Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
ryn Oct 2014
Collab, collab! Oh thoughtful collabs!
Amalgamation of two unique minds,
Merging of dual thinking labs!
Cerebral workshop of life's diverse grinds!

Collab, collab! Reinforced true!
Melding of minds and honed crafts,
Mounted up with bolt and *****!
Assembled solid in monochromed poetic drafts.

Collab, collab! A trend that's trending!
A fad that now seems ever growing...
Each other's style we will be wearing.
Matching ensembles, yours for the liking.

Collab, collab! More of it please!
Ocean of creativity, pearls ripe for picking,
Journey for two across artistic seas.
Wonder who with next I'll be swimming...
Tribute to all collab attempts!
Keep it up people!!! :)
jane taylor May 2016
skilled
beyond the
greatest artist
or scientist

you are
to have
composed
the pieces just so

i see
what you had in mind for me
all along
god

my life
an amalgamation
a mosaic
immaculate montage

©2016janetaylor
Nassif Younes Feb 2017
You are my indigestible pain.
I let you in one evening
When my guard was down
And years later, you're still here.
It was easy for you.
You have a whole journey ahead.
An adventure where no turn is the same
And every step
Is a step towards the light.
I should have seen you for the deceptively sweet
Compressed amalgamation of useless waste
You really are.
I should have spat you out
As soon as your sugary veil had faded
And left you flat beneath the feet
Of the millions of people
Who would have done me better than you.
7 years, they say.
Great.
Just long enough for me
To forget
The lesson I thought I had learned.
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'
Kalikantzaroi came up through the earth from **** climbing the Tree of Life's roots escaping for only three days and nights once each year when the Sun appeared to descend in the same place for said time. That period was Christmas and the children who were bad had a choice; leave a present(gifts) on their doorstep or be pulled down by the Goblins.
It is a Greek fairy tale.

The speed of the rhyme is as fast as you can say it with loud pauses for the Halloween stop phrase. It is a metered rhyme.
After living a life in praise of sessioning
I'm left with an amalgamation of memories,
A blur of nights had and days that merge into
one; and I wonder whether I cradle that memory
too deeply, isn't it what I am‽
I remember thinking its infinity
so long ago, tripping into eternity,
Feeling a moment engulf the universe
in knowing I am free to remember this
anytime, anywhere. I worry about
whether a life spent sessioning
is for me, if these memories
aren't beyond me, and if
this questioning only
makes the present
burn as slowly.
Can anybody see the past within me‽
Cyan is the new white, and this prison
is finally comfortable. At last, I smell that stone ichor
as the rain brings it home; left memory, right alone.
lmbf Jun 2018
we are merely an amalgamation of atoms in the universe, floating around until we happen to collide, falling headfirst into someone else’s space.

i knew the moment we first met that there was something different about this girl. she made me feel almost...brand new. there was a reason she had come to visit me in my shattering stratosphere. why, i did not know then.

she was art but not just how art is nice to look at, to gaze, to admire. her magnetic energy instantly drew me in. but mostly she was beautiful because of all the worlds floating in that mind of hers.

i tried so hard to love her, i gave her all i could. comforted her in times of sadness, laughed with her about music and art and friendships and all the things good girl friends do.

i didn't realize what was happening;
but i loved her more than that, she never knew.
or maybe you did. maybe that’s why you pushed me so far away from you.

good girl friends don’t fall asleep at night thinking about how soft her lips would taste on theirs, pray to god for a ******* miracle to make her feel something, too.

she taught me that loving is both selfish and selfless. selfless because there is nothing i wouldn’t have done to see her smile again; selfish because the fatal flaw of human nature is that we do all things with the small, but secret hope that they will love us back. don’t try to hide it.

i think we both know:
i have loved you;
i let you go.
excerpt from 'good girl friends,' featured in "lessons in love and pain"
a book i will write #015
the rest is coming soon <3
jane taylor May 2016
stepping back into the west
chills reverberate up and down my spine
chiseling open obsolescent padlocks
dangling with dust
on ancient treasure chests

pallid colors in the attic release
a blossoming familiarity
faint hints of retrospections float on faded paper
granting me access to roads
where no map is needed

as i peruse the streets
my heart flows coalescing with the vicinity
caressing each detail i transform to fluid
and fuse with the past
through fresh strokes of watercolored memories

recollections flash before my eyes
revealing antiquated stories
though thought forgotten
an etched history endeavors to define me
renewing itself as i turn each corner

i shudder at some remembrances while encompassing others
through synchronicity realization hits
that I am all of it
yet none of it
at the same time

familiar faces paint meaning onto me
no longer do they know me
yet they airbrush vestiges of yesteryear
and coat me with connotations
i allow them to think i am whatever they imagine

