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CK Baker Dec 2016
The napalan man in a violet cape  
descended the stair with a lopsided gait
a wretched procession, subscribers in cue
rattling off as they stream from the pew  

sounds and smells from a shadowy place
a catholic priest to gin up base
lanterns strung from bolted doors
cobbled streets and wooden floors  

stepping stones and iron bell
fortified by the citadel
hallowed halls and sepulcher
dragon cane for the horse drawn tour

castle turret,  archer holes
centaur scribed in chamber bowls
garden columns in courtyard view
the blood ballet and hullabaloo  

ancient tombs on warrior grounds
gods and saints who made their rounds
goliath still with battered scythe
knelt in prayer and mummified  

battle fires and crowds that roar
gallows, caves, abysmal war  
gargoyles flock the terraced *****
pearly gates to bring on hope  

serpents, snakes and burning ash
lava bombs and trident clash
mariners drift in absentee
as neptune rises from the Tyrrhenian Sea
Nolan Willett Apr 17
I would like to meet my true potential
I don’t think he’d be so provincial
I’d like for him to be influential
Maybe even presidential
And life would not be so abysmal
Hedonistic ways not quite so sinful
To friends and family essential
Words not so banal and artificial
But instead heartening and meaningful
Axion Prelude Aug 2018
Genuinely feeling hope for something good, and being lead by false hope to believe a lie as truth, are two different beasts

I don't hate myself for what I felt, or thought, but instead what I was lead to think was okay to believe

I was lied to, again; my words beckoned something I thought was genuine, and deceit was all that met me, just like every time before it

I'm sick of being here, of thinking anything gets better, because it's true that the those who spend their fortune at keeping an authentic heart for others will inevitably end up alone, indebted to those who only care of themselves

I give myself away too often, but only for what I objectively observe as being meaningful, but I'm afraid that closing off my mind will bring me to the dark place again, and I never want to go back there

I have no control of what someone believes or feels, nor do I know what that may be, all the same

I just take what I am given, if it seems and feels good; if it echoes compassion and sincerity, because that's exactly what I lack most

I hate being a slave to this paradox, but my freedom may only come with absolute truth

I have no more faith for that - I still hope; potentiality rings, but I know that's one sided on my end

A wish is a wish..
Knit Personality Sep 2016
The day is dismal,
Dark, and abysmal.
With all the humor
Of a brain tumor,
It laughs till it cries,
And lives till it dies.

O.O
Jasmin Mar 2017
Her life is a constant wonder
with soul incessantly wandering
the blues of the deepest voids,
oblivious of the turquoise-blue
it could've found in the shallow of the sea.

She has a mind that seems recondite,
abysmal and profound
she still searches for the meaning of each word
for, to her, it doesn't seem much wrong
maybe the reason she is not understood by many
is because she is not trying to be.

Life can be hard to decipher sometimes
one won't be certain of living
with the absence of existence
yet the other one is certain of existing
even without living.
Val Ajdari Nov 2013
Like a child enlightened by heightened curiosity,
So is a native poet by poetic luminosity.
A verse in sight and sound devoid of modern flair,
For poetic convention the poet does not care.
So, take this vague verse as one roaring rhyme,
And take it as verbiage very overdue in time.
Unjustly sunken voices the poet seeks to hear,
Battling a torrent history...above, below, and near.
This inquisitive writer infers a present too dismal,
As around an angry sea lies an origin; abysmal.
Rejecting fables history’s assassins inked true,
The writer seeks fair chroniclers, but wreckage was their due.
Sought is Illyria, a place far from here.
Land said "not to exist," but its roots still reappear;
Fabricated history most poets cannot fathom,
Quelled grandiose splendor serves political stratum.
Calling curious minds to ponder this heck of a theory,
First, consider the writer's roots with impartial query.
What the Illyrian believed in was a life well spent,
Not man-written "guidance" begging cents to repent.
Since Illyria’s rebel ship sailed onto history a fright,
Shakespeare's pen amorously inked the 'Twelfth Night.’
Around Illyria’s outskirts sly mythology prevails.
Modern Illyria’s pervasion of such mythology still fails.
So, how does one interpret Illyria’s butchered will,
As her Godless schism fibbing history faux fills?
Her feeble-minded native is essentially to blame
For their grand, deceptive role in the imperialist’s game.
Brutal eradication of Illyria’s vocal reason
Deem the native conspirator of ultimate treason.
So,  while the State buries the poet's piercing wits,
The treasonous dog barks, upon foreign command he *****.
The dog's filthy betrayal, painted by his foreign master,
Is an art to be repeated in future governing disaster.
In the European south roam these bad hounds of species,
Anatomical sketches of Europe's rear excreting feces.
A pile all imperialists eject with laxative ease,
A pile all imperialists still smear as they please.
Above Illyrian graves (those below made to inspire)
The ***** dog dances, blind to his own fate in fire.
This ****** work of art, not a site for you and eye,
Is an emblematic governance gagging an eerie cry.
As today’s political pawns (in corruption they engage),
Illyria’s distinctive scions remain fools on a stage.
Our bodies dance and sway like silly puppets at play,
Our minds confined to idiocy as the socialist's prey.
So,  a poet's jingle jangle on probing minds they should linger,
As besought are worthy scions who must leave behind a "finger."
Spenser Bennett May 2016
In false light reflected we stare deeply into eyes the same.
Searching for Truth and finding ourselves shimmering cold over the still lake alone unflinching in the weight of eternity and her majestic indifference; blink.
A madness of heaven reaching through the water below to stir the silent sleeper of your soul, come forth from your depths and breathe the silk air you once knew.
All is glistening in the not so distant morning where the sun roars ancient and abysmal.
Where once Truth sighed heavy into shadow she will once more open like the lily seeking her sky born love.
Despair fades from eyes now clear blue like the sky and the rain washes away anger like dust from your kissed skin.
We blossom into light petals of ultra green and hyper white and dance as the joyous breeze allows.
Soon the darkness must fall again and we shall curl away to forgive the fallacious star that drowns out so many more.
False light will search us for the desperate Truth we hide.
A waking dream that danced on the edge of my eyes into the bright warmth of the sun.
Valsa George Aug 2017
When in dark despair drowned
I was thinking, joy was nowhere around
A gentle breeze from the upland peaks
Came and patted on my cheeks

Softly whispering- ‘joy is here’

When the last ray of hope had been snuffed out
From the vapid plane of my arid heart,
A cluster of orchids, beautiful and ***
Smilingly nodding their heads on my way

Sweetly murmured- ‘joy is here

When I feared the earth was caving in
Under my feet with no chance to win
A butterfly with rainbow colors
Alighting on a bunch of flowers

Euphoniously hummed- ‘joy is here’

When all my yearnings got shattered
And sustenance alone was what mattered
The blazing sun from behind the hills
Wiping away all morbid chills

Affirmed beaming-‘joy is here

When I thought I was drifting afloat
Without any moorings on my boat
A crystal drop precariously balancing
On the serrated edge of a leaf dancing

Confidently chimed-‘joy is here’

When darkness settles on the scene
When life loses all tinge of green
When days seem inert and grey
Don’t be in a hurry to say
    
“Joy is nowhere around”

Before you jump to conclusions dismal
And write off life as abysmal
Wait to see the cycle of seasons change
From winter’s haze to spring’s lovesome range!
one day out of nowhere
the silenced inside simply found
a swift route to the outside

metal clink *******
words burst forth
telling stories I
did not know
I had in me

and ever since, I know
if I'm not inking myself
I'm hiding

from me

I can quit
for a while
but the longer I go
the stronger it grows

and more forcibly, terribly, it
makes its way up from my belly
when it breaks loose

I should know better by now
the repercussions of shutting down
thoughts lining up to ricochet
but sometimes

I just can't

when it makes me feel more
of what is already unbearable

when it all seems so pale
in comparison to abysmal palette

when I'd rather avoid
looking in the mirror...

I never chose
to be a writer

the words just surged
as soon as my fingers
found their home

just like it was
with us
is simply abysmal

no speech needed
With the longest government shutdown in US history, the obvious incompetence of the government needs not more words, but deeds!
Najla Jul 13
I’m accompanied by two tonight,
agony and her beloved insomnia

Nothing lives inside me any longer  
Perhaps I orphaned this heart of mine,
when I didn’t listen
to its desperate cries
in need for a shelter

Cursed with homesickness,  
an abysmal void grew within me
that’s where I found refuge
Natalie Aug 2018
Bosch is not like any man.
He eats his metaphysics raw.
Great and globular,
A sanguine fruit looms forth infinitely.
Stars, like gleaming berries picked,
Lay strewn across his astral dining set.

