"addendum" poems
Shamans, in an attempt to find a word that all cultures could understand, to represent, universally, the subject; married the languages by root.
Each attribute or thing that the beast is said to do, have or have power to do or over is found as a definition in a language of the individual roots.
Take Sanskrit for instance. "Dra," is "water and combine it with Sumerian, "Gun, Gon," and you get a "water-born," beast who "writhes, twists or wraps around," which is the Ouroboros Serpent as shown in ancient images.
The secret to all ancient myth or religion is in interpretation of language into foreign languages over time.
And, yes, it is very creative, appears complex due to time but is just humans trying to describe observable nature.
None of it is meant to be taken literally unless you literally live six thousand years ago and speak in an ancient tongue.
Addendum
* Keltic, "Con, Kon," makes the Dragon, "All-knowing." *
And we know from Plato that Greeks
stole their root words from the Celts.
Plato's own words in,
'The Cratylus.'
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 5:23 PM UTC
In my mind, I raced against time
I smoked peyote with the Apache
I chased Kangaroos
Through the bush with the Aborigine
All the while
...I searched for the power within me
In my mind, I outpaced time
I drew cave art with the Neanderthal
I climbed to the top of the mountain with the Sherpa
I hunted seal out on the frozen tundra with the Inuit
All the while
...I searched for the power within me
In my mind, I eclipsed time
I wrote poetry while under the tutelage of Langston Hughes
And I created visual greatness while apprentice to Gordon Parks
I even stood on the wall with Che' Guevara, like a Sentry standing watch
All the while
...I continued searching for the power within me
In my mind, I turned to face time
I wrote an addendum to the Emancipation Proclamation
And I saw the ugly truths
Of freedom's farcical Declaration
All the while
...I continued searching for the power within me
In my mind, I embraced time
I sought to free my nation from the pandemic perils of *******
And I prayed that we Americans would be free of
The snares of racial and economic divide that still has us chained
I did this while searching for truth, in this, our most tenuous hour
...then empyreally, God reached for me, touching me, and I finally found my power
* Reprinted from 'Exegesis a Decade of Poetry by Mekael'
© July 14, 2009 by Mekael Shane
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
You-will-not-lie, -bed-chambers-long,
For I, -am-coming-to-get, YOU!
Clawed-through-the-dirt, -up-the-roots,
I am here, -come-to-get, YOU!
Followed-tree-roots, -that-sweet-smelling-Earth!
Here now! -It's time-to-forget-YOUTH.
*HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
Aha Ha Ha Ha, -The Goblins Attack!!* *
*Grab-you-and-cover-those-murmuring-cries.
Drag-you-away, I have got, YOU!
Hungry-I, watering-mouth-glistening-eyes!
Bundle-of-joy, I have got, YOU!
Jump-down-tunnel-for-you-are-my-prize.
Look-at-you-now, my-sweet-tasty-meat-PIE!
*HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
HALLOWEEN THIS! HALLOWEEN THAT!
Aha Ha Ha Ha, -The Goblins Attack!!*
Addendum: The name appears to be an amalgamation etymologically of roots from Greek, Sanskrit and Sumerian. If, of course, you choose to translate it that way. I assume Plato to be an authority on the Ancient Greek's tendency to combine the words of multiple mythologies sharing similar characters linguistically. The purpose of the hyphenation is to suggest the tempo and speed of the rhyme's cadence.
Kalikantzaroi
'The Demon's of Earth'
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC
.
*And so he sits
once more
folding his life
into an origami box.
Paper walls,
cellophane ceilings.
Counting out syllables.
Sequenced
to twist-fuck the mind.
And quietly
he sits
ghosting the room.*
© Pagan Paul (04/03/19)
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 5:55 AM UTC
If you had the opportunity to live a high-risk lifestyle, would you?
I'm not asking this to be derogatory, nor to be accusatory
I simply want you to think on
what it is
to live a high-risk lifestyle.
As a mass, we seem to think of it as an undesirable thing.
Now, isn't that just ******* quaint?
Probability favors a percentile:
That which is unique enough
to leave it's mark
on our realm.
That includes us.
Risk, unless done in ignorance, is the acceptance of probability
More specifically, the pursuit of the more improbable chance.
