Anorexia is not collar bones.
It is the smell rotting of flesh as you dismantle your body bit by bit.
Anorexia is not a thigh gap, it is your knees so weak they shake as you fall to the ground.

Anorexia is not self control. It is the feeling of utter hopelessness as your life tornados into a blizzard of nothingness.

Anorexia is not fashionable. It is your mother’s sobbing eyes as she sees her child dying
Anorexia is not 80 pounds. It is the weight of a thousand pulsing suns on your shoulders.
A thick black cloud in your mind, and rules spelled out like chains pulling you towards the ground.
No matter what measure of gravity that you have in this earth, it still hurts, it’s still real.
So to you 'pro anas' who so blindly say 'hunger hurts, but starving works' think before you act.
Suffering is an addiction, please do not harm yourself with this affliction.
- *Emily Ward

the ducks were
holding a funeral
out on the marsh
under the sun
silently they stood
while their shadows
moved around them
into darkness

Chained, on the walls of jericho
Horrified, on the roads of monaco
Rested his will in the promise land
Inviting us to repent and take his hand
Startled, by the king of greece
Throttled, by the eastern breeze
Oblivious, like the men of egypt
Precise, like a code encrypt
Herald of so many man,
Endless, like kingdom come.
Righteous and glorious  like everyone.

All of humanity embraces him
None was taken, but save us from sin
Thorns were on his crown, and rags were his robe
Onto crucifixion he walked that rough and winding road
Neglected by Judas and Peter the pope
In his honor, came the christian hope
Only the highest now, can vow upon him and sleep on his coat

Alelujah, amen and forever we pray to thee
Not just for our sins, but of what have become we
Alelujah, amen and forever we pray to thee
So now and forever he will defend for humanity....

I kept my
blood shot eyes
securely hidden behind
my day killing shades
as I took long careful steps
over the flatend headstones.

I looked to the shadowed
areas of the hillside
graveyard,
soon found refuge beneath
a sorrow slumped eucalyptus.
I pulled the pint from
my pocket and took a pull,
then planted myself
down along side the dead.

The whirling Santa Anas brought
forth the aroma of the
marigolds,and dandelions that
had been left for the departed.

I concentrated on the pint,
I thought hard about my
decision to stop
chasing the dream and devote
it all to chasing the Dragon.

It hurt at first when I awoke
to the fact that my dreams
were not my own.
And this life and all it includes
was as false as the Gods we pray to.

I was surrounded by the dead
but the dead paid me no mind.
The dead were too busy being dead
to do anything else but lay there
within the earth in silence.

A memory invaded my thoughts
like a raiding army hungry for
wine and flesh.
The times before all of this,
the times when I felt the need
to be seen with the crowds.
The times when I followed
the flow of the fools and applauded
with them all,
bought gifts with them all
and celebrated a false celebration,
all in time and step  
with the fools.

That memory of me
when I was less then I am now,
following the fools ,
just as blind as they remain on this
very day.
As part of the crowd
I made no impact on it all.
I stood not
apart but Within.
Engulfed and smothered with lies.
I became too much like the
other guy and his best friend.
The smiling head on the television,
and the digitized voice on the radio.
I thought not on my own but
as one with the machine.

All of that person is gone now,
dead and hopefully buried
just as these fading bones
who now surrounded me.
These silenced spirits who
are the only crowd I wish to join.

Its a lonely travel that I've turned
to,it didn't take much to walk away
from it all once I awoke to this.
I left my shadow behind,
and threw their goals away
as I took on the
task of casting flames
upon the serpent.

I never knew how wrong I was
until that veil of television and
radio,material wealth and
religion was pulled sternly from
my mind.
I found my comfort
among the dead whose silent
cheers applaud me.

They know now as they lay
deep and dead
that all of it was a lie.
Their lives were never lived,
their decisions not their own.

I went at the bottle
and played host to death.
And I wondered
were they the winners,
the lucky ones who had found
a way out of this place
where death looms over head
and the struggle to go
on living is a war fought everyday.
This place where good men are
falsely accused and artist are brushed aside,
where sports are king and the lies
are told as truths.

I find my days are clearer
living on this side of the coin,
but easier they'll never be.

I have awoke to this.
To this and all of the lies
that have come from this.

Once you have awoke to this
theres  no going back to sleep.