He breaks bread with the Abstract Entities,
Devouring the Earth and all its mortal sentiments.
He voices his distaste for the fibrous pulp,
Formless nose scrunched and curled
With loathing at the terrestrial filaments
Stuck between his teeth.

Bosch's belly is an endless hollow
Where darkness swallows light.
There is no air, no sound.
Its abysmal blackness knows no bounds.
His hunger insatiable,
He drinks in the Milky Way,
Eager to fill the emptiness
Of his ever-expanding void.
End
Life intolerable
Death inevitable
Desires insatiable
Things unreal

Words unspoken
Evil awoken
Vows art broken
Pain, thou feel

Fearless leaders shamefully hiding
Within cowards, still confiding
Helpless people slowly dying
Horrors thou hast never seen

Demons unleashed from their cages
Hellish, endless fire rages
Now unto the end of ages
Sins of all the world run free

Acts unthinkable
Power unimaginable
Disease incurable
Rots our souls

Gates of Wrath
Flank Satan’s path
Splitting in half
All he controls

Bowing to our God eternal
Pray to leave this world infernal
Careful not to wake nocturnal
Monsters of abysmal night

No response art thou receiving
Being led by hope deceiving
Finally, art thou perceiving
No escape, for all wilt die

Torture endless
Methods boundless
Leave thou breathless
Still afraid

Pain unending
Death descending
Hand extending
But betrayed

In this hellscape, thou art living
Only in the flesh existing
Forever art souls suffering
From the carnage surrounding thee

Abominations now released
To feed on fear and the deceased
Destruction shalt never be ceased
Souls ****** for all eternity
I wrote this from the notion of the end of the world...
Marla Feb 11
A patch of green
Meets the burning red
Of my skin,
It's morning dew
Slipping through my arm-
Into the Abysmal
Inner-workings
Of a soul hidden from view.
Blue skies with clouds of white
Hanging drearily above my eyes;
Gazing hazily at the ocean
That is our gentle sky.
Perhaps we are like fish-
Only we swim with more esteem.
Our sentience something profound;
Lonely we sit in wait of dreams.
They, however, pass us by,
Shifting through the cycles of life.
From the deepest darkness
Until the morning light,
Their thoughtless will fuels
Their primitive might.
So burn out your wick
As you thrash about the sea-
Exhausted and melting.
Whatever fire you extinguish
Will let the cool water sink slow.
Then the sun will surely rise
As it always has:
Above us all, through mighty fire.
Permit the stars into your life-
They will save you from false desire.
M C Sep 1
I live in an optimistic room.
A facade of shaped mirrors.
A shell that lingers, marked with scarred runes.
A hell where a demon lies
dreaming in his tomb.
Ambling about an amiss womb of ignorance
my nature is twisted.
I resisted a restless pessimist who has insisted
I entered into a house of horrors!
Where hubris is heavenly
and pain is pleasure.
Guilt is a given
and treachery means treasure.

My sins surround me.
Too slothful to even pluck the fruit
my gluttonous hunger devours
an empty hand.
In this way, pride and lust also follow suit.
My avarice is of envious repute,
but of the things I envy
I cannot refute.

One last forgotten folly.

An abandoned demand.
A deep,
abysmal
pit
is the seat of my soul.
Fiery wrath
now frigid.
Instead of a furnace
an empty
hole.
december grunge Nov 2018
death is an abysmal
that's floating in the abyss
moss on a tree's bed
the meaning behind this is hard to guess but it's really personal and I'm happy to share it.
If anyone cares i want to be more involved in the community and meet more people here feel free to pm me on here
Bradyn McCall Jul 10
support was the only thing separating him from keeping afloat and going down crashing under the waves ******* him into the abysmal chasm rendering anything caught in its clutches effectively useless

given hope he finds the strength to push on, step after step building himself back up, finding out who he truly is, dedication to success and glory all that fills his mind

but since that initial spark of support, what once was a wildfire burning so fierce nothing could penetrate it, was now barely more than embers in a torrential downpour, threatening to suffocate and extinguish that flame keeping him going

