#hells
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, the taste of hell makes us appreciate a life in heavens:)<<<33333
now the moral I view me
blind eyes open wide for the destined sea
heartbreak from a nonexistent lover or them harmonize
would never fail a cruel existence never restore I fantasize
gave the blood I lean blame to bleed
gave the ache I feel shame to plead
called the begs of the braided sirens
called the legs of the shaded horizons
knew the death of me anticipated on hope
just from that **** embraced on October eloped
sure getting rid of the brown brushed one face
what I regret is the hell of before brutally fazed
------ravenfeels
Jun 4, 2021
Jun 4, 2021 at 5:58 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, just take a moment and appreciate the long journey that you've survived-it's the glory of a lifetime you can't sell nor buy;>
look how far have you gone
childish plays and dolls now all defined a woman grown
stars you wished upon did not shoot the shot you scored
yet gave you a lot than wisdom of twinkles and more
even better for a future of a strong self and bold
all those lonely nights in the lousy storms
turned out to be embraced by your daemons to a joyous old soul
one of a kind with struggles that no one knows to cherish to hold
ought for you to breathe and live and carry and mold
on your own blossomed and snowed
through summer bosoms and winters and highs and lows
through hells and heavens and sweet merciless hollows
anticipate in you a tomorrow of fruitful stores
things to save up for the upcoming open doors
--------ravenfeels
Apr 26, 2021
Apr 26, 2021 at 3:24 PM UTC
And the knowledge of the hedgerow plant, I found embedded in leaf veins ... like in mine, etched along blue lines of a notebook. In the ripples on the remnants of water that pooled, before the mudflats claimed them are the striations of ol'butot near Naivasha. His stories tell of caves, a gleaming obsidian of a pre historic introspection. Do forty day fasts suffice to exorcise the springs of sulphur or the forced baptism of a flash flood washing six souls to Hades ? The sun glinted at me through a narrowness of fate, a gorge of interminable seconds and I marvelled at the strata of time in a warp, for it blurted out a moan.
Love spoke in nuanced layers of molten flow that crawled to stillness. Can I not say that stone speaks? A couple of hundred years back in time, self titled discoverers had seen land that had not been unseen by the thousands who lived for thousands until then. So yes, the strata spoke to me, like the striations in the leaves and the lines that were everywhere telling stories of interminable seconds. Time grooves like a death valley in an engraving, etched like a memory of that which has never been, ripples on sand, circles on water,
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 10:49 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, leaving a chapter in your life behind is hard:\\
aiming for the wants in avoiding the open door
that hasn't come nor to a closure nor to a snore
the abandoning makes my caged up daemons free in a temptation
a soured up cheese rottened to the core in no sensation
left for once for me to hate me an ever
blinded by the selfish pride-that stubborn is dying never
an await will not heal will not become a miracle
don't desire the heavens when the hells are your lyrical
-------ravenfeels
Apr 8, 2021
Apr 8, 2021 at 6:25 PM UTC
I curse my head,
I curse my body
To make me walk through spiralling hells
From the soft sheets of my bed.
Ashes of my past to choke my lungs,
Dark mud to dirt my mind
To shiver with the wind of my dissatisfaction,
And sweat under the heat of anger.
Sep 19, 2020
Sep 19, 2020 at 11:24 AM UTC
Neither do I believe in heavens,
Nor in any sort of hells,
But I do believe that after we die,
Our souls will definitely travel by
Jun 15, 2019
Jun 15, 2019 at 11:56 AM UTC
First level was simple denial,
I argued with myself for awhile,
counted each and every bathroom tile
while I waited until sedated so that I could smile.
I felt the anger twinge inside myself,
I cursed all the time spent seeking wealth,
and bathed in loathing for my careless lack of health,
and my inability to ever ask for much needed help.
They say no one is ever ready to die
and there's always regrets when you go,
but when my number's up I won't try
I won't fight; I'll have no punches to throw.
Five stages and seven hells,
turn the pages and hope it sells.
Next was bargaining but I had nothing to give,
no reason to be here, no reason left to live,
but I took my chance on a lie a and fib,
and offered up my heart along with a shred of rib.
Every layer always gets warmer,
until it surely burns your skin,
you'll find the next is worse than the former,
is this the punishment for sin?
They say no one is ever ready to die
and there's always regrets when you go,
but to say life is short would be a lie,
'cause some of us just feel it's too slow.
Five stages and seven hells,
open the cages and ring the bells.
Depression walked in like an old friend,
it was no big change, there was no letter to send.
I realized I was defective with no chance to mend,
my spine officially broken even though I didn't bend.
Then acceptance finally washed over me,
with a conclusion some things are just not meant to be,
I didn't bow my head or fall on one knee,
words can't describe that feeling of being free.
They say no one is ever ready to die
and there's always regrets when you go,
I hope to find a comfortable home in the sky,
or atleast in soil for something else to grow.
Five stages and seven hells,
I'll live through the ages, constantly shedding my shells.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 5:33 AM UTC
Sunborn scales of the Imperial Dragon
whose body is entwined in a purple cloud.
His feathered tail whips around with vibrant colours as it
is like the peacock's beloved eye of the Emerald Seas.
With coiling whiskers of fiery carnelians
and eyes born of liquid sunrise
whose roar rattles the sky and cracks the Pearl Moons
and out pours the Virtues of Harmony, wingless dragons
who dance to the music of the Heavens and it rains silver feathers,
wind-beaten. Sweet, soft, feathery wishes that perch on my
shoulders that brings me tranquil seas.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 3:44 PM UTC
Her heavy eyelids, her mouth shut tight.
A stare that could pierce through ribcages, through pumping organs, through spine.
Her lips were stained with an artificial tint, the same warmth of her own blood.
Her every step was guided by a strange beat of dark chocolate-flavored symphony.
She was there, and not there at the same time.
Venus burns like hell's fire.
When she ran out of tears, she turned into ice.
It was the same dark cloud that found a home in her brain.
It was the same garden of cacti that hangs in her hair.
It was the same piece of rock that blocks her throat.
It was the same mess of dead butterflies, trapped in her lungs.
The only difference was that she finally learned how to dance.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC