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Zane McHarris Mar 2016
When we met, your body was in bloom,
Roses of purple black and blue,
Planted without care. Strewn about
the bed, your flesh now painted.

Frozen blue buds pushing
through snow, brushed onto skin.
The petals soft and smooth, spread
Across your body, like a vine.

Blossoms of summer, with shades of winter,
Their roots went deep, coiling and constricting.
They became your arteries and veins,
Your nerves and bones.

I cannot pull these flowers,
Without destroying part of you.
Only time and careful tending,
Will wither the roots.

Only when the flowers fade, if you
will let me, I will plant my seeds.
Matterhorn Nov 2018
Graphite looks nice in the light,
Like stars in a pitch black night,
Words popping like popcorn...

I’m torn;
Why do the girls over there laugh at me?
Am I like some comedy act—but free?
Perhaps it’s my face
Or the way I like to trace
These words on this table,
These little meaningless fables
Flowing straight from my mind,
Only to be left behind
On this starry night sky,
Installed by some guy
That nobody knows
Or remembers when he goes...
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2018
Carter Ginter Oct 2018
Laying alone in my bed
******* in the dark
******* sending scathing ripples
Across my covered female anatomy
And yet in my mind I didn't see that
I pictured myself with women
Which I always attributed to
My hella queer identity
Except I was never myself in the fantasies
My friend told me that's why I couldn't ******
Because I needed to make the thoughts
Much more personal than that
Yet it didn't feel the same
As watching the strangers in ****
In my fantasies, I wasn't me
But I also was
I felt synonymous with the person I saw
I imagined feeling what they felt
But they had a *****
I did not
I thought it was just a kink
I don't think that anymore
Nis Jun 2018
Standing at the Rijksmuseum
we find ourselves part of a lesson,
a lesson by a master in his craft.
Our company seven men
some look at us some look away
while Dr. Tulp, our eighth man
digs into the elefant in the room.

The cool body lies bare
like light were coming out of it
reflecting on the faces of the more curious,
leaving in shadows the uninterested ones.
The dead arm opened wide,
some lesson on tendons or bones.
Three hundred and fifty years
mute the master's words so clear
make the master's brushes so loud.

It was a time of studied ignorance,
of white collars on shallow knowledge
when my favourite of the Old Masters was born.

Retract.
Step back into our reality
observe the beatiful museum
for we are before one of its finest pieces.
But it's hard.
It ***** you in.
Something about the crepuscular glow of the body
makes you get stuck in it.

Observe the perfect composition,
the diverse faces.
It's like a photograph taken at a random instant
yet so deliberate,
so randomly deliberate,
so deliberatly random.
But step back,
look at the whole thing,
it's just
so
beautiful.
You could say it's just 3D
masterfully represented in 2D
but it is not,
there's something more to it.
Something you could call extradimensional.
It's like if the artist knew the algorithms our mind follows
and knew the exact input needed for the desired output,
beauty,
art,
even shock.

Let's move on to the next painting,
but don't let this image fade away,
let it rest,
let it click,
and let it grow
in you.
Partially inspired by Nightwatch by King Crimson, in my opinion one of their most underapreciated songs, this is me trying to pass to you the wonderful sensation I felt when looking at Anatomy lesson by Rembrandt, in my opinion one of the best paintings by one of the best paintors ever.
Ormond Apr 27
.
Her fine hands gentle
With lithe and spiny fingers
Of bone and fin.

Her eyes are opal,
Essence of emerald and topaz,
A hoard of treasure.

Her hair is sea gathering
And dances in the blue currents
Deadly as the sea snake.

Her skin is coral,
Made of mineral and sorcery,
A fatal beacon.

Her lips are urchin,
Set in a whirlpool of face,
A spiral of doom.

Her voice is dream,
Rocking the lost wrecked ships,
Ground into sand.

Her long tail is fable
Of paradise, beyond faraway seas,
Cyclones and waves.
.
Allison Wolf Dec 2018
Trauma cemented my secrets deep within the crevices of my core,
yet he cracks my chest and I am a chilled corpse
drenched in formaldehyde, slowly decaying,
laid open for all to study.