when that drop connected that flame died, and with that flame he did as well, thrown down the chamber of hell he was confident he could avoid, recklessly thrown around inside his own head as if he were nothing more than a chew toy used by a puppy starting to teeth trying with all its might to rip it into the tiniest pieces turning it into nothing but a sad co existence that can never be fully recovered

even when a new group pours gasoline on that flame, attempting to burn away all which thought to cool the embers of the once unparalleled fire, the heat does nothing more than graze the droplets, before extinguishing once again, torn at the seams, dulling to nothing more than a spark, and like nighttime in an overgrown forest, the flame dies, leaving nothing but darkness.
Serena M Jun 2018
All of the trees are safe tonight
Under the abysmal sky
The moon matures
There are stars in our eyes
And we are creatures of the divine light

The hunters, the poachers
Come out to **** my young
And they preach at the church by day
“In the name of the son”

By dawn, the sacred dew
Kisses the grass
Tears collect behind
My heavy, sleepless eyes
These twenty-three years, I never knew
Could not see through
Wisdom and lies
It’s all been a half-hearted compromise

In the grass I lay all day
Listening to my mother’s song
The heartbeat of the earth
Courses my inner streams along

I bathe with my kin by evening
In the ocean, the salt is healing
Wounds from latter days
By sunset, we all howl our praise

They are coming out tonight
It will happen all over again
But my wolves and I
We do not count the scars and weep
We protect our young
While your children count their sheep

All of the trees are safe tonight
Under the abysmal sky
The moon matures
There are stars in our eyes
And we are creatures of the divine light
A recent piece
Iskra Oct 2018
Should I get up?
Should I write down the things that were assigned,
Instead of spilling fragmented words and phrases
Turning round inside my mind?
I know I won’t be able to sleep either way
As I hold my breath and press my lips together
To keep the ragged gasps at bay

I’m shaking in a near imperceptible pattern
Infinitesimally small,
Only using the word because it’s yet another measure of my worth,
How much I can learn
It’s only October first
My bonds and binds are already breaking from the heat generated by my lack of sleep  
That’s right,
After one month

Can’t keep it all together,
Grasping at trickling time, desperately
Clinging to even the smallest things I like
Is it bad that I’m starting to master the abysmal art
Of crying silently?
Z Sep 2018
I want to be close to you like Mercury
to see your full glow
and brightness of your intimacy

I see you like a Venus
because of your unsurpassed beauty
and your unfathomable, abysmal kind of love

You are like the Earth
where living with you is not a problem
and with you it is always easy to breathe

I see your ardent desires like a red Mars
to fight a war to cover and protect me
even sacrificing your own life

You give a gigantic precious tenderness
and enormously unselfish affections
like a Jupiter

You give me snowball rings like Saturn
that gives remembrance to all the beautiful
things that we had been in the atmosphere
of treasured memories

Your warmhearted axis
that tilts on the rocky core of my life
is like in a deep ocean of Uranus
that clasps me with grasping arms

You are like the depth the Neptune brings
who takes me beyond the known
to what's alive only in my wildest dreams.

On a very far and infinite distance
deep into the darkness like Pluto
you are perfect to get lost with
nothing matters but You and Me
(A midnight liaison to appease an insatiate infatuation with the unknown and the abysmal).


Pallid flowers white as bone
Hang down heavily from the weight
Of their scent alone.

I inhale perfumes of death
Exhumed in luminous plumes
That drifts invisibly like mist;
From petal’d lips it pours
As ferns uncoiling, shiver.
Her whisper silently implores
And summons fungi from the floor.

Dancing on a blackened sea
A vibrant veil of emerald leaf
Conceals her ghostly glow beneath.
My femme fatale, a mystery,
To each nocturnal ear she sings.
A sweet miasma of insanity
Now rises with the moon.

With tenderness I pluck her down
And lay her there upon the ground.
I strip her petals, counting five,
Until in pieces there she lies.

Lets go far away, she said,
Or anywhere but here.
Then guided by the silver light
We sailed into oblivion.
Brugmansia is a genus of flowering tree from South America. All parts of the plant are as powerfully hallucinogenic as they are toxic.
renée Jun 15
what an abysmal life
me, beveling down its side,
you not existing,
me searching.
cold june searching lost sad
'Way from Kraken gurgle, Harpic Sarlacc, full-
throated Flush Monster, back to bed I'd hurry
during the weeing hours o' childhood mornindigo.
When Percy points at the porcelain, the porcy
lain points back at Percy.