Perhaps when you think of high-risk, you think of constant parties
perhaps of ***** needles, and/or STIs
unprotected *** or doing psychedelics
but I ask you to ponder
just how high risk Life is to begin with:
Some wish to claim that Life is a granted gift
by some benevolent Father figure who has our back, (but not theirs)
but I say that's just selfish, arrogant and, frankly, quite foolish to claim.
This Universe was not made for us and us alone
as if we were some sort of Sims for a bipolar teenage boy on *******
We were not molded after anything intelligent
with the exception of the Universe and her Nature itself.
The probability of the Universe existing is not %100.
The probability of the particular combinations of atoms within the strands of DNA in your body
are not "guaranteed" to occur. Ever.
But they did.
They. Did.
They.
*******
Did.
As if the Universe were the soil to the roots of our existence
and Her Energy is as the water to the roots
and her Chemistry allows it all to happen.
And her physical laws, for lack of a better term, allow that to happen.
On top of that, you ******* exist! You! In particular!
With your experiences, thoughts and feelings, insights and interests, passions and even DNA!
You! Wonderful, temporary you!
Mortal you. Ethereal you. Spiritual you. Intrinsic you. Extrinsic you.
You exist, if nothing else, in a relative way.
There is no way to be certain.
What are the friggin' odds on anything existing at all, let alone you?
There is no way to be certain.
If you could bet on your existence, would you?
There is no way to be certain.
Nothing is granted; everything is permitted by the brain.
There is no way to be certain.
Perhaps it is deeper than that. I hope and think so,
yet, there is no way
to be
certain.
~Addendum!~
Statistically, about 93% of people accounted for by census information who have lived-
have died.
Statistically, that gives you a 7%ish chance of surviving this life!
That seems like a high-risk Life, to me.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
Right now, my mind...
Is the proverbial popcorn machine.
Every little thing that bothers me is
likened to a kernel.
And to make popcorn, you need lots...
Bucketloads of kernels.
Dump them all in the machine.
Let them whirl.
They sit layered on top of each other
undisturbed,
on the hot bed until...
The spindly metal arms begin to rotate...
Whose sole purpose is to agitate.
Buttered with debilitating insecurities.
Sprinkled with irrational fears.
Heated with erratic temperament.
And here come the arms again.
Rotating,
churning,
inciting.
No one knows when the kernels
are going to cave and rupture.
Then...
"Pop!" would go one.
Then another...
And another...
Soon they would all start to explode.
When that happens,
I do too.
••••••••••••••••••••••
Addendum
••••••••••••••••••••••
I love popcorn.
And I don't like to share.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
The blind Parisian has never seen the tower, or the lights that illuminate his city of birth
The deaf Italian never heard the opera, or Core 'ngrato from a Tuscany street corner
I never looked into your eyes and saw the cosmos
I am distracted by the power of corporate America
The unflinching pacifist still stands atop a suit of armour with his arms outstretched
and Syria rejoices as the stench of liberty matches gun powder and familial genocide
Oh western world, have you forgotten your past so soon?
Explain to the deaf man how her voice sounds
or
Explain the colour spectrum to a blind child
and then deny the tears that water your cheek
Tell the dyslexic that words are meaningless for it gives him comfort
and turn your back on the monetary religion of which we are indoctrinated
Take your ******* industry and bring it to it's submissive knees
Your weapons too, they are a disgrace
Empathy is universal
Love is blind
[Cliche]
[Cliche]
End.
A return, or a refrain, addendum to the ideas thenceforth
It's enough to leave a man crying in his coffee, Starbucks specialty
**** your poets, burn your books and gouge your eyes
This world is not broken, we are.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
The *** stood stars on end, so to,
whispered, “play with me,” and in
haste we fled. We explored,
discovered, and devised something
bright, half something else sinister,
notarized – black roots pinned a
pink-scorched Mohawk, and
reciprocated, my wild “Mao-Mao,”
or so she’d named the hair on my
arms. The moon endured whilst we
knifed each other with each and
every gasp and sutured wounds left
prior lovers. I’d only come across
her name near the end, “Xiaolian,”
though the tattoo ‘top her leg, told
me, “Lola.” Come what mothers
christen us innocent would be a
poems in and of themselves,
addendum, the delirium aged and the
dance of neon atop our waterfall
soaked bodies - epic.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
#As the first drop fell on me
I looked up at the black canvas
gathering and rumbling ominously.