i morph into their canvas temporarily
then break free in multi-dimensionality
they don't hear me with a new listening
no longer invested in their projections
once sharp triggers now appear in soft focus

an auspicious mist lies around the edges
of my former life
it is as if i never left
yet traces of the east lie sandpapered in me
a maturation commingles with my former self

flushing out on my skin
tethering newfound emotions
a gentle gratitude for home territory
nestles softly
inward

i listen to the clicks
of my scuffed cowboy boots
on acquainted yet somehow distant sidewalks
the echoes layering multiple impressions
glimmering with the utter beauty of this terrain

as I wander through the majestic rocky mountains
drinking in the quaking aspen's crimson edges
interfacing the evergreens
hushed whispers of autumn loftily rest
juxtaposed neatly against futures waiting to unfurl in the wind

an amalgamation of intimate sights and scents
dance in open wounds
dazzling
homesickness cured
a wholeness returned

as winter's crystal dawn blooms
i realize the depth of my growth
for in leaving here and returning
i cherish the west
my home

©2016 janetaylor
Miss Saitwal Aug 2018
Places where we go and free our headspace,
spreading our  hands and feeling the raindrops.

It felt like an unique amalgamation of fright, fury and pure joy.

Fright of all the obligations barged on the soul.
Fright of not being with the right people at the right time.
Fright of falling on our own feet.

Round & round on the playground,
with an overwhelming typsy feeling.

The joy of sliding on the slippery dip,
touching the sky hanging on the swing.
The breeze touching the feet, playing with the hair & ticking the ears, until we fear to fall on the ground.

The alarming feeling of how precious our life is.
The joy of constantly working on ourselves to improve in life.
The joy of keeping ourselves first.
The joy of not missing out & living in the moment;

The joy of emphatic long conversations,
The joy of selfless efforts with no expectations.
The joy of doing the right things,
always at an unsuitable time;
The joy of being intutive over calculative.

The joy of spending fruitful earnings;
& believing in karma.

Feeling no need to explain our way of doing things
& doing what makes us feel good about ourselves.
Absolute joy of not being too ******* ourselves.

All joyful things go wrong, because it is their job to.
We make all dreadful things right, because it is our job to.

It all makes sense now,
We must get up,
spread your hands,
feel the raindrops,
and say,

“We made it all worth.”
Possum living Oct 2018
Coming into this world with nothing, save for the benefactors who receive us

Slowly multiplying in an amalgamation of felt experience and ancient conditioning

Do we know the proliferation of thought?

A gradual awakening unfolds, with no beginning or end
Audra Jan 7
Vulnerability hasn’t been indicated but distinguished,

Identification and acknowledgment advance readily,

Euphoria with an impregnable enchantment escorted,

Ambiguity as the outlet for this unceasing exuberance.

Breath taken by promising intimacy,

Enthused for supplementary fondness,

Conscious accord in this unknowing amalgamation,

Harmony as last continuance.
After love lost, a budding relationship begins.
Sligh-tly loving.
JB Claywell Aug 2018
Pop
I remember being young
and not feeling much
like a person,
but more like a shapeless,
formless, amalgamation
of emotion and thought
that barely made sense to
myself,
couldn’t possibly make sense
to anyone else.

I remember that very odd,
stilted,
self-awareness lasting the
whole school-day,
the whole school-year.

Sometimes,
at home,
while the record player
hissed and crackled its way through
a stack of 45s,

I’d feel a “pop” and become
something more akin
to human,
less apparition or automaton.

I’m more or less the same
now as I was then.

My arms and legs are held
in place by the pages of
beloved books, photographs
of my children,
the feel of my wife’s fingers
pressed into the small
of my spine.

I still go ghost now and again,
sitting in a room,
in the back of the house,
the albums on their shelves,
or spinning faithfully,
the texts that surround.

“Pop”

Really, I can almost hear
the realness of myself as I expand

into a more artful being.

I’ve learned something.
I’ve become something.
I’ve attained something.

I’d rather, for the most part,
be in front of people,
than with people.

When I am with people,
I don’t know how to behave,
I become anxious,
a visitant version of
myself.

In front of people,
I am comfortable,
content,
contained inside
of my own
art.

None the worse
for preternatural wear,
I’m allowed
to
pop.