Used & abused water
levelling
more than the icon, Sea, but at that age,
I don't suppose I was thinking
of fatbergs & rat kings,

****** miles of shiteating grim
fundus, universal bucket leaking in each
bubble's corner.
No carminatives, no angst, no Armitage H.
Shanks: incorporeal the wretch

Insta-famous. 'Dontcha believe it!'
answers the ****, the ****
of Om. Ad profundum,
do sewers need hellcraft?
Don't forget to...Baptismal epitaph

of **** is abysmal, craptismal
welcome to our round world
via u-bends sinister. Whole scatolocus
be curved crud, our home clod
w/ its bogs of cod.

But thru the eye of a needle our narrow
focus takes us
down the Euroshopper **** canal flannel channel
to where kermit quack deterges
(from a high grate) Kermit the Crocodile's scales,

wargreen as a black Atlantic gator.
I am the eggbound, goo goo
g'jobbie! But it's time to putaway such childish things:
in reality, the Ninja Turtles' HQ
is covered in poo.

& verrucas ebola ebolasalt logorrhea logonorrhea
semolinapilchard eczemacetera. Stereotypical-
ly British/puerile/Licean to
stir urea o' tepid pools,
torpid stools, fool-

hardy too, lest guileless sewage
triumfartly splurts
from madid, olid mouse 'oles.
Horizontal geysewers l/ foudroyant
hydrants of tempted fate,

rumble thy smellyful! Revacuate, adobe draftexcluders
miasmatic! Revoid, renal vino! & muckup halcyon
skirtingboards! A soapy bath concludes the
amphisbaenian
dirtyspines

coprocobraing in Pythagorrhea of ricoshite.
Feeshus lept, Jesus wept! Misfortune we miss
is the best luck, so thank Chod such an agitplop
contraflow of floaters against th'Effluent is
not forthplumbing. Eccrisis

is natural, nitrous, noxious
& necessary, our meconium island babies.
But nothing pooing is sweetsmelling nothing doing,
blows unblocked felicity in my
direction (an angel's cloaca of invisibility).
Aaditya Feb 23
The first rays of sun falling over
the pots kept on the windowsill
I can hear the flowers stretching
out after a nice, cosy sleepy fill.

"Good morning little ones", I wish
while watering them for the day,
I can sense them glee, "You too,
Mr. Nice Guy", I imagine them say.

Getting ready for a bath, I could feel
cold droplets of water splashing
over my body. My new soap
of lemongrass, smells refreshing.

The toaster tings with two pieces out,
And a bowl of milk with fruit loops.
Getting dressed for work, tying the tie,
Slipping the leather belt through the hoops.

A fresh pair of socks near my shoes,
so shiny, I could see my reflection,
I think I forgot to comb my hair, but
I am perfect with this imperfection.

Tap my car remote and it unlocks,
I sit in it comfortably, rev it up a little
Start driving on the road, straight on
but the distance seems abysmal.

It suddenly starts to darken in front,
The chills hitting me suddenly,
I wake up from my dream, still
in dark, feeling cold and in agony.
Andrew Mar 2018
One day I met a titular telepath
That made me do social math
After I took a brief bubble bath
Underneath his heavy hovercraft
That submerged my brain
Allowing no sign of refrain
Only the pain
Of the stain
Of his Rorschach test
Filling inside my crest

You cast a spell of thought on me
When you walk by so haughtily
I can't think
Only drink
Your Kool-Aid
Of a fool's blade

It should be considered a crime
The way you control my mind
I feel so pointlessly paranoid
And it's not the ****
You travel to an abysmal void
I just follow your lead

I live in a world of mass media
But you cut off my streaming
So I guess I won't be seeing them
And I can focus on dreaming
Of an amazing life starring you
And introducing happiness
I don't care how it's reviewed
The critics negate sappiness

I'm so afraid you will get rid of me
While I sit under your guillotine
That can't reach me in your grasp
But if I ever leave it'll be in half
I'm trapped in a precarious position
That I fear will carry us to collision
I put my ear to the ground and listen
For an approaching stampede
That will steal my cognition
Will those wildebeest thieves
Make a deadly incision?
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