"anic" poems
(A)ltered
(B)oisterous
(I)rrational
(P)anic
(O)ver-reactive
(L)ows
(A)shamed
(R)ollercoaster
(M)ental
(I)mpulsive
(N)on-existent
(D)esperate
The mind is lost on a raft to nowhere...
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
I keep seeing hints of you
In forced synchronicity
Where everything adds up to 5
Maybe it's a sign
Or I'm losing my ******* mind again
Did you catch the hint?
Is the madman manifesting?
Impulsive manic mood swings to paper
Filling out with the Full Moon
As the Maiden waxes away
I'm watching
Light up my sacral bond
Lightning strikes
like shotgun blows to the sky
A peephole into Heaven's locker room
Blame it on the the rain
You caught me off guard
Out of sync
Girl you know it's true
That we're stranger than fiction
My siren in the satire
Muse in the mayhem of my mind
I could be your Vonnegut
As I'm Freudian slipping
On my spilled guts in the 5th slaughterhouse
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
A-ngry
B-roken
C-lumsy
D-enial
E-nvious
F-ear
G-reedy
H-umilated
I-gnored
J-ealous
K-akorrhapiophobia
L-onely
M-anic
N-ervous
O-bsessed
P-estimistic
Q-uitter
R-egret
S-orry
T-ormented
U-gly
V-ain
W-orried
X-treme
Y-earning
Z-apped
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
In the town of Višegrad,
Where he was born and raised,
From cradle to grave,
He took no respite,
In the disdainful looks
From the villagers and common folk.
It was they who spoke,
In hushed whispers and behind closed doors,
That he was not of their ilk,
Half of some other blood,
Born from a land of scimitar and silk.
The janissary’s ******* son,
Conceived one night in the shepherd’s pasture,
Was one with dark ram’s hair,
And eyes akin to muddied alabaster.
One who delighted in the towering minarets,
Looming over the stone and brick in the Old City,
He hated the stench of pipes and cigarettes,
And thought Persian crimson quite pretty.
The calls of Qur’anic prayer in midday,
He thought of at morning mass,
Amid the cross, the hymns and prayers to saints,
Staring intently at the stained glass.
He brewed his coffee in kettles brass,
And supped it atop the kapiyah at night,
Dreaming fondly of a likewise dark-eyed lass,
Whose face made him blush at the sight.
He often wished to travel to Eastern lands,
And of these he wrote in poems short,
Those where he could find repose in shaded sands,
And in no Serb or Greek tongue find retort.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 7:19 AM UTC
Gone are the days
Those glorious days of happiness
To what it may be
My own deceit
Destroying myself
Aseak my own hidden self
A raw being
An ugly sight
A truth I do not like
I'd torn love out of myself
Gone cold and void
Seeking Wisdom
Looking for peace
It wasn't there
Never could it be
Only in love
Anic
Nov 27, 2020
Nov 27, 2020 at 3:29 AM UTC