Ordinary organs on display, hiding the scars of past mistakes:
bruises from an ex-boyfriend don’t tint the epidermis,
wine that splattered the walls and my white t-shirt
have already left the liver, the folds of cerebrum
unscathed from the demons that scratched
away at my sanity.

He’s seen me naked, vulnerable, and now I’m terrified
that he isn’t interested in understanding –  
just observing – my anatomy.
December 29, 2018
11:24:56 PM
Pradeep Sep 14
Sights slippery.
Mushy sorcery.
Foggy memory.
Jung's theory.
Freud's story.

Elusive butterfly.
Tease sly.
Early fizzle.
Night time sizzle.
Perhaps'es tussle.
Unformed puzzle.

Sleep till noon.
Land on the moon.
Charm to swoon.
Talk to the dead
you loved and bed.

In words simpler,
dreams are like a string
of reflections on a river,
hazy and flowing,
speaking coded language.

My latest dream
made an offer.
I could either
live in a world of dreams,
or continue in the other,
one of a thousand mazes.

What if I combine the good
in real and surreal,  
seen and 'could have been',
and sail over the line
of reality in between?

Some say that's 'crazy'.
Not sure what is,
my suggestion,
or the word's definition.
Devon Brock Aug 29
Dirt don't call the lightning
blue or femoral.
In a furious upstroke
my mushroomed spine
explodes in the crown,
splinters of bone
and black lit pumas.
Driven to hell
through a straw
and all the trees
are dead on the road.
My dry lip
adheres to a dry gum
and my teeth are broke
and purple.
The lyrics are garbled
and tongue-spoke.
Guttural curses
cling to my head,
both hands holding
back the temples
of past myths,
lies and discontents.

Marriage of heaven and earth -
strike down, down, down,
that I may shut you up.
Four simultaneous calls unknown number familiar area code
I clicked all the necessary buttons to block you yet still your voice
penetrated my messages made my entire body contract into a fraction
of myself I tried to delete them but they never stop

I pleaded with my mom over salted mall pretzels to help her
understand why I wanted a restraining order against you without letting it slip
that your hand had slipped across my face before but secret scars
faded without photographic proof it was you
'there isn't enough evidence against him'

I did planks in thirty second intervals until I felt remnants
of when you pushed me too hard into the freshly mopped floors
wine splattered counters I lie awake listening for a motorcycle
that I am almost certain will never come roaring around the corner
I can't be sure if you ever watched me input the new garage code

I am suffocated by the thought of you I hardly remember which arm
is tattooed with what you're a reoccurring tumor I can't get perfect margins on
I beg myself to cut out the malignancies you have seeded once again
but it doesn't work
it never works.
June 24, 2019
12:00:09 AM
Sarah Clark Aug 17
laddered interior young
at the stem. axing archetypes,
archaic impulses needling,
tracing a thin history.

versed in red cedar,
conversation inherited from
compulsive dreams,
spontaneous ******,
           absurd.

air thick through
hemlock mind, beliefs
losing acreage
to wildfire,            
                     practice.

feet like temples,
         side stepping,
environment a dip of
images patterned,
falling to edges,

       mountains
       widening,

        basic matter.
s Oct 2016
We used to swing under the big willow tree
We lived 3 doors down from each other
We were princesses who fought dragons
We could save the kingdom and find our prince by lunch time
Our moms laughed and talked about how cute we were
Four years old was a cute age

Fast forward a bit
We went into elementary school innocent and young
Boys had cooties
Girls had cooties
Kickball always ended with someone getting hit in the face
We would always sit out feild and pick grass and shape it into a little birds nest
Life was good
Until your parents started fighting and I mean really fighting.
It scared me and I would have to go home
I would make you come with me
three doors down
Our moms didn’t laugh anymore
By Christmas break your parents were broken up and divorced
Eight years old was a confusing age

