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cyanide skies Aug 2015
i like to start off poems
with a sort of unsettled sometimes
because the absence of strict time progression
seems more abstract.
but maybe i
with my broken keys
stuck without caps lock
should maybe realize
that seeming more abstract
isn't the point.
i like to start off poems
with a sort of unsettled sometimes
because i can't immediately come to grips
with the sort of starry wording
i need to describe the way the constellations
align in my heart, only sometimes
*all the time
ryn Jan 2015
             *the *future is...a tornado of uncertain-
          ty• a swirling vortex, in its centre is
me•such power and speed, can ne-
ver see•can never foretell, it's hid-  
den debris•like clockwork, it will        
   make contact•by the second, bra-        
cing for next impact•the past is...      
  yet another•wild winds that echo      
     my mistakes as reminder•this twis-         
      ter within...tearing with no remo-    
           rse•destroying confident strong-
             holds, breaking feebly boarded
           doors•can't ease the
    en from the inside•won't stop beating heart had
        died•the present is...only this  
   frail little body•fighting huge 
battles that come incessantly  
  •fending off the future, con-        
    taining the past•not know-            
ing how long.......this disas-       
ter would last•but I'm still      
   here.....still holding integ-         
   rity......•still fighting this       
war waged in history's        
folly•will i be settl-
ed? will the winds
ever abate?•
will i ever
      come to    
will i
Dot Nov 2014
I hate the night and it's untimely creations.
The avalanche of loose words
doused on closed eyes,
begging to be assembled
into flowing images or
melodic alliterated sentences.
Adjectives lurk under sealed eyelids.
Verbs implore the body to respond.
Mocking my stillness they urge
limbs to act out in their name.
Verses arrange and rearrange
of their own accord.
They ebb and flow.
I'm too tired to grab them all.
Why now, when I crave nothing but sleep?
Why can't I conjure this brainstorm
in waking hours.
I grab a pen to write; semi-conscious.
It all jumbles into nonsense.
The dream state draws me back
to act out unconscious intentions.
I hate the night and all its promises;
Its lyrical musings
behind twitching eyelids.
I woke up one morning having written the bones of this poem during a really disturbed and unsatisfying nights sleep!
shaffenstein Oct 2014
What stands after nothing,
what grows in the night?
What answers the calling,
what soothes untreated sight?
Tonight, without knowing,
know we sustained the right,
here now, without crumbling,
fight the dust in the mite.
We'll delight in the other,
never smother the fight...
but when hopeless
feels dopeless,
always answer the cry.
Dark Jewel May 2014
The pain intensifies.
Aching, searing pain.
That covers like a burning ember.
It skins the heart.

Tearing it apart,
Into a billion pieces.
This pain.
Is a heartbreaker.

You left me...
Behind the walls,
Of Hell.

— The End —