But there was supposed to be another
not far
but right over my head
to defend me against the weather
pattering insane
between me and the rain.
*Did I by any chance
leave my umbrella here, sir?*
I ran to the shopkeeper.
We all suffer this predicament
was his smiling statement
*losing grip over our mind
letting things be left behind*
and then came the mischievous addendum
as if my trouble had inspired his mood
*go for good
once you let them go
woman and umbrella
they never again show.*#
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 11:35 AM UTC
I wish I was strong
I wish I was strong enough to get out from under the comfort of my sheets
Or the warm water washing over my body in the shower
I wish I was strong enough to open my books,
Instead of listening to the same five songs again
I wish I was strong enough to get over a loss,
Be it a failed exam or a boss I can’t beat in a video game
I wish I was strong enough to help my friends
Because that's the person I strive to be
I wish I was strong enough to keep that job
…
I wish I was strong enough to like my own works
But it’s hard to when they look like this
No rhyme scheme or metaphors
Only thing this poem has got going for itself is that repeating stanza
Real clever or whatever
You call it slam poetry
But you might as well call it sham poetry
Slam poetry
Because you need to be slammed drunk to enjoy your poems
And don’t even pretend like you didn’t notice
How no one seems to give a **** about this
This series of ‘works’ that you’ve been putting out
Where all you do is ******* swear and shout
At yourself
******* hell
I bet your last line would have been
“I wish I was strong enough to love myself.”
Boo ******* hoo
Too ******* bad
Because you’ll only love me the moment you realize
That what I say is true
I’m not gonna say that I’m only rude
Because I love you
I hate your guts too
much for something so…
Sappy
You’re a bit of a sentimental, right, boo?
If sentimental meant pushover
Criticism!
Sorry, didn’t mean to scare
Oh wait, no, I don’t really care
Because even you’re aware
How you’ve locked yourself in an echo room
And the moment someone tries to break through…
“Don’t worry, I can take it.”
And then you write something edgy like this
You can’t take advice for ****
Because that’s your ******* deal
You’ve got tonnes of people giving you the advice that you need to heal
And you ignore every single one of them
Acquaintances, friends, family
And what about me?
DO I REALLY NEED TO ******* YELL TO GET THROUGH TO YOU
But It’s pointless anyway
You’re on auto-pilot already
Just cut the act and write your cringy addendum poem
We’re done here
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 3:55 AM UTC
This title, this challenge,
Has rested uncomfortably in IPad memory,
Storage unit for Poems Needing Composition,
Unwritten, unanswered, needy for resolution.
Today is a good day to answer.
You are the pause between my breaths,
A ledge to rest on, a stepping stone,
Without you, there is no next one.
You are audience faithful,
Scribbles, wordplay, jokes horrible,
Official Storer/Inspiration Sorcerer of my unending script.
You are shy critic, unwavering,
Deft, with feminine oversight,
Knowledgable proven, when silence, best.
You overfill my AM coffee cup,
The mug that advises sagely,
Be calm in you heart.
You overfill my PM cup nightly,
Knowing that even tho, can't sing or dance,
I need to, can do, can't do w/o you.
So lest, mistaken grievous,
You think, highly erroneous,
This poem is NOT about me babe,
This poem is entitled,
You,
How Much, Owed,
You.
Lest the answer be poetically muddled,
On this day, perfect weather, perfect clarity,
Unashamedly Everything.
Sept. 15th 2012
In bed, 8:22 am
NYC
---------------
Addendum June 29th 2012
This old soul loves you more. He cannot believe his good fortune,
This June, this one more perfect afternoon, my heart importunes,
Love my poetry like I love thee, and we will have the most
Perfect Union
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
My friend calls me and tells me that this time around we need to re apply for our jobs after quarantine.
I tell her ********
You see, I am not joking. I mean it.
I got tired of people treating me the way the want.
Now I will get treated the way I want.
My work place sends me an addendum.
They want to cut salaries despite the fact that we've been working full time despite the pandemic.
