#disintegration
the flower has eyes
and she watches
as her pale petals curl and
turn brown on the edges, she
watches as she wilts, as her leaves
start to dry, she watches
as the parts of her she used
to admire start to fall, piece by
piece, and she watches as she
disintegrates,
becoming the dirt and she watches as
the housekeeper sees her and frowns and
then throws her away into the
trash.
she watches as she becomes
trash.
and she cannot save herself.
Feb 23, 2025
Feb 23, 2025 at 2:32 PM UTC
The first-ever satellite images of you
Stranded upon pain inflicted desolation
The process of coming to pieces:
Nocturnal carnivorous planetoid
Moon in your mouth
They hint at remarkably renewed unfriendliness
It’s the same face we all see
Precious and cracked
Your isolated body orbiting
In its bitter ******
Where no sunlight ripples through
The string dangling between your legs
All the children hidden underneath your navel
Have fled down to Earth
To live or die in documented nightmares of their own
Aug 28, 2023
Aug 28, 2023 at 11:41 AM UTC
A pile of mud
moving, re-animated:
you watch a trail of stink
—striking everyone's senses—
I'm leaving behind.
A man of mud walks toward you,
sliding smooth
on the façade of a greasy pavement
coming at you
longing, to solicit
your pity
—my body crumbles
at each step I ****** towards you
while watching myself being torn apart.
I stretch my arm, and then my stiff fingers,
each soaked in tears,
to grab whatever I can out of you.
I disintegrate into emptiness
at every attempt I make
—all futile, meaningless.
My muddied lips
set apart to plead,
but only a screeching noise
comes out,
squeaking,
like that of a mouse.
You,
the one with a shovel
—sharp is the blade—
scream at me,
whacking my clay-man body
with your murderous tool
you hold so tight
—this sight of Mudman
must be hideous indeed
to those pupils of innocence,
burning brightly
with consuming hatred.
Lying on the floor
flattened, unaccepted,
the muddied lips
that survived the shattering blow
are squirming still.
You grind them under your heel
merciless.
Aug 28, 2021
Aug 28, 2021 at 8:19 PM UTC
If you give me proof that you are different now
I would leave your mistakes in the past
The taste of your words is familiar
Matches the flavor of bait from lines cast
What I realized is that this is a game
Think ******** with my head is fun
Relationship must be a joke to you
Guess what
You are the only one
When I looked at obvious disregard
For feelings I shook my head
In disbelief you could be so cold
I so easily misled
Door open to you
So many years
Regardless how long you stayed
Was happy you graced me with your presence at all
It's time I put up a barricade
Your eyes would be shocked discovering
Not as weak as I've always seemed
It was stubbornness preventing freedom
Clutching tightly to future we dreamed
Such beauty and tenderness faded
Cruel reality laden with distress
Blind to surrounding hazards
Woke up too deep in this mess
Sitting amidst a plethora of problems
Above reach everything I want most
Projection of the life I could have had
Traded for shaky taunting ghosts
Both directions lay empty
Quiet
Swerve my neck left and then right
Around me is an abundance of air
I can't find any light
Everything I experience grey
Colors make haste
Retreat
Inside the dim stale atmosphere
Also a concerning lack of heat
For when I train my eyes upwards
Sun has vanished from the sky
That or I am being forced away
Rays are far too high
And I contemplate our ending
Have no choice but accept our fate
Memories will remain etched on my heart
One by one your feelings disintegrate
Dec 2, 2020
Dec 2, 2020 at 9:34 PM UTC
Besieged
by Michael R. Burch
Life—the disintegration of the flesh
before the fitful elevation of the soul
upon improbable wings?
Life—it is all we know,
the travail one bright season brings ...
Now the fruit hangs,
impendent, pregnant with death,
as the hurricane builds and flings
its white columns and banners of snow
and the rout begins.
Keywords/Tags: Life, flesh, disintegration, atrophy, soul, elevation, wings, winter, bright season, fruit, pregnant, snow, rout, tempest, blizzard
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 11:50 PM UTC
She was a spectacular tree.
People called her the flame of the forest,
for she was obviously striking, vivid and classy.
I need not narrate the superlative majesty
of the flame – tree, for one time or the other
we have all been breath-taken by her peerless glamor.
What matchless artistry!
I am here to quickly share
my ruminative gloom for that lovely assembly
of flower, leaf and wood, which grandly stood
in a grove of possibilities, and possibilities can be
such a torment, such a calamity.
❋
For years galore, caterpillars of choices
had been steadily eating away at her core.
They came from different directions,
at different trajectories,
with varied objectives
and fluctuating proclivities.
Sometimes, they came rushing in as family,
and sometimes they came slowly,
a little formally, a bit watchfully,
somewhat officially.
At times they came in fiery fascination
and yet, ever so often, they were charged
with marauding indignation.
Many times they arrived as blazing ambition,
but more often than not, combusted the flamboyance
leaving behind an ashen illusion.
Oh.....those craving larvae
of oblique, wily opportunities.
❋
The foliage was feverishly guzzled
till photosynthesis was no more possible.
From my distant window from where I had once
watched her variegated flair,
I felt the Poinciana moan in simmering despair.
❋
With biting sensitivity, I still look on, a tad tearfully,
as she continues to tumble into conscious torpidity.
My words may slip and sway, as with each wilting leaf
after each withering floret, she progresses towards
an abject decay;
imploding methodically, and transposing gradually
from being the flame of the forest
to being a sprouting forest of flames.
Jan 22, 2020
Jan 22, 2020 at 9:11 AM UTC
latent energy I wish I had: cold hands
stick to themselves in subzero, sticky with
regret and stagnancy: too many stags running about
harbingers of doom and gloom
eden's garden disintegrating at the sight of
the new bloom: wind beating in my eyes
turning around trees and warping leaves
train stations leading nowhere
thoughts compressed into bullets
and backwards thinking: could you tell me where we are, please?
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 7:00 PM UTC
The departure gives meaning to the absence.
Because absence alone means
disintegration.
And holding on to absence
Putrefies the heart.
Because you are giving pieces of yourself
To a black hole.
So when they left,
You were gifted with a decision:
To move to the left, where nothing feels right
Or to dream of the right, where they never left
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 7:35 PM UTC
*bad designs have already been built.
on the verge of collapsing from all the guilt.
aged and longstanding no wonder we face the inevitably,
as what has been built will now dwindle away as ironically,
wilted petals will do the same,
disintegration of what we had is defamed,
a shattered frame never goes addressed,
with too many problems we just left,
but I guess maybe it was best.
we lost everything,
and still never learned anything.
we have nothing left to say.
just the rusted frame like our doorway,
we don't have to knock to be heard.
but watch your step so nobody gets burned.
because it hurts as memories flood in,
making you cry as tears scorch your skin,
you begin wondering what could of been.
and then you stop,
and drop into the doorway as you take the mats spot,
your the one fading into the wreckage,
sinking away fast before you can find a new direction.
Shattered and vanishing away,
but you never left the rusted doorway,
your looking to escape the battered zone,
you know your grown,
enough to handle the pain on your own.*
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 10:12 AM UTC