.
                              Auto
                        plus­hophilia
                      Actirasty  Agal
                  ­   matophilia Anas
                       teemaphilia A
                       utogynophilia
                       Climacophilia
                       Formicophilia
                       Knismolagnia
                       L ith o phil  ia
                       Melissaphilia
                       Nas o l i ng us
                       Neb u lophilia
                       Psellismophili
                       a Pteronophili
                       a   Pygophilia
        Savant o                      p h i l ia
    *** ill ag nia               Transfestic Fetish
  ism *******                Vorurephilia
       Xylophilia                    Xylophilia

Something about the comfort of autumn—
in California our leaves go straight from green
to gone, if they choose to change at all.
The sun stays bright but the air starts to bite,
and the Santa Anas blow through to dry up
our last drops of livelihood. Most seem to like it—
the streets littered with death and ready to restart—
but the rough winds always hollow me out,
echo a haunting song off the tunnelled walls
of my bones. It’s about this time I empty out,
and fill instead with cotton mouth. My lips chap
and crack, but I smile silently, and I wait.

61–80 of 11462 Poems
«2345»Viewsshow detailshide detailsSort by  
66
BY SUZANNE GARDINIER
I'm used to the emperor's bitterness
I can't find the sweet place unless you make me
. . .
Manuela
BY JUAN DELGADO
She wakes to the odor of sheep,
trying to rub it off her hands.
Dressed up in her native colors, . . .
El Tigre Market
BY JUAN DELGADO
As apparent as the rest, the asphalt cracks
are crowded with yellow weeds, the rust goes
beyond its bleeding color, and the lot's rails, . . .
Peculiar Properties
BY JUAN DELGADO
On my cutting board, I discovered them,
the tiniest of ants, roaming dots of lead.
At first, they were too few to classify, hiding . . .
A Point West of Mount San Bernardino
BY JUAN DELGADO
I.

            By the road she hovers in heat waves, . . .
The Evidence is Everywhere
BY JUAN DELGADO
I.

The Santa Anas, childlike and profound, . . .
45
BY SUZANNE GARDINIER
Wasn't that your cheek against mine last night
Gin Streetlight When somebody loves you Impossible
. . .
Fame is the one that does not stay — (1507)
BY EMILY DICKINSON
Fame is the one that does not stay —
It's occupant must die
Or out of sight of estimate . . .
Now I knew I lost her — (1274)
BY EMILY DICKINSON
Now I knew I lost her —
Not that she was gone —
But Remoteness travelled . . .
Tell all the truth but tell it slant — (1263)
BY EMILY DICKINSON
Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight . . .
Crumbling is not an instant's Act (1010)
BY EMILY DICKINSON
Crumbling is not an instant's Act
A fundamental pause
Dilapidation's processes . . .
The Poets light but Lamps — (930)
BY EMILY DICKINSON
The Poets light but Lamps —
Themselves — go out —
The Wicks they stimulate . . .
I would not paint — a picture — (348)
BY EMILY DICKINSON
I would not paint — a picture —
I'd rather be the One
It's bright impossibility . . .
This World is not Conclusion
BY EMILY DICKINSON
This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond—
Invisible, as Music— . . .
Aubade with Burning City
BY OCEAN VUONG

            Milkflower petals on the street
                                                     like pieces of a girl’s dress. . . .
Listen
Recall the Carousel
BY LAURA KASISCHKE
Recall the carousel. Its round and round.
Its pink lights blinking off and on.
The children’s faces painted garish colors against . . .
Akechi’s Wife
BY FRANZ WRIGHT
On one occasion Yūgen of Ise Province was offering to share, for a night or two, the comforts of his home with me when a distant, 
bemused expression came over his face as though at the recollection of a joke told him earlier that day; then, to a degree I would not have thought possible . . .
Been About
BY NANCE VAN WINCKEL
The rat traps emptied, the grain troughs filled.
The distance between sheep shed
and my own ice-melt dripping on the mat . . .
Listen
Boardinghouse with No Visible Address
BY FRANZ WRIGHT
So, I thought,
as the door was unlocked
and the landlord disappeared (no, . . .
DetoNation
BY OCEAN VUONG
There’s a joke that ends with — huh?
It’s the bomb saying here is your father.
. . .
Listen
«2345»

In seclusion when I sit;
And close both my eyes.
I travel way back in time.
Flying time vision defies.

Childhood friends appear.
Faces clear and bright.
I think of Raj, Arsh and Anas;
And they're in my sight.

A day I saw a drug-addict.
My friend Arsh he was.
Distorted image of puerility.
Sunken eyes, ugly Jaws.

Now when I close my eyes.
I see all but Arsh I see no more.
When I think of Little Arsh.
A drug-addict comes before.