I hear it is up to 50%
You see I am a teacher.
When a pandemic happens I still follow my timetable.
I show up and teach, and call or email those that aren't showing up.
And tell them to show up.....
So I say ********
I cannot sign something I do not agree with.
This guy I used to date started texting me.
He says he hasn't been with anyone because of the pandemic.
He says I am his best option 'right now'
I say ********
I turn off my data and go to bed.
You see I am no longer available for your entertainment.
I once 'dated' this American white male who told me I wasn't supposed to have an opinion....
I text people I like now..... that really really like me back
When my boss calls me.
She doesn't say hello or check if I am well.
She goes straight off to yelling and screaming.
I say ********
I turn off my phone and move on with my life.
Because despite falling apart and feeling so lost most days in this pandemic.
I did show up and do my job
So when she learns to communicate, I will talk to her.
I applied for a job, no jobs where they told me..
the problem is my nationality.
Not my papers, experience or inability to perform...
In fact before I told them where I am from, they told I could make a good addition to the team.
Until I turned out African.
So I say ******** when your online course says it will open global opportunities for me.
Because the world is 'woke' now.
African Americans can chant 'Black lives matter'
Their voices are heard and the world chants with them in solidarity.
So this is me whispering
That my Black life matters too....
My voice, my thoughts and opinions matter too....
And hoping the world will hear me too one day
And stand with me in solidarity.....
I'm not angry, I am just fighting for my rights.
Jun 8, 2020
Jun 8, 2020 at 8:37 AM UTC
Wasp addendum
More than out of and
Quote the finality, well to avoid...
A sting that churched a brassy man
Wasp substantial
Adding the heed, of couth and comparison
Does a reach for time, understand arousal?
Quiet time searching for youth, that knows the question...
Wasp divine
Kiss and kindred, the tools of solemn tone?
Enchastened with a host, too cursory to be orders vision
We hear the spoil of the wind, become a new loan
Wasp merciful
Craving a thought, to tell a tale kept
By the unity we foresaw, a heard bliss still...
Was a chance meeting with a yearning fate, bereft?
Wasp earthen
Where souls intertwine, the taste of home
Is a careful wish, foreseen in the earning?
Or should might, take the time to intend guidance as done?
Wasp witnesses
The tow of commonness, in the voice of salutations
Memory served, the break of justice in a winds shade
Here to fore, timidity is a challenge, for a truer intuition...
May 9, 2023
May 9, 2023 at 9:29 PM UTC
Dearest Patty m.,
we admire, admit to raw nailed jealousy
when we read the works superior
with the greatest worn scruffy complementary compliment
a poet
can give to
another scribe
*How I wish I had written that,
those very words!*
confessing before the world
with our own humility
at the daily dawning of
realization that
morning brings freshness and
insights needy for release and
aborning and the trace of humiliation
that we’ve all ready
been breached bested
by others,
once again…
BUT
we do not bow!
no courtly arm sweeping,
back bent, at best
a nod of a head
then
privately
we gasp, rent our clothes,
throw the body flat to the floor,
observing seven days of mourning
reserved
for when we morning moan,
daylight groan and loan out our
croissant moon mooing cries to
bemused muses
in the clouds supervising,
as tears of, an admixture of,
an elixir of joy, compassion
and thus refreshed by someone’s
new infant’d christening
we ***** we resurrect, gamble,
throwing ourselves complete like dice,
in to a roll of
stunned stupor of high inspiration
and then make out best work
ever yet
but never do we bow, scrape,
bend the knee, maybe the head,
we mourn our lesser failings
and smile as we flash words
from our eyes,
stored in our mindsets,
our, my best, will
always be yielded up
next
——
addendum
———
seven years ago
in a separate guise,
he ssid it differently
maybe better?
:<•>
epilogue
read my face
incapable of,
deprivation
but how now silent
bow my head to Will
for teaching the way of words
traced upon
a fool or a king's tongue,
two too human,
so that poet may ken
his senses keener,
all for the better,
for the betterment of all
Feb 23, 2025
Feb 23, 2025 at 1:57 PM UTC
It's only been one year,
five months, twenty-three days
since we met; I know I must have
sounded crazy. Maybe if I wrote
that now, it wouldn’t seem so odd.
