#bloated - Hello Poetry

Bloated memories of you Tonight, you chase me into fireworks Its not making sense Any of it Why would you caress me so deeply And near the lake of our love You dissolve Fading away, Ripple by ripple. You chased me into fireworks And the last smile that I saw Took my breath away.

0

Feb 23, 2015

Feb 23, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC

megha-balooni

Ink.

Bloated memories of you Tonight, you chase me into fireworks Its not making sense Any of it Why would you caress me so deeply And near the lake of our love You dissolve Fading away, Ripple by ripple. You chased me into fireworks And the last smile that I saw Took my breath away.

12

Simple life, lived as a vintage television set Ornate, one of the few luxuries exclusively for the well off Useless. Kitschy A banal dream with pleasures devoid of an iota of venom In a construct, a forsaken place, a planet without form A perfect encapsulation, almost a replica Of status, a microcosm Head in the clouds. Soul in the blood and bone Desperate, claimed slowly by unrepentant chunks of flesh I see the breeze on the horizon, sweeping through the fields So I Wake up I never expected. It's not something I asked for. But I rise all the same. Once more, one more story to add to the pile And as it turns out, I found the cure Deep within the growths sprouting, and the sick smell To rise once more In the conclusion of it, I was an island to myself, but I felt at peace. As my boots strike the sand, and my heart sinks a little lower The pinch doesn't feel quite as real. I could take some dedication to the facts that remain, as a claimant Vigor worn to a shaggy pulp, my lungs crumble in a wave of synthetic dust The scorn faced, the harsh lights shone on me, the blistering heat... Unforgivable, as any reasonable man might conclude I absolve no one of anything, but it all slips further from my mind, day in and day out If I want it too or not. To be so sure I'm awake... How crazy am I? The whole world breathes, exhales, in a layer of grey smoke, that soon condenses into clouds to shade me personally in my inaccessible fantasy. The whole world's slipping further into those muted, docile gray shades. A whole symphony of colors for these starved eyes So hollow now... Along barren halls, I'll run my fingers, across the faces of dead, rotted saints and take my gratification In simple motions, drinking in the vibrancy, all the intricacy bleeding through the mock notions of simplicity It didn't feel real then. I remember it all, in vivid detail In those few moments, though branched and snaking through the tunnels of my fleshy wiring I didn't feel anything. The pinch doesn't feel real anymore I can touch the sides of the sink. My fingers, with gentle pressure applied, can sink into my skin It only seems to matter when I touch it... I stopped bothering doing it, a long time ago It slipped from my memory

0

Apr 28, 2019

Apr 28, 2019 at 5:18 PM UTC

Boggy

Still awake, for now

Simple life, lived as a vintage television set Ornate, one of the few luxuries exclusively for the well off Useless. Kitschy A banal dream with pleasures devoid of an iota of venom In a construct, a forsaken place, a planet without form A perfect encapsulation, almost a replica Of status, a microcosm Head in the clouds. Soul in the blood and bone Desperate, claimed slowly by unrepentant chunks of flesh I see the breeze on the horizon, sweeping through the fields So I Wake up I never expected. It's not something I asked for. But I rise all the same. Once more, one more story to add to the pile And as it turns out, I found the cure Deep within the growths sprouting, and the sick smell To rise once more In the conclusion of it, I was an island to myself, but I felt at peace. As my boots strike the sand, and my heart sinks a little lower The pinch doesn't feel quite as real. I could take some dedication to the facts that remain, as a claimant Vigor worn to a shaggy pulp, my lungs crumble in a wave of synthetic dust The scorn faced, the harsh lights shone on me, the blistering heat... Unforgivable, as any reasonable man might conclude I absolve no one of anything, but it all slips further from my mind, day in and day out If I want it too or not. To be so sure I'm awake... How crazy am I? The whole world breathes, exhales, in a layer of grey smoke, that soon condenses into clouds to shade me personally in my inaccessible fantasy. The whole world's slipping further into those muted, docile gray shades. A whole symphony of colors for these starved eyes So hollow now... Along barren halls, I'll run my fingers, across the faces of dead, rotted saints and take my gratification In simple motions, drinking in the vibrancy, all the intricacy bleeding through the mock notions of simplicity It didn't feel real then. I remember it all, in vivid detail In those few moments, though branched and snaking through the tunnels of my fleshy wiring I didn't feel anything. The pinch doesn't feel real anymore I can touch the sides of the sink. My fingers, with gentle pressure applied, can sink into my skin It only seems to matter when I touch it... I stopped bothering doing it, a long time ago It slipped from my memory

