Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jac Mar 30
as she spiralled down the rabbit hole
expecting wonderland
yet frightened she was
in the world of the aces

as the daisies began to wither
and the cakes now tasted bitter
doomed, her mind became
the list of impossible things was nothing but a card game

‘’off with her head!’’
she heard, faintly in the distance

mad had she become
and numb she went
in her wonder-turned-waste land
The road turned to the side,
Then on the field three turns.
Go forward, throwing his head,
Go and blow on the clouds...

The barn is crooked, her knees shaking.
Why I climbed in such Tyumen?
Such untrodden wasteland,
Such far Anadyrs?

On Monday the devils sing,
I feel sick again.
Sleep and pray, eat or sleep,
But there will be no evil.
Leo Dec 2018
No more screaming, no more voices
In the empty land of wasted stories.
A place of madness and lost faith
But look at it the right way
And it’s astonishingly great.

A null tricky game, planned, well played,
You’d better keep watching before it vanishes anyway.
But perhaps it’s too late, in this blurry night
Maybe too early to see the bright light.

Just a second of hope, a last broken prayer
To remind you in this game, you were a good player.
Cause there are no winners
No losers, no glory
In the not too far land of wasted stories.
Elder D Anthony Oct 2018
Languid prickly pear.
Ashen, voracious sky lay waste.
bruise Earth.

Prickly languid pear.
Hold fast against the wilted branch.

Thank the tree for its regard;
the limb that decayed the least.
                              O' how my will hangs
                              as I do above the death
                              who brought us this rot
Pear, languid and prickly.
Tenacious pride claws and bites
at morbid despair and lonesome longing;
                                                        ­           neither victorious.

Ashen sky dust and burn the peel

Languid pear.
Pain felt from
the dying of the limb that had more than
you in the end

Resentment tucked between the anguish.
Who brought us this rot?
                              O' how this will fades
                              unable to deliver
                              the cut that will end
The branch snaps.

World devoid;
the will of which persists.
girl gonzo Sep 2018
there is a wasteland
the abdomen of a swollen sea watching precariously as i bite into bits of dark chocolate and don't stop until the entire package is on the floor like a drunken dancer or a torn best friend
a candor that i sold auspiciously for a pair of high heels that i never wear, they just sit in my closet waiting for dirt to be pushed into the canvas of it's sole
i'll only wear them indoors when it's raining and i can hear the synchronizing of the drops on the roof top with each step i take onto the hard-wood floor -tap tap tap tap
i'll do this until the sincerity is gone from the momentum
eventually next summer they'll be forgotten in a cardboard box that has "free" written with a red sharpie and perhaps it's next owner will be forgiving, will take the loneliness of the esoteric feeling of wanting to be worn and introduce them to the vinyl floors of a cheap club or the cold linoleum floors of an expensive resort hotel
i'd like for things that I've known to have a continued story even after it's out of mine, and they do

there is a wasteland
a woman that constantly licks her lips because they're dry but they're only dry because of the constant moisture forced upon them
the reduction of catch-22 as if the joke doesn't fall smack into your clothes
trying to find something underneath the bra strap, past the skin
but you can never get through, can you?
she pulls your hand away and you're left feeling rudimentary
lacking, like the lackadaisical manner in which the lights never hit you the way you wish it did
a poem about the quick processing of restlessness
Yusof Asnan Aug 2018
The flower in the
wasteland exudes
life itself:
The physical
entity of
determination and
will to live.
Yes she may be
damaged from all
the toxic
And yes there
were times she
accepted her
But she still
Sprouting joy
despite all that.
She's special.
She's the flower
that survived.

Kathryn Irene Aug 2018
I drag my
feet on this
with no
and no
sense of
h o p e
a desire
for more
in this

- SkullsNBones
Visit my instagram for more poetry
Midnight May 2018
before you came
my heart was a wasteland
desolate, dark, dreary
black like death

the sun never shown
and the wind always blew

but after you came
my heart grew into a garden
cultivated, clear, colorful
white like life

the sun always shown
and the wind never blew
Please stay.
adira Feb 2018
I wake up to to see a wasteland clearly in vain
Covered with imprints of horror and pain
The shadows of night sneak about in my eyes
All I can see are the Tunnels made to echo my cries
And All I can hear
Is the loud fast rhythm of fear
There is know where to go
chained up in an invisible chian
It feels as though im locked up in a cage of pain
Forever here to witness the bitter cold of this life
Or Perhaps to escape with a with a gleaming sharp knife
Only to think no it's not right
This I must fight
I must find myself light
To end this endless night

“A flame” a familiar voice said “has always been there and never gone out”
I recognize the voice I hear my mind shout
It was the voice of myself I exclaimed with haste
A voice I lost when I entered this place

In front of me was a can of joy
A stalk of memories
I stretched myself out to get the can I barely can reach
and find out what all this can teach
I pull out heat and flame
Disposing of shadows and bringing them shame
The flame flys through the illusion of myself Breaking my chains
And riding me of my pains
I look at the world I was in falling apart
Whilst expelling the bitter and the ****
I knew from that terror.
that place?.
about a person trying to visualize pain
Next page