds & the city glimmers with two thousand diamond fake stars just beyond the dark tree line.
we are watching this world happen from far away.
we are spectators in a world who has long since forgotten us.

i say i want to change the world & you say it’s something good in me. you don’t know what i’m thinking & i can see it in your eyes when you turn away. words aren’t as strong with you.

you want something more from me, something i have never been able to fully give before. in particular dreams i see myself exposed. you are the surgeon & i am your patient. your scalpel cuts through thin skin, inch by inch, careful & precise. blank sterile walls. the smell of death & life as well; it’s contradictory. my blood too is thin & you wipe it away with your sleeve. searching for my heart. peeling back flesh. broken bones & absent heart; i’ve pushed it deep inside.

you say you want more but i wasn’t prepared for this.
brixtonbell.com
Leigh Jun 2015
It wasn't tackled with a surgeon's finesse
But the battered brute of conviction.
I can still see the two man cross cut saw
Jammed deep in the bark - but a tickle.
A mail of thick branches disguised as
Dense fodder stood strong against waves.
Throwing everything at it - raining sawdust -
As the giggles were heard for miles around.
Now standing crippled, taunting as it sways -
The battle's won but the war will have its day.
.
drownitout Jun 2014
It's like I've written volumes of reasonable responses,
But burnt the pages in the furnace of my lonely subconscious.

Being hardly conscious of what defines responsible,
I'm slacking, toying with a recent lacking sense of passion.
Another constable and I'm basket-cased,
Basking in darker masks,
because I've abandoned the single greatest answer to my asking.

There's a fine line between an open mind and empty head.
There's a long bridge between actions being taken rather than words just being said.
I'm quite the sweet talker,
Candy words from a bitter tongue tied to a head filled with resentment and a body that carries rotting lungs.
I'm quite the mediator, I can lie and you'll love me for it, but I'm sure you know the rest,
I mean, you've gambled your heart for it,
Always reading the wrong words from the right lips.

I'll have you know I'm fully aware of the damage I cause, and full of sorrow over the time you've lost.
I've done what I can,
And what I couldn't do,
I tried,
I've changed what I can,
And when I couldn't,
I would lie.

Yet you would lie there with me,
Hoping for the best when the truth is we both know in reality this is all that there is.
This is all that there ever was, yet God thought it'd be funny to play a joke instead.

This is no laughing matter, I mean look at what's come from it;
Empty cabinets, soiled carpet, and a part of me that's dead.

All the patrons called and the tablecloths gone cause of the nosebleed stains of the house favorites flaws,
The demons that I seek met the skeletons I keep to pay the rent to all the scars I let them crash inside for weeks.
And boy, are they deep.
The scars, the demons, the skeletons in my closet.
And it bleeds through me-
And it bleeds.

From blue collars in Bangkok looking to keep up,
To college dollars wasted looking for a new rush.
It's incredible, absolutely, that everything went to **** over false power;
It's a tragedy, but nothing new that it all drowned due to fine powder.

So many will claim me,
But there is no home I know.
You'll try to save me,
But out the gates I'll go.
The best way to complicate is to simply not decide;
The only way I can compensate is to burn myself alive.

It's my two cents that I'm at a loss of sentience,
And I can't feel to the touch.
Regardless of if it makes much sense;
I'm not empathic anymore.
I have a lack of emotion.
I'm morally bankrupt,
And right down to the bone marrow-
I can't feel to love.

Can I show you my scars?
May I expose what it is that has torn me apart?
We can both serve as surgeons;
Sewing slits in the uniform that once resembled skin.

Sad chords and body sores reveal false power and faint accord.
I need them both but highs nor lows are something I can afford.
Alissa Rogers Aug 2012
You are quite a gifted surgeon.
In fact you cut me so clean and sharp
I barely even knew it at the time.
Waking the next day in my hospital bed
was where I met my pain.
Being with you was like anesthesia:
I was so grateful for you to help me.
You were the one who weakened me.
My senses failed: your scalpel cut
clean to the cold, and then I just let you
sew me back together. The nurses say
I am very lucky, that I had a good doctor.
I know better. I was once a person and
now I am Sally Stitches, or better yet, Raggedy Ann.
I am no one's operation game.
Letting you in brings only stitches and needles,
and it was I who checked myself in.
I need to learn to stitch myself at home.
Consider this my checking out.

— The End —