46

Monsters keele dust settles the ground never acknowledges the weight in the pockets of what's going down

0

Nov 23, 2018

Nov 23, 2018 at 3:16 PM UTC

DMC

Avarice

Monsters keele dust settles the ground never acknowledges the weight in the pockets of what's going down

6

Don’t starve to life An emaciated buffet unveiled A feast of scraps Hungry for your nutritious deceit Portioned promise Bloated truth dripping And yet you're full

0

Jun 28, 2020

Jun 28, 2020 at 11:02 AM UTC

ManiacalEscape

Don't starve to life

Don’t starve to life An emaciated buffet unveiled A feast of scraps Hungry for your nutritious deceit Portioned promise Bloated truth dripping And yet you're full

7

Honor your ancestors, yes? But some take that to extremes. Even going so far As to apply it to themselves, In the physical sense & mental. That being the oldest of them, Instinct & emotion. For to them the mind is wasted, For them the body is nothing. For them the mind is nothing, For to the body of it is wasted. In the sense that they are anymore Man than any other kind of animal, A concept so tiringly clung to. So thoroughly discussed is mankind That its philosophies are disgusting, Unrecognizably distorted. Those in actuality & reality, Cloaked by sick games of telephone. For to honor pridefulness, For to shame modesty. For from pride is derived honor, For from shame is made modest. If by death die the lies, Then execution is the only honesty. Then dying is the truest mercy. For therein, what is just? If in the journey of life We have neglected to have collected That of the mind; If in the path of destiny We have stalled not to have gathered That of the soul: To have connection to nothing, Free from attachment, But not to have been liberated. For three are the siblings. Yet, thee are siblings; How shamefully you treat family, How scornful you are of relatives. Friends? No! Acquaintances? Not! Neighbors? Get lost! What fields you salt With crops you allow rot, Clipping the stems of the spoiled And smashing in the ripened. Countless leaves of these branches.

0

Mar 28, 2025

Mar 28, 2025 at 11:18 PM UTC

manx-kronos-pragna

As Of Superstition, I Would Welcome Crucifixion

Honor your ancestors, yes? But some take that to extremes. Even going so far As to apply it to themselves, In the physical sense & mental. That being the oldest of them, Instinct & emotion. For to them the mind is wasted, For them the body is nothing. For them the mind is nothing, For to the body of it is wasted. In the sense that they are anymore Man than any other kind of animal, A concept so tiringly clung to. So thoroughly discussed is mankind That its philosophies are disgusting, Unrecognizably distorted. Those in actuality & reality, Cloaked by sick games of telephone. For to honor pridefulness, For to shame modesty. For from pride is derived honor, For from shame is made modest. If by death die the lies, Then execution is the only honesty. Then dying is the truest mercy. For therein, what is just? If in the journey of life We have neglected to have collected That of the mind; If in the path of destiny We have stalled not to have gathered That of the soul: To have connection to nothing, Free from attachment, But not to have been liberated. For three are the siblings. Yet, thee are siblings; How shamefully you treat family, How scornful you are of relatives. Friends? No! Acquaintances? Not! Neighbors? Get lost! What fields you salt With crops you allow rot, Clipping the stems of the spoiled And smashing in the ripened. Countless leaves of these branches.

48