Junior high was mean.
Girls would rip you to shreds and then hang pieces of you on everyone’s lockers
Boys just wanted to make out
A whirlwind of uncontrolled hormones
We were the quiet ones
Always flew under the radar
Just trying to make it out alive
We found a little spot to each lunch under the stairs where no one would go
We giggled and talked about boys who didn’t even know that we existed
I remember crying in the bathroom with you because people were brutal and we weren’t good enough
Our moms worried about us and how distant we were becoming
Thirteen years old was a sad age

Highschool is another story
You were put in the hospital for a month
I was left at school alone
I had to find more friends
I found most of them were fake
So I ate my lunch in a bathroom stall
Reading all the swear words that were carved in the wall
You were really sick and we grew apart
We were always close
We will always love each other
You tried to save me from myself
But I didn’t let you
Seventeen was an important age

Now we are at different colleges
I tried to **** myself while you were getting an A on your anatomy test
It’s sad
We don’t swing under the big willow tree or fight dragons anymore
Our moms hardly talk
You are a success
and I am a failure
We don’t really mesh
I miss you every day
I’m sorry I can’t be good enough for you
We were princesses who lived three doors down, we saved the kingdom.
I love you
I’m sorry this has faded
Just like everything else
Nineteen years old is a dying age.
Really just a story
SameHell Jan 18
How dare someone accuse?
How dare the tainted pay their dues???
The innocent are worse then the guilty.
With their petty fights and stained hands, ever so filthy.

They sit upon their wooden throne,
with the mallet made to strike home.
A lost cause, a burden they won’t bare.
How is that fair?
A soldier strikes and kills on the battlefield,
innocent child, a gun he wields.

Returns home a warrior, a hero.
Then cast aside, nothing more then a zero.
So why, oh why?
When I make people die,
why do there loved ones cry?

Why am I punished?
Why must the verdict be published?
I am only doing what I was meant to.
Yet here I sit in this electric chair.
How is that fair??

One day I will have revenge on them all.
I will watch them crawl, then watch them fall.
They will cry and whine, they will beg at my feet,
But I will just press one button and;
                HUMANITY DELETE
To all those twisted and angry.... Number 11 of Story Of Our Lives.
Rowan S Jan 3
****, ****, ****, ****
Fuzz through the brain
Zapping pain
Through icy passages of panic
Swell, flow, overflowing
With pain, doubt, hate, anger
****
Breathe in, Breathe out
Think about the seat
The air, it's cold
My ears ring
Count from 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1...
Walls are getting closer, life squeezes
God's cruel fist crushes
Air from my lungs
Thoughts from my brain
LET ME ******* GO
Why am I so broken and insane sometimes?
The ocean draws near in my ears
The shore creeps close, the tide stalks through my canals
Air, water, rushing, getting louder
Pounding, ******* pounding

Someone save me please.
                
                                -the claustrophobic mind
I handle my panic attacks at times by riding the emotions and using writing as a grounding technique. My pen as a conduit to root myself to where I physically am, and not where my mind takes me.

This is from roughly 2 years ago, and I have made so much progress in regards to my mental health management. I rarely, if ever, have panic attacks these days, but I will always remember how it feels to have the walls shrink in your mind.
Sabila Siddiqui Nov 2018
Deeper than the captivating shape it has,
Lies a greater purpose it stands for.
So vast and strong,
It rotates laterally
and extends at your will.

It stands strong, defying gravity
cushioning you for your comfort
and holding your pelvis still.

So appreciate it for more than it's curves;
stand tall and thank your behind
when you bend.