*

-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications 2018
* I'm writing for myself again.
Thank you, Natasha.
Ray Ross Oct 2018
Dear Mom,
Someday, you’ll need to know.
I know you won’t like it
Or even understand it,
But I want you to know
Someday.
You want me to be closer
With you and Dad,
But to be closer with you,
You need to be close with me too.
You have to know
Someday.
I wore dresses as a kid
Because I thought it was fancy,
And I liked to be pantsless.
You’ll see that as evidence
That I should be lying.
I am not what you expected,
And I am not what you wanted.
I am not your little girl,
Though it hurts like ****
To tell you so.
I am not straight,
Though you don’t really respond
When I tell you I like a girl
And your face shrivels
Like the words from my breath
Leave a bitter taste
Between your gritted teeth.
You’ll really have to know,
Someday.
I am nonbinary.
I am bisexual.
I am a ******* amalgamation of the things you don’t believe in,
The things you think are just a new wave of special characters,
Pretty pictures on instagram,
You call me a sponge
Full of others’ emotions and thoughts
You denote my strength as a being.
I am an amalgamation of the things you think of as teenage fairytales,
I am a ******* unicorn pegasus to you,
Dear Mom,
I am ******* beautiful.
And you’ll really know that,
Someday.
Ryan O'Leary Jan 20
B.R.O.M.B. is the abbreviation
of an amalgamation of a
situation in abomination by
dissipation of a nation in
segregation & humiliation
with an expectation in
deviation by procrastination
of delineation by a cessation
and violation to a predestination
of a unification by a precondition
without reservation, exploitation,
condemnation or expatriation.

So, the B.R.O.M.B. in Derry was
in anticipation of a preparation
an indication for a hesitation.

B.ackstop
R.enegers
O.bligating
M.ay's
B.rexit.

Just exploded in Derry!
Melinda Barrett Sep 2018
When water signs collide
An amalgamation
How could you separate the drops
Of saturated souls
A judge too beautiful to conjure has stolen what was once in my head:

The careful oddities of an amalgamation that apparently included you

And me and my childhood nanny (who was transformed into a dancing Jane Fonda).

Like a raging sign of my heart’s discontent; a honeymoon I refuse to entertain;

The sleep-sewn cloth of a dying emperor’s last adornment.

Where are you outside my pillow? Why have you come into my dreams?

Explanation be ******: get out! It was you who scorned me on your birthday,

And now I must kindly, failingly ask for your removal from my rotation of isolation.

Even if the times we shared were golden and last night was a dream!
mira Sep 2018
i. reward ten thousand dollars
it scares me to think you will drive me home one day, one night, one night when i am very drunk and the stars do not glisten because there are no stars left! i am sure of the reason:
upon being conceived you swallowed them all whole. this is not purposefully clandestine so much as misunderstood knowledge:
in our lifetime these celestial objects will be mistaken, much like a well-intentioned teratoma, for
cancer
countless times you will be plucked, yet unripe, from the fire that will as soon liquify your flesh and cleanse your soul

ii. wanted, dead or alive
psychosis is not a watershed.
it is an amalgamation of the bugs who have crawled up your legs and gorged themselves on your fruity blood before hibernating
it is a room of walls plastered with ******* of nauseating pale cadavers, of empty homes, of longing hands, of breast buds and tied legs and virginal lips and bare ***** and stained sheets
it was in you forever and there is nothing to blame but an imbalance, for
you are the duality of...girlhood.
you are soiled ******* and unkempt hair, abused plush dolls and sticky hands, infected wounds and sunburn sting, stale cereal and coloring pages
you are satin veils and vain slumber, tired tears and starving entrails, hesitant touch and static vhs, shrill laughter and breathy song
you are itchy bug bites. you are snow in my eyelashes.
you are a lissome angel pregnant, god bless you, with a fetal (fatal?) evil; perhaps my fear begins here, or perhaps it greets me when your aura bites my eyelids...alack!
it must be so. **** orange light suffuses my thin veins. the sun exudes apprehension and abruptly the car is totaled and
this is why you cannot drive me home. even when i have become quite inebriated:
it is not natural for the air to be so warm; only ere our galactic body closes her eyes.
surely you will **** me. you are no creature of the night. run me over; crush me between your toes; let my nectar grow trees in the cracks of this, our, every godforsaken town.

iii. have you seen me?
her neotenous thighs stick, like sap, to the concrete floor, water seeps beneath the cinderblock. dust collects between her fingers in which she clutches, with the brutality of youth, a softened - if garishly colored - carton of apple juice. four-o'clock sun pierces the thick glass window (if one will call it such) and she feels listless; rather than squint she pores over the illumination with intent that, in her unsuspecting naivete, she is not yet aware she holds. before she ***** in enough light to blind her she hears a voice that feels familiar:
come upstairs
soon enough it will be ruefully forgotten
soon enough she will realize she was bagged and thrown in the trunk
too late she will wish to exact her revenge
you are harder to reach but my love only grows
Michael Jan 23
What lies beneath our laughter?
What is the shadow to our bliss?
White lies are painted black, to blend into the dark.

What signs do I look out for?
If any at all.
That my paranoia has been tainted, with truth - and truth alone.

What do I recall?
An amalgamation of insecurity.
Fog on glass, cuts on my name.
Praise him, the bait that stung the soul.

— The End —