Don't  look beyond the stairway.
The exit is unreachable
I am long gone
I have moved on
You tore my heart to pieces
Stole my identity
And now you are trying to
Walk  back into my life.
Picking up the pieces
That you left shattered.
Don't  look beyond the stairway
My heart is closed
The  feelings I have for you are gone.
Look at the exit
It's fully choked with thorns.
There is no-way back in
Because you are a distance ghost from the past.

insanely bright,
quaffed of colors,
smelling like rotten vanilla on ice,

a constructed barren land
with no lush green to incite eyes,
no blue sea rhyming flows to please ears,
and smell of sudden suicide of air

you thought a damp lonely dark pit,
can only torment you but the light
is the answer to everything?

Think Again.

Seema Jul 4

He raised high, like a star
Into the bleak sky
Full of dreams, yet so far
Where the armed angel lie
A drop of rain fell that very moment
Right into the heart of the earth
More drops followed, only to torment
The one, to whom I gave birth
My child, my grave maybe deep
But my love for you is deeper
I have been put to sleep
Yet, I'll always be your well-wisher
I am your mother, afterall dear
You may forget me, but how can I?
Your million dollar earn per year
Has parted you from me, why?
Call me, when you in need, my brave
I'll always watch over you, my child
Remove the weeds from my grave
As my existence, has vanished in the wild
When you breakdown, and yearn for my love
Remember to watch the same sky
Flying high, I'll be the white dove
Because a mother's love, is not a lie...

©sim

WistfulHope Jun 23

Red blemishes appear,
And they fester and burst.
Crawling fast, they tear.

No one screams.
No one remembers they hurt.

The skin turns dead --
Flesh black not red --
Bodies becoming dirt.

In the distance is heard
One last choke,
One last word,
Mumbled through the smoke.

Ash rains down.
In this blood they will drown.

And a small voice mutters
                                                 "don't".

Current mood.
freya c Jun 13

i do not understand why i challenge everyone i converse with to push boundaries, to be so raw and unedited, to be so jarringly honest, even if it means that someone winds up cut by tongues and truths that can't be reciprocated, due to whatever cruel reality we live in.

i do not understand why i want to hear declarations of implicitly veiled adoration, love, pain, whatever, when i already know well enough what is unsaid.

perhaps i want assurance that my loving was never for nothing.

i do not understand why it's in my nature to make it so hard for anyone to know my heartbeats, my needs, my desperate petitions for everything to be okay in the end, praying to thin air for the will to stay together, cohesive and strong.

i do not understand why my heartstrings and neurons have become sickles, turning against my flesh.

i find myself crying over nothing that matters anymore and i can't understand why i do what i do.

Wound I
against the forces of nature
this tap
through which a steam
of nature's brewed drink,
measured hot as I desired.
It loved my skin,
steaming upwards,
its ambiental tentacles
towards my chin.

The devil besought my thoughts
to torment.
The sounds of men calling my name,
lynching my conscience undeservedly;
the scapegoat of the moment.
These gates were open;
the devil smeared in
through the tap,
flowing through brews.

I wound fast
against those that call.
Thence did they stop:
the lynching, the calling,
beseeching, praying my falling.
I fled my bathtub,
escaping the mob,
escaping the devil
in my bathtub.

Dan Walker Jun 7

Enchanted torment

Why does it feel so good but hurt so bad?
How beautiful thy poetic glimpses be
yet it lets pain forge thee
for without torment there would be no you
or these beautiful  glimpses of poetic cry
that enchants thee.

MY FIRST POETIC CRY
Spike Harper Jul 16

Its hard to claim the breathe that is gifted to these lungs.
Difficult to boast about the idea of owned space.
Yet it is seen.
Time and time again.
Personal.
Space.
As if everyone has forgotten.
The probability which led to ones own realization.
How easily the consciousness could have never came to be.
Its just shunned away to the darkest corner.
Not even allowed space in the brain.
The here and now tales precedence over what will never be.
And to an extent it is justified.
For no one should live by what ifs.
But.
To claim ownership of the air that all existence shares.
Well.
Who am I to chastise.
There are too many ways to describe pretentious.
And somehow this mind tires endlessly with the maze of its undoing.
Sentences repeat and rearrange themselves.
Until rubbing tired eyes no longer sooths the minds eye.
Waste.
Waste.
waste.
May there come and day.
That the later takes hold.
Then maybe exhaling wont feel so.
Unsatisfying.

Little black fruit swaying in the hot summer sun
such succulent skin shriving, baking beneath the crisp, green leaves
what strange fruit hangs from the cottonwood tree?

What sour fruit falls to the earth and makes a thud?
whose blood soaked flesh leaks into the underbelly of the earth
whose body lays motionless....
whose once sweet flesh now sways in the autumn breeze

what strange fruit hangs from the cottonwood tree?....

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