For it is greater than
it seems.
Chris Lazzaro Feb 18
Wandering under
woodland leaves,
my mind confined
to winding suture lines.
Paths of pink nerve tissue
cherry blossom trees,
dendrite branches wave
in a heavy breeze.
Myline bark, an axon stump,
rooted contents of my skull
continuously growing,
a tangled plexus of
neural connections.
Twisting, turning,
a knotted blockage.
Pathways, rippled in roots,
a crossing synaptic stoppage.
A suffocating strangle,
choking corpus callosum
decaying mangle.
Branches atrophy,
shrivel and scar.
Root terminals suffer
hormonal harm.
Forest trails quick fainting
when lost in overthinking.
karin naude Nov 2013
"on grace anatomy a father once said that his daughter always insisted on climbing the highest trees and jump head first of the bridge, and that its his job to catch her."

those words pulled my tight my heart strings into a knot
mom was my safety net, always there, ready to catch me
understanding that i cannot help but to climb the highest and tallest
i cannot help but to head the call of my soul and wander
not lost but hungry for experience and to live
no not achievements
and always knowing instinctively when the wind of change approach
running to meet it open sails never afraid of leaving the harbour
believing that i'm not made for the harbour

after God called my safety net home
i struggled to find my footing, momentarily lost
by the grace and hand of God i found my feet again
Mollie Nov 2018
burdened by the intense understanding of their anatomy,
their mortality
the human condition was to often forget how to live, for they always knew they would die.
from the tissues of the brain,
cerebellum,
to the arteries within their hearts,
opening
closing.
like psychics hovering over crystal *****,
humans saw themselves decay
and their world decay
with the pollution and destruction
they saw the effects of their reality forced upon those not aware enough to have a choice
how could they know that the creation of time would allow them to track every second
of grief,
every moment of pain.
time became an instrument of torture.
the days and the nights,
alone. the clock ticks,
tocks, two seconds.
two more seconds alone.
the compilation of pixels on a screen which
promotes entertainment
opened them up to the realities of the world
and children screamed
and choked
tear gas burned their eyes.
desensitised to violence,
they lied to them, their children...

why?
Not perfect, but this was my stream of consciousness upon hearing the news the other morning.
londin Feb 2014
I like your body in the daytime
silhouette at my door
I like your body at night time memorizing it's anatomy on my floor.
I like your body in the morning, holding my hips as I gaze down at your face.
I like your body
any hour
any day.
I'll fall in like with your body while you make more than my breath race.
I'll be in love with your body while mine lay sore.
You only like my body when asking for more.
acacia Apr 6
i


felt the ripples of the waves and the blurred out lanes into my anatomy
and felt the seed and ate each sunflower’s petal all the same while you stuck your seed up into my own pink fleshy guts that pulsate with your bulging hand.

and i stood up with all of your claws on mine
and my paws rested on your hide, on your silver chest —
i give it to you, i give it to you, i give it to you.
i’ll let the spirits collide and hear what’s going on
inside my lungs, let them all hear the
thump and pound of our walls.

i


saw him behind the buzzing bees and the blurry swirls of crystal and motion
the same neon purple flooded my eyes
as i let you flood my insides the same flooded night on the dingy brown couch
in your brother’s basement

you know, i’m crazed.
i’m in a field of dandelions,
wild flowers, lavenders, peonies,
the wildest of flowers,
i’m gratefully stuck in a swirling
whirl of trust and the smallest of
daring flying flies.
I regret nothing! I will not be silenced! Maybe you’re not doing things right!
Allison Apr 2018
I hold the feather’s weight of your artery in my pick-ups,
and tiptoe the tightrope about which life and death abuts.

You’re a 2 AM trauma and we still don’t know your name,
the social worker’s thin lips had mouthed: “estranged.”

I read your anatomy like a text as you flat-line:
your hands turn blue as your heart falls still in mine.

The monitor hums "out of time," but by Epinephrine,
and Grace, your chest resumes its rise.

I leave trauma bay in prayer: for the surviving, not the knife;
for the closeness of my hands in your chest, our joining in this life.

Tonight I see you at the Kroger, buying TV dinners and beer.
I hide behind cereal, admiring the life I’d held dear.

But you look so tired, and my heart breaks for how when you died,
I would’ve sold the shoes off my feet to buy you more time.

I wish you knew how precious was each of your heartbeats,
I wish you the wisdom of my view:

How fragile the stent is where your veins meet.
Ronza Jairy Feb 1
**** anatomy,
such a complex gift to give-
but you, are worth it.
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