I could have made a mistake, looked
back and felt my face flush.
I could have been exaggerating.
We could have been long gone. But
I know that it’s not hyperbole. I
know that I was right. I wasn’t just
the crazy girl – I was so precise.
That was before we’d fought,
and I’d cried, and everything felt
terrible; that’s only made me love
you more. I cannot always express
myself. I can be so uncouth.
But I know what I feel,
and what I feel is devotion.
See? I’ve always
felt this way.
I always will.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 1:25 PM UTC
I.
She waits in the shade
Of a best-loved oak,
Where he once carved their names inside a heart:
"This means forever."
II.
The heart needs tending
--she visits from year-to-year.
Her security, a vow.
His constraint, a contract.
She made to open the door but he detained her,
A perjury.
Pruning stems, branching
--cognitively speaking--
Dead or alive.
III.
The landscape has changed:
This place no longer holds water.
Listen now for love's addendum,
Measured in the signal-to-noise ratio.
(You'll hear it all the time).
IV.
Oh, painfully leafless gray meadow.
Sufferance is a viable timekeeper,
When it storms the weak run for shelter.
Oct 21, 2019
Oct 21, 2019 at 6:36 PM UTC
My loss is my burden alone to bear
In sacrosanct equanimity
But sympathy does come calling
In drips and drabs to attenuate my pain
Great talk shows seen
Some lend me their eyes to weep and wail
But vanish fast like a ghost seen at noon
Cos none knows as I do the depth of the pain
That I bear
The pain of sympathizers is on their flesh
As water poured on rock
Mine embedded in my bone
And feeds on my marrow
Family won't invite us,
My pain and I together,
To a breakfast meeting
My peers won't
Invite us to a business lunch
Friends won't invite us to a dinner
Cos the world stops not for anyone's
Tragic loss and accompanying grief
It is like an aircraft in flight
That ought to land for its passengers to alight
And one passenger I am
Swathed in the turbulence of this jet
Being baptised by unruly weather
Sympathizers are like car owners
On pleasure trips who could pull up
At every turn to attend to their fancies
My loss is my burden alone to bear
Not yours whose feeling stands
Aloof akimbo as I howl,
'My brother, oh my brother,
Why leave me so early
Heaping in my heart monumental pain? '
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 6:40 AM UTC
i'm simply very honest *
with everything
& literally say whatever's on my mind
poems
are actually what happen
when i think
about what words to put where
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 12:42 PM UTC
I carry wind with addendum as though a seed has thought
only such food she'll shine again with a shore repository
as a companion in foot massage deeper inside
if mistaken identity may press her soul
that spice up this time does visit one bellwether chore of making love
yet still time those players melt their ardor and repose their splatter
in a kingdom yet found in traces of love those denizens wild cat demands so taboo again that heat with detraction of Liberty.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
I have never met someone as beautiful as you.
I can’t believe you are going back to China.
I can’t believe that I will never see that face again.
I can’t believe I didn’t at least try, at some point.
You are leaving forever.
Every day I stared at you in awe.
But that was the problem - I just stared.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 2:09 PM UTC
_'Actually, my friend in Taranaki makes the stars. I combine them with my own elements and string them into garlands,' wrote Makery. There was an element of apology about her words. As if she’d been rumbled. As if someone had confirmed the voice of self-doubt that whispered in her ear, 'Who do you think you are, calling yourself an artisan?'
Stringing things together is applied artistry - whether it be words, Scandi-style stars, or fairytale mushrooms threaded on candy coloured twine. We are all hunter-gatherers who construct our creations from discovered elements. Some transmute received knowledge into constructed knowledge. Others beachcomb lexica for found syncretic treasures. All aspire to contribute to the infinite compendium of human self-expression, to create something which says, 'This is who I am.' With the silent addendum, 'I hope you like it.'_
May 19, 2020
May 19, 2020 at 2:07 AM UTC
Why do you seem to hate me?
Is self hatred not enough?
