#loudly - Hello Poetry

What happens when you try to break the backs Of backs that are already familiar with and have adapted to the pain of being trampled on? What happens when those backs have adapted to the pain of breaking and aching and Making themselves as hard as stone and as flexible as water? What happens to us? Our backs become bridges. Sometimes, they become gates, or tethers. They leak. They reek. They break. They mend. They rust, Never do they break.

0

Jan 1, 2021

Jan 1, 2021 at 6:56 AM UTC

KNS

We Exist Loudly

What happens when you try to break the backs Of backs that are already familiar with and have adapted to the pain of being trampled on? What happens when those backs have adapted to the pain of breaking and aching and Making themselves as hard as stone and as flexible as water? What happens to us? Our backs become bridges. Sometimes, they become gates, or tethers. They leak. They reek. They break. They mend. They rust, Never do they break.

13

"ANOTHER POISON ADDICTION" he was screaming loudly in the dark room, give me some rope now i need to hand"please" he was calling death after being disturbed by his life, he was screaming loudly in the dark room. he didn't have any chance to live anymore, he had neither money nor wine in his hand, his family were now left to die after being upset by him, and locked him in the dark room. he screaming loudly but nobody wanted to hear him, he was loud bite in the earth surface, his alcoholic addiction made him so shocked today, and wanted to leave everything in the dark room. but now he has no one..... everyone troubled by his addiction left him to die, he was loud bite in the earth surface. and waited for death in the dark room.

0

Jul 9, 2020

Jul 9, 2020 at 9:21 AM UTC

nidhi0987654321

''ADDICTION''

"ANOTHER POISON ADDICTION" he was screaming loudly in the dark room, give me some rope now i need to hand"please" he was calling death after being disturbed by his life, he was screaming loudly in the dark room. he didn't have any chance to live anymore, he had neither money nor wine in his hand, his family were now left to die after being upset by him, and locked him in the dark room. he screaming loudly but nobody wanted to hear him, he was loud bite in the earth surface, his alcoholic addiction made him so shocked today, and wanted to leave everything in the dark room. but now he has no one..... everyone troubled by his addiction left him to die, he was loud bite in the earth surface. and waited for death in the dark room.

17

You can raise your voice As loudly as you please I will only let my silence speak My silence is louder than your noise

0

Feb 24, 2020

Feb 24, 2020 at 7:17 AM UTC

Eyesarewise

SILENCE

You can raise your voice As loudly as you please I will only let my silence speak My silence is louder than your noise

4

I’m dead But I’m alive I see everything Still I see nothing I cry rivers But I smile I see colors through the day Still it’s the dark from the night I remember

0

Jul 14, 2018

Jul 14, 2018 at 4:17 PM UTC

yellow-soul

I’m dead...

I’m dead But I’m alive I see everything Still I see nothing I cry rivers But I smile I see colors through the day Still it’s the dark from the night I remember

8

I trace my finger around. With red lipstick on I wear the skin of the pets I had, looking like a marigold shot through the head, my bare skin is barbed in the back. Such trouble and quiet with the wrap-around, the cross-walk, and floral shop as I browse. The white elephant in the upstairs bedroom, is making it hard for every one of us to sleep. With this Africa becomes a disease, that I unwrap from a cotton white sheet. When I breathe life is going good, under the spells of wicked and word. I like to call out in the night, so with no response I can plead for the courage to think; all the suburban philistines try to help me, but I can't tell a joke because I cannot read. Every thing amounts to being fat. Or liquidated in the most pathetic singles party for Karl Lagerfeld. Numb fingers slur the words as I type telephone numbers that end in threes. I see a notice to be called upon, but it's hard to remember what day it is when your job only pays you in financial advice, "Don't do as I do, but please just do what I say." And I can smell that. The approach that a hunter brews in his midnight solemn cup of tea. Where a voice chimes in while a mouse runs out, dragging the corners of my eyes in a lagging meme, it doesn't do well to even be yourself sometimes, once while traveling I couldn't see. Come that morning I had left my hotel pass inside my favorite pants, black denim toting paint from a ******** shot, a picture that explains my disease. The fifty inch fan hums an anonymous tune that when I turn quickly towards it becomes this feral baboon. And is it hardly based on fact or is it the illusions and the myths that Christopher Robins struck inside of me. With his griseous hands made of soot and of gouache, that worshipped animals that wear clothes outside. And even sometimes there are z's that transform into other creatures that hum real fast and talk out loud in nursery rhymes, a Whatsit and a Woozel are totally, too much for me. I turn the fan off and lay back down, and fight the world off with hands from another guy, much braver than I who doesn't even have tattoos but he's the top wordsmith from Buckingham. What a beautiful treat and such a magnificent surprise that the elephant lays down to die. Of course that's when my mouth dries up with smoke and my voice turns into the vanilla flavoring that everyone hates, and then too I felt like laying down to die. But I'm not 97 like I had thought I'm quite sure that I'm still alive. The white moon shines into my bedroom window at night and I pretend that I direct for the sky.

0

Apr 26, 2014

Apr 26, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC

martin-narrod

Not 97 I Surmise

I trace my finger around. With red lipstick on I wear the skin of the pets I had, looking like a marigold shot through the head, my bare skin is barbed in the back. Such trouble and quiet with the wrap-around, the cross-walk, and floral shop as I browse. The white elephant in the upstairs bedroom, is making it hard for every one of us to sleep. With this Africa becomes a disease, that I unwrap from a cotton white sheet. When I breathe life is going good, under the spells of wicked and word. I like to call out in the night, so with no response I can plead for the courage to think; all the suburban philistines try to help me, but I can't tell a joke because I cannot read. Every thing amounts to being fat. Or liquidated in the most pathetic singles party for Karl Lagerfeld. Numb fingers slur the words as I type telephone numbers that end in threes. I see a notice to be called upon, but it's hard to remember what day it is when your job only pays you in financial advice, "Don't do as I do, but please just do what I say." And I can smell that. The approach that a hunter brews in his midnight solemn cup of tea. Where a voice chimes in while a mouse runs out, dragging the corners of my eyes in a lagging meme, it doesn't do well to even be yourself sometimes, once while traveling I couldn't see. Come that morning I had left my hotel pass inside my favorite pants, black denim toting paint from a ******** shot, a picture that explains my disease. The fifty inch fan hums an anonymous tune that when I turn quickly towards it becomes this feral baboon. And is it hardly based on fact or is it the illusions and the myths that Christopher Robins struck inside of me. With his griseous hands made of soot and of gouache, that worshipped animals that wear clothes outside. And even sometimes there are z's that transform into other creatures that hum real fast and talk out loud in nursery rhymes, a Whatsit and a Woozel are totally, too much for me. I turn the fan off and lay back down, and fight the world off with hands from another guy, much braver than I who doesn't even have tattoos but he's the top wordsmith from Buckingham. What a beautiful treat and such a magnificent surprise that the elephant lays down to die. Of course that's when my mouth dries up with smoke and my voice turns into the vanilla flavoring that everyone hates, and then too I felt like laying down to die. But I'm not 97 like I had thought I'm quite sure that I'm still alive. The white moon shines into my bedroom window at night and I pretend that I direct for the sky.

3