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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 2017
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
WickedHope Jun 2017
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.
Joshua Dedricks Jun 2017
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 2017
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 2017
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?....
Brianna May 2017
We have a lot of made up, Hallmark type of Holidays don't we?
We have so many things we are told we have to celebrate our whole lives.
May is here -  Mother's Day is here.
But what about the dirt-bag mothers?
What about the mothers who don't care about their children?
What about the mothers who gave their kids up?

I know it's selfish- it's childish- but you weren't there when I needed you.
You were drowning in a bottle of ***** in your bathtub.
I know it's selfish- it's childish- but you still haven't been there.
You are too busy living in your own issues to remember you have children unless it suits you.

I remember living with dad and my stepmom- she raised me.
I remember grandma helping us with homework- she raised me.
I remember calling my dad when I was sad- he raised me.
I remember asking you where you were after 6 months of not hearing from you - but you couldn't even answer that question.

After years of picking up pieces and telling people I didn't have a mother here I am.
I am 25 years old with a stable job and stable home.
You are 47 with nothing to your name except some **** and a broke down apartment you get free from the government.
I am 25 with my **** together- paying my own bills- working for a living.
You are 47 taking pain pills as if your life depended on them.

I hear a lot of people telling me to forgive you, but I am just now coming to terms with how messed up I am.
I hear people telling me " that's your mom" but I am just now realizing the extent of my mental problem you have left me with.

All I have to say is thank the world for my father and stepmom and grandmother-- the only family I ever needed no thanks to you.
CeilingStar Apr 2017
Come and go
Seasons barely touching as autumn transitions to winter
The passers by see devastation unbeknown to theirselves

A storm of leaves in auburn hues constantly plummeting towards the ground in every which way possible
All a gorgeous streaky blur as they advance through the graveyard of the world
Leaving every grave untouched as they float past

It's all noticed by the passerby
Perceived through crystal clear glass
Every single stark detail untouched and untampered
Seen as it is

On they watch
They won't admit but relief, gratefulness flood their beings
As they glide by
Feet above the marshy ground, soggy and trodden
They are not yet ravaged by life's cruel twists
Free from the plooms of smoke and swirls of mist
Judgment unclouded by the murky emotions of the graveyard

On and on they advance
Torturous sights behold their eyes
Past souls tormented by the weight of fate
Lives consumed by its deviating path
A gloomy and crooked path indeed

For the passerby: some knowledge
Make the most of your lucid journey
And when it shall end do not lose yourself among graves

For those tortured souls: continue as passers by
Do not bury yourself with your grief for it shall drag you to the depths
And it does not let go
Such is the fate of this life

But ultimately it falls upon you

KG
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