I do not need your feelings towards me too
I can handle it on my own
One’s worth of bitter swirls
Of sharp and pointed words
Are way past enough
The daily equivalent
Of an unbalanced diet
Maybe you do not realize
What passes through my head
The part of me that sometimes
Thinks it would be easier if I was no more
That denies the selfishness of the act
Despite the fact
No matter how much hate
I know there are some
That love and care for me
And my death would tear apart
But it hurts so much to think
You are only using me
I am good enough to do this and that
But never good enough
To make you prideful
That I am your born from your *****
Instead one-hundred and ten
Is never enough
You want every last morsel
Of my attempts and efforts
Why am I never good enough?
I want to get along
But I can not simply watch
As your missiles pelt my skin all over
And break my heart
Or fill my mind
With an addendum of scorching lies
Like you it is in my nature
To fight back when I am fired at
You must call the battle off
Because I can not back down
Every time I have tried to drop my shield
To let us be on good terms for once
You have taken advantage
Of the opening in my armor
What does it matter though?
I have been fighting the bullets for so long
More than you know has gotten through
I am more broken than you realize
A surrender is not on the horizon
I will not give up the fight
Instead the bullets fired
By both outside and inside threats
Will have to bring me to my end
So stop the war now
If you love me in the least
Stop pretending you are like the other’s
And be what your title says you are
I need you to build me up
Even though it is you
That assisted in tearing me down
Because no matter what
It is your approval
That I seek
Every single night in my dreams
And in the day
So pretty please
Show me that you love me
Before I give up all hope
And you are embarrassed
That your only female offspring
Has been destroyed
And you held one piece of the key
To lock the new armor
And start her over anew
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 10:06 PM UTC
air colder than it is heavy
heaviness attached to memories
of shinny games played
with friends playing like
stars players of the day.
The names changed but the
friends didn't, the rivalries,
were more than East to West,
but who was seen as the best
on ice or roadway on that day
in our surreal play.
Ball, sticks and net,
the best game yet,
on suburb roads, icy or clear,
competition was intense, no fear,
like losing once,
to win again another time, the next night.
It wasn't about victory or loss,
it took skill and staring across,
at your opponent, to make him
look away and maybe give in,
before the game began.
street lights and stars lit our arena
found on Silivia or Olivia
framed in two curbs of concrete
the game was never called on account
of rain or snow or ice, we only
paused for
when some one called,
"Car!",
a goal or to chase the ball shot out of
bounds, (you shot or touched it
last it was only fair,
you chased it down...
all the way down the street)
Of course we lost our stars
when the parents called them
in for dinner... but even then
we stayed late knowing in the
cold our plate of food would be
warm,
as these memories,
wet jeans and socks, flushed
face, fingers and toes were
sometimes colder than
the frosty distance,
the empty streets,
the orange ball frozen so
it did not bounce,
but always either
made a mark, or
made its mark,
with the echo over
our heads in the
frosty air "Ggoooaaaalllll"
or not so subtle, "he scores!"
and the run back to your
team of friends and celebrate
the celebration seen on TV
on Saturday nights.
addendum:the cracks in the street where the tar repair didn't take,
holds my memories where I can see and touch and reach into them
once again.
©DWE092013
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 9:33 PM UTC
1.)
8/12/14 11:48 Pm
Breath in the smell
The smell of your smoking wrist
Burnt with the last razor not stained with blood
Smoke the demons out of the red blood cells
As if you lost the white in the sea of your own tears
2.)
8/14/14 4:59 Pm
I might as well been on the Great Wall of China
As you pushed me away
Because I’ve never fallen so hard, so fast
And I feel dead
3.)
8/14/14 6:23 Pm
I begged, I kept begging.
For what?
I have forgotten what I wanted.
I’m ashamed of crying.
Not for the tears
But the bruises left not by anyone
but myself.
I can point you to self afflicted scars
I can point you to the burns left inside my throat by a numbing agent Aka *****
I can show you the way my fist curls when I beat the pain out.
I’ll show you how ****** I am, eventually.
4.)
8/14/14 7:15 Pm
A sharpened knife & a pitch black room
Such a lovely couple
Just light a candle & watch in the dim flickering light as they make red passionate love.
It’s hard to miss, you can taste it in the air.
It’s almost like a bullet in the mouth ready to be unloaded.
Addendum, plot-twist; the passionate love is my blood.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC